The data was leaning in favor of the former. Which is why you’ve been so very careful not to reveal your feelings under any circumstances. Witches have gaped about your sheer willpower. Sam’s made passing comments about never seeing someone who could fight demonic possession so well. Everyone around you seems to think you’re some kind of mind Titan, able to simply focus and drive off any monster or force that tries to take you over.

They don’t know that there’s always on common factor. One thing that they try to force you to reveal, that makes you pry your mind back from their bare hands.

When you got possessed by a demon, Sam and Dean had you tied to a chair. You’d still been able to see through your own eyes. Still been able to think, even if the demon had been using your internal monologue as a broadcast public radio, sharing every thought you had the mistake of thinking.

“Aw.” She’d used your mouth, you voice, and it had sounded twisted in your brain. “She’s worried about you two. Isn’t that adorable.”

Sam had frowned, shooting Dean a weary look. “Is there something we need to be worried about? Or-“ He’d said your name gently. “If you’re worried we can’t take this demon, we can.”

“She batting out of her league.” Dean had muttered, glaring down at the knife in his hands. “We’ve tangoed with the bosses and come out on top, sweetheart. No one needs to be worried but the bitch inside you.”

Whatever parts of your heart were still yours—most of it, as the demon had been able to sink her claws into everything but the organ that only played one, embarrassingly loud song—had fluttered at his words. He hadn’t been looking at you since they realized you were possessed. Sam had been doing all the talking, asking questions and trying to figure out what the demon wanted, how long she’d been in your brain. Dean had just sat on the edge of the mattress, fists curled on his knees, jaw clenched so tight you were worried about his teeth. If you were in control of yourself you would’ve told him to stop doing that. It made his headaches worse, and you bought him gum specifically so he could chew on something when he got pissed.

He would’ve smile to himself, shaking his head, and given you the look that always made your knees wobble. The one that had a silent affection behind it, that came with his hand grazing your lower back and teasing about how bossy you were.

You’d think I was dying, way you talk about my health.

I’m trying to avoid you dying, Dean-

Why? Happens to everyone eventually, and I’m further down the line than I thought I’d be-

You’re not a dinosaur. Stop talking like I’m putting you in a home, I just told you to drink some water.

If I drink some water, are you gonna stop circling me like a freakin’ shark?

I am not circling you like a shark-

Yeah, you are. You wanna take a bite outta me, sweetheart, I can see it.

You’d always blink at him, your heart in your ears and your jaw slack. He’d grin, drink his water slowly and dramatically, then boop the bottle on your nose and walk away. When you’d tell him to do something later, he’d roll his eyes and give you that look again.

That was how they figured out you were possessed. The demon had asked Dean to grab the artifact you’d been investigating, and when he’d whined that he wanted to go get pie, she’d smiled and said that was fine, as long as Dean told her where the artifact was first.

You would’ve told Dean that he could have his pie after he grabbed the artifact. You would’ve stood in front of him with your arms crossed and glared until he got up with a groan and let you drag him exactly where you needed him to be. That’s what you and Dean did. He pretended to be annoyed by it, but you wouldn’t ask anything of him unless you really needed it. You got him the pie after, and he teased you about being wound up and needing to breathe for a second. He’d feed you some of his pie like you were a baby, and you’d pretend to bite his fingers off.

But the demon had just bent for him. Dean had stared at her. And you’d know he’d seen it. Right through you, and to the ugly thing inside your body.

Ugly in a different way that you were. The demon was just cruel, but you were selfish. 

Dean had told you not to go out alone, but you loved him and he’d been sitting so close. The love inside you had been threatening to pour out of you like a flood, and you’d needed to be anywhere but near him. The demon had found you while you were at the convenience store, buying Dean jerky. You’d been too slow, and now you were a burden to him and Sam again. Dean had been forced to knock you out to tie up the demon, and Sam had to burn you with holy water. You could feel it, the burn and blistering of you skin. You’d never tell them that, because the guilt would eat them alive.

You’d never tell Dean. He was already angry with you for going out as it was. You’re already more trouble than you’re worth, most of the time. Your worry hadn’t been for you.

It’s for him. That this was going to be too much for him to deal with, having to hurt another person he cared about.

The demon had plucked that thought from your head, and curved your lips into a smirk.

“Oh, she’s not worried about herself, Deanie.” It had drawled. “I know you see her as a woman of steel, but our lovely girl is just so sweet on the insides here. It’s like swimming through marshmallows. She’s just so perfectly worried about how this is going to effect you. It’s all she can think about, the pathetic little slut.”

Dean’s eyes had narrowed. “Don’t fuckin’ talk about her like that-“

“I’ll talk about her however I want.” The demon had purred. “She’s my meat toy. But if you want to share with me, Winchester, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind both of us inside of her. She-“

The demon had cut herself off. Dean had shot to his feet, looking ready to throw a punch. Sam had blocked him with an arm, and your body had started to convulse. The demon sputtering and choking on nothing as Dean shouted your name. Sam had let him get to you when it became clear this wasn’t the demon making a play, but you hadn’t needed the help.

She’d made her mistake already. You’d been able to feel her next words, building on your own tongue. She’d been sneering in your brain about how Dean would hate you after she revealed the truth, and you’d grabbed her by the throat.

You’d pushed her out of your body, no exorcism required. Sam and Dean had stared at you in awe for about a month after. Sam had even pulled you aside and lowly asked how you did it. You’d told him you had no idea.

It would’ve been insane, to say well, Samuel. It was the power of my love for your brother.  Don’t tell him, or I’ll fucking kill you.

You would’ve been serious about that threat, too. You never wanted Dean to know. If Sam had ever found out and told him, there would’ve been a double murder suicide.

Which is why you don’t know what to do now.

Because Dean kissed you, and the world didn’t end.

Paradise didn’t come. Hell didn’t split through the Earth, and you didn’t have to go into hiding in Romania—your backup plan if Dean had ever found out and it wasn’t Sam’s fault.

The Earth had just kept spinning. Dean had gotten up the next morning and acted like nothing happened at all. Grumbling about his hangover and running a hand through his mussed hair. The same hand that had held the back of your neck last night, certain and possessive in his grip. Dean licked his lips, and you’d mirrored the motion, only able to think of that same tongue pressing into your mouth. ‘

He’d kissed you like he knew what he wanted. He’d tasted like whiskey and had a glazed expression—as if he was looking at the world through glass—but he’d kissed you. He’d lifted you off the ground with the force of it. He’d looked at you with blown out eyes, and been half-hard in his jeans, and begged you to come back to his room, and-

“You alright?” Dean asks, and you blink at him.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” His lips twitch. “You look like you spent the night getting run over by a truck.”

You frown, and Dean pauses.

“In a good way.”

“I look like I got run over by a truck in a good way?”

“Uh- Yeah?” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m not sayin’ you look bad. You’re just all spacey and tired, and-“

He waves a hand at you sheepishly, and normally you’d keep pushing him for how exactly you could be run over by a truck in a good way.

But today, you can only look at his dumb, handsome face and think about how his stubble brushed over your skin. How your noses bumped, how he’d help you to his chest like you were a doll and he was a worried child that needed you.

“I didn’t sleep well last night.” You mutter, and Dean chuckles.

“Me neither.”

“You got drunk.” You say, flat and low. “You passed out.”

“Yeah, but I had some dreams, and-“ He cuts himself off, eyes widening and grip on his mug slipping. He catches it with a curse, and looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost.

You raise your brow, not letting any emotion onto your face. Dean clears his throat, eyes dropping for the briefest second to your lips.

“Hey, uh-“ He runs a hand through his hair, shifting nervously on his feet. “If I did anything stupid while I was wasted, you’d tell me. Right?”

And maybe you should tell him. But he looks so worried, and you know, deep down.

He doesn’t really remember.  

“Yeah.” You breathe, offering him a tiny smile. “I would.”

Dean’s silent. He studies you for a second, then shakes his head with a laugh. “Good. ‘Cause I get some, uh- Some crazy dreams.”

You pretend to laugh, but it echoes in the hollow of your chest until you feel sick. You have to excuse yourself to take a shower. To help you wake up, is what you tell Dean.

Really, you just sit on the floor and cry, letting your tears wash down the drain with the water. He doesn’t remember. He kissed you, and he’s chalking it up to a crazy dream.

You have to get over him. It’s a punch in your gut, knocking wind and snot out of you, but it’s what you needed. Dean’s never going to see you like that. He’s older, he’s a hero, he could have anyone he wanted and he’s not going to chose the bossy girl who watches cartoons with him and makes him do bar trivia with her, because he’s better than he thinks he is. He’ll find someone cooler and older. Someone who likes cars as much as he does, who can actually help him with the Impala instead of just sitting on the bench in the garage and bothering him. Someone who can cook as well as he does, and doesn’t make him try all the crazy soda flavors she sees.

Someone just as resolved and perfect as he is.

Not you.

You pick yourself up, and try to set a goal. Get over Dean.

The asshole doesn’t make it easy.

He makes it impossible.

“I’m gonna work on Baby this afternoon.” He says, and you hum. You’re curled up on the couch with your laptop, and he’s been leaning over your shoulder for the past hour, watching whatever you put on the screen. You don’t understand why. He’s got his own TV right in front of him, and he has to put his arm around your shoulders to comfortably be so close.

His fingers keep brushing the bare skin of your collarbone. His warmth is wrapped around you like a blanket, and it’s all impossible to deal with.

“I bought those snacks you like.” He adds, and you hum.

“Okay.”

“They’re gonna be with me. In the garage.”

 “I’ll come get them later.”

Dean’s face twitches. You look over to find him staring at you, nostrils flaring and nose slightly wrinkled.

“I got ice cream.” He mutters, gaze locked onto yours. “’S gonna melt.”

“Put it in the freezer.” You manage to whisper, and he shakes his head.

“Too far. Gotta focus on work.”

“I’m going to distract you from work-“

“That’s different.” He shrugs, and suddenly you’re being pulled to your feet.

“Dean-“

“C’mon.” He moves you in front of  him, and all but herds you out of the Dean Cave. “I’ll even let you pick the music, alright?”

You can’t argue with him. He’s too cute, and always has a command over your body you’ve never been able to fight off. He doesn’t even know that if he asked you to walk over hot coals, you’d do it to reach his side. If he wanted to get away you’d drop everything and go with him. If he needed you to bring him the moon, you’d learn to grow taller enough to grab it in your hands, and shred yourself back down to stay at his side.

There’s no way you can get over him while being his friend. Being his friend alone is a trial that’s slowly wearing you down. Enough that soon, you think, you’ll just be crawling on your hands to lay at his feet. It’s all you’re going to be able to muster. All you’re going to want to do.

You need to get away from him.

You can’t get away from him. Because if he asks you to do something with him—which he always does—there’s no way you’re going to be able to say no.

Which leaves one solution.

Avoid Dean.

Avoid him like he’s the plague.

You wake up in the morning, and touch your lips. Touch them like you can push the feeling of his kiss further into them. Like it’s a sugar that you could gather on your fingers and taste, a tattoo you’re trying to make sure is permanent. You do it every morning now, because it’s the last thing of Dean you’re allowing yourself to have.

If you’re careful, you don’t see him through the day. You’re up before he is, you find a corner of the bunker to hide in, you go out, you stay on the move like you’re prey and Dean’s on a hunt. When you see Sam, he gives you an odd look. If you’re sloppy, and end up in the same room as Dean, you flee before he can say something. If he says something you’re going to crash right back into him. He’s gravity. And you don’t have the strength to pull away twice.

But it’s not working.

You haven’t been alone with Dean for a week, and you just miss him. You feel like you’re trying to carve out a vital artery from your chest. It just hurts. It just makes your love spill all over you, now that there’s nowhere for it to go. You watch something on your computer and hug yourself, because your body seems to think it’s missing a limb without Dean wrapped around you. You sneak out in the middle of the night to get food, and end up just staring at the pie and jerky and beer until you’re sick. You’ve started to hole up in your room with ice cream as if you’re going through a breakup.

It’s pathetic. You look in the mirror and see a husk, with tear stained cheeks and sunken features. You’re wearing one of his fucking shirts, but your skin burns every time you think about taking it off. You’d think you were cursed, if you didn’t know this was just the feeling of love dying.

Not dying.

You’re not strong enough to kill it.

This is the feeling of love being tortured.

Because you’re stupid and tired, you look up how to get over a crush. The internet says to list out all his faults, and logically you know Dean has those, but you can’t remember any right now. His teasing always makes you flush and giggle, his stupid jokes make everything feel lighter, you know he gets angry because he cares. You even miss the loud, sloppy way he chews. You’d always been able to reach over the table and wipe sauce from his cheek, and he’d smile at you after, and you miss his smile. You’d do anything to see it right now.

You scroll to the next step. Think about it logically. If they’d even be a good match. You skip that one. Dean’s always been the one thing you don’t bother to think about logically. Something about him makes all the common sense in your head go down the drain. Which is the same issue the next step—ask yourself why you have a crush on them—fails as well. Of course you have a crush on Dean. You could list out every reason, but they’d all just circle back to he’s Dean. And everything that he is demands that you love him.

Force yourself to move on, is the final step. Go out with someone else. Even if they’re not your soulmate, it will help you realize there are plenty of other fish in the sea.

There are many other fish. The world is filled with men.

That’s part of the problem.

None of them are Dean Winchester.

But this is the most actionable step. The only one you can try to take, even if it doesn’t work. So you get cleaned up, put on a nice dress, and do your makeup a little bit like a slut. The goal of this is to get laid, through, and it’s not like anyone you know is going to see-

“Where the hell are you going?”

You freeze, squeezing your eyes shut. He’s up. Why the fuck is he up. “Nowhere?”

“You’re going nowhere.” Dean drawls. “At eleven. Dressed like… That.”

“Mhm.” You turn slowly, trying to offer a winning smile.

He doesn’t look amused.

You haven’t seen him in person in a month. He kind of looks… awful.

He’s still handsome. You don’t think he’s capable of being anything else but amazing and desirable. But his hair is longer than he usually lets it grow, and there are heavy bags under his eyes. His shoulders are hunched, there’s a stain on his flannel, and when he rubs his jaw you can see grease stains on his hands.   

“Were you in the garage?” You blurt, and he grunts.

“Maybe.”

“But-“ His gaze is lidded, his features pale in a way that only happens when he’s awake for too long. “Have you slept?”

His brow furrows. “Napped.”

“For how long.”

“Long enough.”

“That’s not an answer-“

“Where are you going.” He raises his voice over yours, and you swallow.

“Out.”

“Out where.”

You look down at your heels, fidgeting with the folds of your dress. “To a bar.”

Dean doesn’t respond. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you think you might be leaning forward. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You haven’t even been able to build up a flimsy wall against your feelings, and now they’re all crashing through you like an asteroid, slamming through your world.

He’s right there, and if you took a step forward you’d be able to touch him. Wipe the grease off his hands, pull off the flannel and order him to change into something clean. He needs a haircut, but you kind of like it longer. You could run your fingers through it, like this. Soothe the spots where it’s sticking out, help him wash it if he’d let you.

But you don’t think he will.

Because when you look up under your lashes, he’s staring at you with a pained, exhausted expression that makes you want to cry.

“You goin’ to meet someone?” He finally says, and you shake your head.

“N- No.”

“We got drinks here-“

“I know.”

He grunts. “It’s not safe for you to be out by yourself.”

“I’m bringing pepper spray.” You mumble. “And my gun.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you think he’s going to give up and walk away. Everything will be easier, if he just leaves for you. It will splatter your heart all over the floor, but at least you won’t have the weight of holding onto it anymore. At least it won’t churn like something rotten, when a stranger who isn’t Dean lays his hands all over you.

But Dean doesn’t leave.

He takes a step forward, and suddenly the air is so hot it’s hard to breathe.

“I’m goin’ with you.”

Your head shoots up, eyes wide. “Dean-“

“You said you’re not meetin’ anyone.” He challenges, glaring down at you. “I need a drink. You come with me, or you don’t go at all.”

A scoff slips from your lips. “And how the fuck would you stop me-“

“I’d toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to your room.”

Oh.

He says it so casually. His voice a deep rumble as he stares at you. An ache demands attention between your thighs, and your cheeks burn as you laugh nervously, looking to the side.

Dean doesn’t even crack a grin.

So there’s nothing you can do, but let him walk with you to the car. You try to get in the backseat, but Dean snaps his fingers and points at shotgun with a scowl.

“I’m not a fuckin’ taxi. You sit up here, or we walk.”

You flush, and silently slide into the front bench. Dean drops behind the wheel, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he starts the engine. You forgot how dangerous being close to him is. He’d grabbed his coat on the way out, tossing his dirty flannel to the side. He smells like leather and pine tree, and even across the bench you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He rolls up his sleeves, and you want to nuzzle close to him and have him put you in a headlock. His hand runs over his inner thigh, and you press your own together.

You’re staring at him. You can’t help it.

Dean must feel it, because he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You look away, and hear him let out a heavy breath.

And the game begins. Dean pulls out of the garage, and you’re both perfectly silent, daring the other to break first. You stare out the window, stealing glances whenever you think you can get away with it. Sometimes Dean catches your eye, and you curl further into yourself, twisting away. Once, Dean opens his mouth. He closes it just as fast.

You’ve been driving for thirty minutes, when you realize he’s not taking you to a bar. You’ve passed three bars, and he didn’t even slow down to check them out. You grab all the thin courage you posses, rooted deep in your stomach and sticky with nerves, and drag it to the surface.

“Dean, where are we-“

“You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, blatant and flat. “Past month. Don’t think I haven’t fuckin’ noticed.”

You swallow, pulling your knees to your chest. “I- I don’t-“

“Didn’t even say why.” He mutters, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Thought you were sick at first, but you’ve been talkin’ to Sammy.”

“It’s-“

“And you run outta every room I walk into. Like I got cooties or something.” He’s scowling at the road, and you feel like the smallest thing in the world. “Didn’t even bother to tell me why. Just… Fuckin’ vanished.”

There’s a lump in your throat, and unearned tears stinging at your eyes. He sounds broken, and it’s your fault. You and your stupid, useless love for him. “Dean, it’s not like that-“

“So what’s it like, huh?” His words are harsh. You flinch back. “You start acting like I’m the goddamn devil and I’m supposed to take your word that it’s just not like that? There ain’t anything for it to be like, sweetheart-“

“No, I- I just-“ You lean forward, then curl back. You’d wanted to grab him. You don’t think you’re allowed. “I just needed- I needed-“

“Space?” He spits the word like it’s poison. “Go on. Tell me you just needed space from me.”

“Dean-“

“The hell did I do to you?” He sneers. “I know I ain’t perfect, but I- I thought you- I was so fuckin’ careful, and you promised you’d tell me if I did something stupid.”

You frown, not fully understanding what he means. “Dean, you- You didn’t do anything-“

“Don’t bullshit me!” He shouts, and you don’t think you can breathe anymore. “You promised me, you said you’d tell me, and the goddamn least you coulda done was tell me what the fuck I did-“

“Please- Please stop yelling.” You whisper, not even sure if he’s going to hear you.

But he does.

Dean cuts himself off with that clench of his jaw, and pulls over to the side of the road. You hug yourself tight, trying to shrink back into the seats. This is your fault. He’s angry because of you, and you stupidity. You’re barely a schoolgirl with a crush, and you let it hurt him, and there’s no possible world where he’d ever want you now.

You hide your face in your knees. Tears burn on your cheeks, and when you try to take a deep breath, it’s ragged and aching.

Dean’s silent. The whole car is silent. He’d turned off the radio, and the only sound hanging in the air is your sniffling. You think about climbing out of the car, but he’d just chase after you. It’s started to rain, and you don’t want him to catch a cold.

You wrap your coat tighter around you. Your dress feels too tight on your skin. Feels wrong. You think you’re going to be sick. When you risk a look at Dean, he’s still holding the wheel with white knuckles. Staring at you with a pained expression, eyes even heavier than before.

He leans forward like he’s going to reach for you. Your breath hitches. He pulls back.

For a second, you just watch each other. You wipe your cheeks with your palm, and it feels like a raw, open wound.

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it, and looks back to the road like he’s searching for something.

“I’m- I didn’t mean to yell.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “I just- I’m sorry.”

You nod—you didn’t blame him  in the first place—but when he looks to you for a response, you can’t find one. Everything is lodged in your throat, behind a quiet confession you’ve worked far too hard to shove down.

“I’ll fix it.” Dean rasps, and you blink.

“What?”

“Whatever I did.” He’s staring at you, his voice cracking. “Whatever pissed you off or- Or hurt you. I’ll work on it, alright? You don’t have to do anything, I’ll fix me, and then you can stay.”

“I- I can stay?”

He nods, squeezing his eyes shut. As if the words hurt to stay. “If you can’t, I get it. I do. But you gotta give me a chance to set it right, before you give up. Just one chance, and if I screw it up a second time you can run off, but- One shot, it’s all I need. Don’t- Don’t leave.” His voice cracks, eyes shining in the dark. “Please.”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open. He looks broken. Lone tears stain his cheeks, and he’s not even wiping them away. When you shake your head—just trying to make sense of what he said—he cowers away like a kicked dog, and you split down the middle.

“I wasn’t going to leave, Dean.” Horror leaks through your voice. You couldn’t leave him if you tried. “I’d never leave you.”

He laughs dryly. “Yeah, like I didn’t just fuckin’ catch you-“

“I was going to the bar.”

“Without telling anyone?”

“No, because I knew you’d try to do this!” You wave around you, and Dean’s throat bobs. “No, I didn’t mean-“

“You didn’t wanna see me.” He mutters, looking back to the wheel. “’S alright. I get it.”

He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. And you can see him trying to drag himself back together, still refusing to wipe his tears and breathing through his nose. He’s just sitting there, hollow and angry, and he doesn’t understand.

“You kissed me.”

You say it without thinking, soft and weak. Dean goes rigid. He looks at you with bloodless, horrified features. You wrap your hand around your own throat, trying to hold yourself in one piece.

He shakes his head. You’re going to throw up.

“No, I- I’d remember that-“

“You were drunk.” You breathe. “I- I picked you up from the bar. And you kissed me.”

Dean looks like someone punched him in the face. He’s pallid, looking around the car like there’s a way out, fisting and unfisting his hands.

“That’s- That’s why you’ve been avoiding me.” He rasps, and you nod, fixing your gaze on his chest.

If you have to watch his face while he rejects you, there’s a chance you’ll just die.

Dean says your name, slow and broken, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Bracing for the knife about to be driven into your chest.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

That makes you look up. And it’s not rejection you find in Dean’s eyes.

It’s guilt.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you, and- Being drunk’s no damn excuse.”

“Dean-“

“If you want nothing to do with me, I- I understand.” He’s too lost in himself to hear you. “Hell, I’ll move out so you can stick with Sammy. You won’t have to deal with me anymore, you’re- It’s not your fault-“

“Dean-“

“I shouldn’t have forced you on that, my own- My own shit is mine to deal with, and you never gave me any kinda go and I damn well knew it- I’m so fuckin’ sorry-“

“Dean!” You shout, and he falls silent. Squeezes his jaw shut, gaze mournful and completely shattered.

You’re not entirety sure what’s happening. You say the only thing you can think.

“Stop grinding your teeth.”

Dean blinks, but his jaw loosens. He mutters your name, and you shake your head. You don’t think you can stand another apology.

“I- I’m not mad about you kissing me.” You whisper, and he snorts, empty and humorless.

“It’s not your job to make me feel better about hurting you, sweetheart-“

“You didn’t hurt me.” You snap, and Dean stills completely.

He opens his mouth, but you’re faster. Flushing furiously and too tired to fight the words.

“I- I liked it.” You whisper. “A lot.”

Dean sits a little taller, words low and cautious. “You didn’t tell me in the morning. Why wouldn’t you tell me, if-“

“You were drunk. I- I thought-“ You take a deep breath, face burning with shame. “I thought you didn’t mean it.”

“Ah.” He’s silent for a moment. “But- Why the hell would you avoid me-“

“I kissed you back.”

“Did you mean it?”

His question feels like the barrel of a gun, loaded and pressed to your temple. You nod weakly. Dean lets out a sharp breath, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

“You thought I didn’t mean it.” He finally echoes, and you nod again. “So you just-“

“That hurt.” Tears are falling again. Everything blurring except for Dean. “That’s the part that hurt, Dean, I just- I had to try and move on. And the internet said that’s how you do it.”

“The internet?”

“Yeah.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low laugh.

“Sweetheart, why the hell would you check the internet for advice-“

“None of my ideas were working.” You hiss. “And I- I didn’t like avoiding you, it felt really bad-“

“You didn’t have to avoid me, you coulda just told me-“

“And you would’ve what, confessed your love and kissed me again-“

“Yeah!” He shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I would’ve, if you’d just fuckin’ told me!”

Your heart stops, for a full second. You don’t think you heard him right. “What?” You whisper, and Dean sighs.

“I meant it, okay?” He mutters, looking up to the sky. As if he was praying. “Everything I do with you, I mean it.”

“And- And the love-“

“I mean that too.” He gives you a sad, tired smile. “I know I shouldn’t. God knows I tried not to, you’re- You’re young and you got a future and I’m just me-“

“I love you.” You blurt, and Dean’s jaw falls. “I love you just like… you. And-“ You bow your head shyly. He won’t stop staring. “If you- If you feel something too-“

Dean moves before you can think.

One second you’re rambling, trying to figure out how to say it. The next  his lips are pressed against yours, kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Like you’ll die.

You grab his wrist when he cups your face, he turns you to deepen the kiss, and you’re both moving like you’re trying to breathe the other in. Your nails dig into his skin and he grunts, the sound vibrating against you. You roll onto your knees, moving over him without breaking the kiss, and he grabs you by the waist. Tight enough to bruise. To leave a mark.

It’s just a kiss. A hungry, hot kiss that’s making your head spin. It’s better than anyone else touching you. Better than being fucked, just because it’s Dean.

He picks you up, pulling you into his lap forcing you to straddle. You grab his shoulders for balance, letting out a sharp breath, and Dean chuckles. Sucks your lower lip with a tiny smirk, rubbing your hips as your finger brush the back of his neck. You let out a shuddering breath, sinking fully against his chest. One of his massive hands drags up your spine, callouses and teasing fingers dancing over bare skin and you arch, chasing the fuzzy, addictive sensation of Dean’s hands.

Your core presses against his bulge. He’s hard, twitching inside his jeans. You roll your hips once, unable to stop yourself, and Dean hisses against your lips.

“Careful.” 

You don’t want to be careful. You want to be ruined. You grind down again, kissing him while you move, and he groans.

“Hey- Woah-“ He wraps his arm fully around your waist and pins you down. Forcing the outline of his cock against the thin panties you’d worn to go out.

There’s not a single regret in your head. You can feel him better like this. The thick curve, almost pushed between your pussy lips. Your underwear is bunched up, offering extra pressure, but Dean is holding you down so hard there’s not even space to wiggle. You almost whine, pouting at him under wet, fluttering lashes.

He just stares up at you like a man who’s lived underground his whole life, finally seeing the stars. You drag your nails down his chest, trying to spur him into action, but he just keeps staring. He even laughs under his breath, like something’s fucking funny.

You scowl, but don’t even get to provoke him before he’s rising back up.

Dean brushes hair from your face, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. A confusing, sharp contrast to how his erection is angled right against your heat. Your body doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, and just settles for going limp with overwhelmed, happily dizzy confusion. Dean chuckles again. If your body could listen to any whims but his right now, you’d punch him in the face.

“Stop laughing.” You manage to grumble, but that just makes him laugh again. “Dean-“

“Sorry.” He grins against your lips, rubbing your hips in soothing circles. “You’re just- You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re unbelievable-“

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.” He mutters, dragging his hand up your side. As if he’s marveling in just the shape of you. “Never thought I’d get to have you like this, and- Look at you.” He draws back, whistling with a smug smirk. “They should let people touch the art, baby. You get even prettier.”

There’s nothing coherent you have to respond to that. Your brain is mostly a confusing garble of Dean and touch and more.

He kisses just under your jaw, and you gasp. Your eyes flutter as your head lolls to the side, and Dean chuckles.

“You-“ You bite back a moan as he sucks on a pulse point. “You’re pretty too.”

“Hm.” He nips at the sensitive skin, before flicking his tongue against the hurt. “Pretty, huh.”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck until he’s almost in a headlock. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, moving onto another, somehow more sensitive spot. You try to move against his clothed dick, your pussy starting to throb, but he’s holding you too tight. Dean hums against your skin, and you moan, right in his ear. It makes his cock jump, and you almost cry from the fleeting offer of friction.

“Come- Come on-“ You whine, wiggling uselessly in his arms. “You’re being an asshole- Dean-“

He pushes his lips back over yours, right as he grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes. It loosens his grip, letting your hips freely move against him, but you’re so pent up from making out that you can’t even work out what you want to do. You’re grabbing at his shirt and kissing him with spit and teeth, and he’s barely giving you anything in return.

“Dean- Just-“ You claw at his shirt. “Off, get it off-“

“That’s not a very polite way to ask, sweetheart-“

“Fuck you.” You breathe out, moaning when you get the thickest part of him to drag over your clit. “Take your shirt off, Dean, now-“

 A strong hand wraps around your throat, pulling you back down into a mind numbing kiss. You’re still fucking down onto his crotch, but their angle offers less pressure. You might’ve burst into tears, if it wasn’t for the magnitude of Dean’s attention. His hands all over your body, one fisted in your hair while the other started to map every inch of you he can reach.

“De- Dean-“

“Not polite.” He mutters, kissing you between every word. “Not patient. What am I gonna do with you?”

Your heart stumbles, still a little bit bare from the fight and confused from the gentle way he’s suddenly touching you. No more grabbing or marking. Just soft, possessive but careful fingers, tracing your curves like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

“Can I tell you what I’ve wanted to do?” He rasps in your ear. “Since I first fuckin’ saw you?”

“Yes.” You breath, trying to just feel him. His strength all around you, his voice rolling through your chest.

Dean’s words are deep and rough in your ear, and you cling to every one like gospel.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since before you even said your name. Wanted to fuck you when you stood in front of me and threatened to shoot if I didn’t back off and leave you be. Decided I’d marry you when you called me a chicken butt ‘cause I told you to stay behind me. Then I thought I was insane, told myself I just needed to get laid. But I got laid. And you wanna know the only thing I could think about, the whole damn time?”

You nod, and Dean pulls back, dropping his brow tight against yours.

“You.” He rasps. “Closed my eyes and saw you under me. Got kicked outta bed for calling your name, felt sick after ‘cause some stupid thing in my head kept telling me I’d betrayed you. Then Sammy came and told me you’d be coming with us, and I knew I was a goner. If it wasn’t such a selfish freakin’ masochist I would’ve told him that I didn’t want you around.”

Your lip wobbles. “You didn’t want me-“

“I wanted you so much.” He grabs the back of your neck, the words a low growl. “Drove me out of my damn mind, how much I wanted you. Thought I’d need to be put down, like one of those dogs that humps every damn thing it sees.”

“You- You never-“

“What? Thought you’d be into something like me?” He laughs, and you frown.

You plant your hands, flat on his chest, and push up a little taller. Demanding he listen to every word you say.

“I’m into you.” You snap, and Dean’s sarcastic smile falters, slipping back into that awe. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

“No.” He answers without thought. “You’re perfect.”

Dean kisses you, slow and deliberate. Everything is suddenly controlled and delicate, like he’s weaving together a song.

You think you’re supposed to be the instrument. You don’t realize, though, until he’s already playing you as if you’re a toy.

Dean’s mouth trails down, leaving wet, open kisses over your neck and collarbone. The beard scrapes and tickles against you. You decide you like it. He’s not allowed to shave later.

You shiver, moving your hands to rest on his stomach. His abdomen flexes under your fingers, and you start to grind back down onto his crotch. When you press further forward, you can get that perfect friction from before. The one you needed so bad you almost screamed. Dean nips at your throat and you pick up your pace.

He grunts, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. You squirm like animal, even as he handles you well. You’re moved backwards, your knees still knocked apart as Dean’s spreads his own legs. He pushes you back until your elbows are resting on the horn, and heat prickles over your skin when you realize the position he’s put you in.

Your barely clothed pussy, wet and on full display to Dean’s lust-blown expression. He traces over your inner thigh, teasing and teasing until you’re almost thrusting up to meet him.

“Remember what I said about patience?” He drawls, eyes sparkling on yours.

You just pant, making to grab his wrist and move it where you want. But he’s too strong, and you don’t even get a budge.

“I- I’ve been patient-“

 “Nah. Not enough. But,” he lifts up your skirt, exposing you further. “Look at her. Just begging for some attention.”

Dean presses a single knuckle against your pussy, running it up until it hits your clit, and your elbow slips. Baby’s horn startles you, making you almost scramble back over Dean, and he just laughs. Kisses you sweetly while you pant in his ear, even nipping under the lobe as you try to control your heartbeat.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ Your eyes roll back as you realize what happened.

You’d trapped Dean’s hand between your bodies, and he’s taken full advantage of the situation. For every honeyed and light kiss he presses over your cheeks and lips, he rubs your pussy with light, deft touches. A graze of your clit, then his thumb teasing over your entrance. It’s torture, the touches too light to do anything but make you feel insane, but you’re certain if you move away he’s just going to remove his hand altogether. Leaving you no other choice but to whimper, take it, and plead for mercy.

“More- There-” You bury your face in Dean’s neck, when he rubs your clit back and forth in a frenzy, then simply moves away. “Dean- I- I need to come, please, just, up- No-“

You tremble when he moves away again, humping against his hand. It doesn’t do anything—he’s too good at this—but you don’t think you could stop if you wanted to.

“Please, please, please-”

“You’re real good at begging, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the side of your head, and you nod weakly. “You think I’m not give you what you need?”

“I- I don’t think you’re showing any signs of it.” You breathe, and he laughs.

“Can’t argue with that. But you’re kinda restricting my movements.” He splits his two fingers, placing them around your pussy lips and rubbing slowly up down. “And trust, I’d love to play with your wet little pussy until you were coming all over my hand, but you started something on my pants. Think you should finish it.”

You lean back in slow confusion, and Dean nods between your bodies. You flush when you see it.

The faint dark spot, on his still hard crotch. You can’t look away from it.

Dean pulls your panties forward, then snaps them back against your pussy. Your hips jerk, wild eyes flying up to his, and he grins.

“Keep them on.” He smirks, dragging you back to sit on his crotch. “And take what you want.”

You nod breathlessly, grabbing the bench behind his head and starting to fuck down against Dean’s bulge. You’re more deliberate than before, gaze locked onto Dean’s, knowing exactly where to move to get the best friction. Dean watches you as if you’re sent from Heaven, licking his lips and rubbing your ass. He’s hiked up your skirt, giving him full access to whatever he wants. You expect handprints, maybe more teasing touches to keep you on the edge.

Instead, he grabs the back of your neck, and just watches you move on him. His mouth falls open, and when you lean a little down, he doesn’t hesitate to close the space.

Your speed picks up. The ruined fabric of your panties only adds to the friction, almost completely letting you feel the rough, tantalizing sensation of the denim. When you get your clit, it’s like being rolled between two pinched fingers, and you start to hump that one spot.

Dean groans, and when you catch against something, you realize you’re hitting the head of his cock.

You reach between your bodies, grabbing for something of him to hold onto, and find what has to be his balls. They’re big, heavy even when you’re not really holding them, and when you squeeze softly Dean’s whole body jerks.

“Fuck- Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“ Dean’s words turn into a long moan of your name, when you squeeze again.

You smile to yourself, riding him faster and faster. Dean’s eyes flutter, his fingers weaving into your hair. You throw your head back, and he chases. Starts to bite and suck on your neck again, pushing further and further up until you can no longer get a grip on his balls.

For a second, you try to push back, but Dean’s a solid wall of muscle. You’re using all your energy to keep yourself moving against him, and every thought empties from your head as his lips travel down.

Dean rips the top of your dress open. You hadn’t been wearing a bra. It would’ve ruined the outfit.

He has a clear, direct line to wrap his lips around your peeked nipple, and start to suck.

A loud, uncontrollable sound escapes your lips. You don’t know how he can be so good at that. His tongue flicks and swirls, teeth grazing against the bud, and all you can think of is what he’d do between your legs.

You movements are becoming shorter. More desperate. You press your breasts up, trying to demand more attention. Dean obliges, giving a harshsuckle before a series of kitten licks. He lazily kisses over the valley of your breasts, taking the neglected bud between his lips and sucking even harder than before.

“Oh- Oh my god.” You pull at the short, soft hair on the nape of his neck. He moans, mouth wet and warm wrapped around you. “Yes, Dean- Oh- Oh fuck-“

Your eyes roll back in your head, the pressure in your lower tummy just needing a little more to snap. You’re barely even humping him anymore, just thrashing around and trying to find the right position to get you there.

“I- I can’t-“ You scratch Dean’s back, pressing your cheek to the side of his head as you almost sob. “Dean, I need to cum, need to cum so fucking bad, Deeaan-“

His hand shoves between you, shoving one finger into your dripping pussy. Even with how wet you are there’s a slight stretch, and it’s just the one finger. You slam down onto him, your clit getting plenty of attention against his jeans, and you’re getting lightheaded with the need to find release.

Dean finger crooks inside you. Right against your g-spot. He wiggles it, rubbing fast and firm. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, swirling as he moans, and your shriek with delight.

You cum, shaking and moaning right into Dean’s ear. His finger slowly fucks you through it, but the moment you make a broken sound of his name, his lips are back over yours to swallow it. You don’t think you’ve ever cum that hard before. You can feel it all the way to the tips of your fingers, electric on your tongue as Dean kisses you.

Your pussy is clenching around his finger, and he grunts, angling his head to kiss you deeper. He pulls out slowly, rubbing your cunt until your wetness is smeared all over your thighs.

“The back.” He grunts, words thick and strained. “Get in the back.”

You feel bubbly. You’ve never felt bubbly before. There’s a rough command in Dean’s words that’s probably going to make you melt in a matter of minutes. But right now, you just giggle.

Dean leans back, looking at you like you’re insane.

“Sweetheart.” He wipes the hair stuck to your brow, and you can feel the tension in his voice. He’s trying to be patient. “What’re you laughing at?”

You shake your head, beaming as you press back over him. Dean grunts when you kiss him, but kisses back immediately.

“I just came on your pants.” You breathe.

He hums, leaning back to give you an exasperated look. “And that’s funny?”

“Last week I was crying about how I was never going to hold your hand.”

“Ah.” That makes him smile. He kisses your cheek, squeezing his hold on you. “We can do that later.” He mutters. “After we get in the back.”

You hum, going back in to kiss him again. Dean gives you five seconds, before you’re being picked up like a sack of potatoes and tosses over the bench. You land with a squeal, scrambling up to your palms, and Dean laughs.

“What the fuck-“

“Told you.” He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head. “But don’t worry. Was counting on you not giving a damn what I told you to do.”

You gape at him. “I- I do what you tell me-“

“No, you don’t.”

“What about when you told me to go grocery shopping, I did that-“

“You got everything wrong.” He gives you an amused look, and you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Your list was confusing. And when I tried to call, you didn’t pick up.”

“List works for Sammy.”

“I’m not Sam, I need you to make a list for me-“

“I did make a list for you.” Dean crawls over the bench, grinning down at you. “And you still bought that fuckin’ turkey meat.”

You swallow, unable to stop yourself from drinking him in. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but it’s always been quick glimpses you forced yourself to look away from, or in the context of a wound. But this, here, the car is filled with steam from your fun before, there’s only to golden halo of the streetlamp, and Dean is all yours to stare at, as much as you want.

His chest is broad, softer in some places than he’s probably been in his youth, but perfect. You’re going to be completely smothered in him, you could shove your face between his pecs, feel his thick biceps wrap tight around you as he fucks you like you’ve always dreamed. He’s covered in jagged scars and freckles. You want to touch every single one.

“Sam gave me twenty dollars not to get red meat.” You breathe.

Dean chuckles, pulling at his belt. “And you chose him over me?”

You meet his gaze again, sure you must look like a lost doe under all of him. You’re not sure what to do with yourself at all. “You didn’t give  me twenty dollars.”

“And if I gave you twenty bucks?” He grins, pulling down his pants.

That’s your queue to say something smart. You can’t think anything smart.

Dean’s cock stands proud above you, and it’s pretty. Prettier than a porn cock, and those things look like they’re plastic. Dean’s thick and veiny. He’s well groomed, his balls heavier than they felt before—they could fit in your mouth, and you might choke, but would that really be so bad—and the tip of him nice and curved. Just the sight of him makes your pussy clench around nothing. Your legs spread wider.

Dean’s throat bobs, as he follows the movement. He’s slowly stroking himself, and you watch his grip get white knuckled as you spread your legs wider.

You need to touch him. He touched you. It’s only fair.

But you reach for him, and Dean catches your wrist. Pins your arm over your head, forcing him to lower down. He settles between your legs, giving you a stern look that makes your breath hitch.

“No.” He chastises, and you pout.

“I wanna put you in my mouth.”

“You- Jesus, woman.” He lets out a sharp breath, closing his eyes. “You can’t freakin’ say that-“

“Why not-“

“I ain’t as young as I used to be, alright?”

You frown. “I know that.”

He shakes his head. “No, I mean-“ He sighs, dropping his brow against yours.

You pull your hand carefully out of his hold, running your fingers through his hair. He lets out a low rumbling sound, almost like a purr, so you keep going. He makes nice sounds. You’d like to collect all of them, and keep them in little jars on your shelf you can listen to whenever you want.

“I like the hair.” You say, soft and casual. Like his cock isn’t pressed right against your cunt. “And the beard?”

Dean huffs a low laugh. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Makes you look your age.”

“I am my age-“

“In a sexy way.” You blurt, and he sits up, brows raised.

“A sexy way?”

“Yeah.” You nod, suddenly wanting to hide your face. “I mean, you’re- You’re always sexy- I’ve always wanted to have sex with you, but- But I also think, if it’s- If you’re going to be kissing me all the time- I’d like this-“

Dean shuts you up with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. You hum, thankful for the mercy, and shiver when you feel him peeling away the scraps of your underwear and dress. You don’t think you’re going to haver anything to ride home in.

Something to worry about later. When Dean’s not rubbing his dick against your pussy. The large head of his presses against your clit, Dean’s beard tickling your neck as he kisses everywhere his mouth can find, and you feel the pressure starting to build again.

“Dean…” You mumble. “Oh- Oh-“

He sucks on a hickey from before, and the previous orgasm had already made you more sensitive. Your back arches, forcing your swollen button to rub against his shaft, and your mouth falls open in a loud, lewd moan.

“Easy,” he mutters, dropping his weight. Forcing you back down. “Tryin’ to tell you, sweetheart. I’m barely fuckin’ holding it together, and if I blow before I get inside of you, I’m gonna drive myself off a cliff.”

You giggle despite yourself, letting your body relax into his touch. You trust him, and the idea of him just having you is enough to make your pussy ache. “Aw.” You turn, smiling at him. “You care.”

He snorts. “You always a brat? Or just when I’m fuckin’ you.”

“Do you want the real answer to that?”

“Hm.” Dean tilts his head, gaze raking over your body. Over every mark he’s left, to the point that you’re mostly a map of his hands and lips.

A smirk curve on his lips, and you feel one strong hand grab under your knee, moving it up to your chest. Putting you on full, naked display.

“Nah.” He drawls. “I think I’m good.”

The air is knocked from your lungs, as he presses forward. His cock slides slowly into you, filling the car with the hottest, wettest sound you’ve ever heard. You grab his forearm, just trying to ground yourself, and he goes for your other knee.

Dean bends you in half under him, folding you into a pressed little ball. You can see yourself swallowing his cock. See every inch disappear into your pussy, every vein right before it bumps inside your gooey walls. Dean’s chest is heaving, his features open and slack.

“Fuck.” He grunts. Reverent and as wrecked as you feel. “Son of a bitch, you fit me like a goddamn glove. Takin’ me like a champ, sweetheart, c’mon- Just a little more-“

He spits on where you’re meeting, on your clit, and you try to arch up. He grunts, pushing the last few inches fully in.

You throw your head back, trying to adjust to the feeling of being so full. He feels even bigger than he looked, and you’d forget to breathe if he didn’t wrap his hand around your ribcage, and squeeze gently.

“Good?” Dean’s voice cracks, and you can almost see his chest rippling with the restraint to hold still.

You nod, opening your mouth, then closing it when words fail you. He’s just- He’s so big and everywhere. He’s pushed over your g-spot, and it’s making you feel like you’re being dragged through a pool of pleasure. There’s nothing else to think about.

Dean’s brow furrows. “Baby, I need you to talk to me-“

“Good.” You breathe out. “So- So good, Deaaaan-“

You tug on his wrist, trying to bring him down to your level. He immediately understands, bending over for a kiss. You relax as his lips move against yours, pushing your hips a little up to take in more of him. You might be able to cum just like this. Impaled on Dean’s cock. Usually you’d need something more, but you’re hypersensitive, and it’s like he was made to be inside you.

You smile at him, when he pulls back up. He swallows, slowly reaching up to grab your jaw.

“I’m gonna move, alright?”

You hum, still smiling, and Dean takes in a slow breath.

“Can you keep lookin’ at me?”

You nod, and his lips twitch.

“You really can’t talk right now, huh?”

Head shake. Dean’s eyes glint, and your mouth falls open as he thrusts. Once, harsh and short against your g-spot.

“So fuckin’ cockdrunk you can’t speak.” He drawls, grinding slowly into your pussy. Still too shallow to be anything. Just working your g-spot until tears prick at your eyes. “You think you can at least say my name, baby?”

“Deeean-“ You mewl out, gasping as he finally gives a full, deep thrust. “Dean- Dean-“

“That’s it.” He grunts, pulling almost fully out before slamming back in. “That’s my girl. Nice and dumb on this cock. Just letting it happen, aren’t you sweetheart.”

“Mmmm.” Is all you can manage, but it’s Dean’s fault.

He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Cock slipping in and out of your channel, drilling into your g-spot and cervix. You can see it, see the vein in his brow as he moans your name, see the mess forming around your pussy as you soak his dick.

“Dean.” You babble, a strange, tight heat forming deep inside you. “Deaan, ‘s- ‘s big-“

“I know.” He coos. “I know, baby, but- Shit- You’re takin’ it so well. Best thing I’ve ever fuckin’ felt-“

He grunts, balls slapping against your ass. His body is sticky and shining with sweat, and you can’t stop yourself from staring at how he moves as he fucks you. Each motion is so powerful, and there’s an impossibly good, perverted feeling you get from watching where you meet, and-

“Look.” He grunts, tapping your chin with his thumb. “Look at me, sweetheart, come on-“

You blink up at him, and he groans, bending over as he slams inside.

You don’t think. Your mouth opens, and you take his thumb between your lips, sucking softly. It’s nice to have something to do, when you’re too fucked out to even remember your own name.

And it does something to Dean. His thrusts stutter, and a deep, growling sound comes from his chest. You hum, blinking up at him from glossy eyes. He groans, chest heaving, and something snaps in his expression.

Dean fucks you so hard you could swear the car was shaking. His thumb pushes further between your lips, and you take it happily. You can feel the sensation between your legs building, a little different than your usual orgasm, but it’s good. Tingly and hot, almost like you’re being shot up with direct euphoria. Your lashes flutter, and you moan around Dean’s thumb as he starts to give sharp, abusing thrusts to your g-spot.

He bends like he’s trying to get his mouth on your pussy, only just remembering his body can’t move like that and pulling his hand away from your mouth. You’re about to whine in frustration, but then Dean finds your clit.

He gives it tight, back and forth rubs that make your hips buck up. He uses his cock to bully them back down, rubbing even harder, and the sensation explodes like fireworks. 

 It’s wet and messy, spilling out of your pussy with Dean still seated deep inside you. He moans, dropping over you as you milk his cock, dragging him into orgasm with you. You’re shaking, cumming and cumming harder than you can keep up with. You can feel the release—yours or Dean’s, doesn’t really matter—sticking inside of you and dribbling down your ass.

Dean kisses you, and you barely manage to kiss him back. You’re boneless and floaty again, your body so washed with pleasure you might be shaking from it. Like he’d struck you with lightning.

“You did so good.” Dean murmurs, pulling slowly out. “That was- Fuck, that was awesome.”

You smile in a dazed agreement, beaming up at him, and everything in Dean seems to soften. He presses a gentle kiss to your brow and pulls you upright, helping you settle in the bench before getting himself to work.

He tries to clean up the seats, but gives up fast and mumbles something about doing it back home. You were right in assuming your clothing was ruined, so Dean just gives you his shirt and wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you against him for the drive home.

When you pull in to the garage, he doesn’t give you a chance to try and walk. You’re hauled into his arms like a princess and marched inside, Dean only pausing to wipe the back bench and stop a smell.

First stop is the bathroom. Then Dean offers to bring you to your bed—the words weighted and reluctant—but you shove your face into his neck and shake you head.

Dean. You need to be near Dean.

He carries you to his bed with a tall pride, and somehow manages to keep a hand on you as he changes into his own sweats. You cuddle into him, smiling when he presses a kiss to your brow.

“If I forget this,” he murmurs. “Remind me in the morning.”

You laugh softly, voice quiet but returned. “If you forget, I’m going to kill you.”

“And I woulda earned that.”

“Mh.” You curl further into his arms, and—unable to help it—whisper. “Don’t forget.”

Dean kisses the top of your head, words a lullaby as you drift off to slip.

“Never. I’m yours now, sweetheart. Like it or not.”

You like it.

You don’t think you could like it more if you tried.  

✦End note: deeply unfair that he isn't real. we gotta talk to someone about that.✦

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

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

lord knows how long it would take the blonde to come home. lying in bed while changing your position every five minutes is making you antsy.

surrounded by candles and fresh roses, the desperation (and eroticism) of this affair is becoming clear; you're closer to some indulgent sex fantasy than nanami would like. you look like a try-hard, greedy as can be for your overworked fiance's cock.

he'll probably be too tired to have sex anyways. what if he thinks what you picked is ridiculous? suggests you leave lingerie shopping to him, all in that silk tone cloaked in disappointment?

senses back, you slip off the bed, moping to change in embarrassment. of what, exactly? you don't even know. it's not until you're bent ass up looking for clothes do you notice the soft click! of the front door.

"honey, i'm home." you can hear the exhaustion in the poor man's voice. if only you weren't half naked and covered in oil you'd greet him, wrap your arms around his neck and kiss the day's worries away. instead you're considering hiding in the closet. "honey? where are you?" he calls, tinged with worry.

just as you bend up, your eyes are met with hazel ones. cure his long legs!

"oh! um, hi honey!" you try and fill the silence immediately. you think it'll save you from melting into the ground. of course, it doesn't. he's stopped in his tracks, tie not even pulled off. it takes awkwardly clearing your throat to snap him out of it.

"darling? what's all this?" worries confirmed, your blood runs cold. you're explaining yourself, tripping over words in too-tight lingerie all while your lover looks at you like you've grown two heads.

"well, i thought we could spice things up in the bedroom a bit, and you know i love everythingyoupickbut—" "you've never looked better."

your thrown for a loop. "huh?" nanami looks more stunned than you by your reaction. "what do you mean, 'huh'? you look like a million bucks."

"really? you don't... hate it?" once confident, you're meek in the face of his hard stare. "i could never hate you." he pauses for a moment, eyes sweeping across your entire frame, heart stopping when it pauses on your chest. "in fact, come here." hesitantly, you do. face to face, body to body, you can't help but ignore the bulge in his slacks. forced to absorb his gaze, it could only be lustful. it's more than that, all consuming and with a desire you hadn't seen before. what you were too nervous to see is pure love.

"swear you're not lying to me?" he'd never lie to you, you know that. still, you ask. "no, darling. you've never looked better." groaning, his hands find your hips. "fuck, this hugs your curves so beautifully. i could drink you up for eons."

soon your cheeks are heating. "i didn't think you'd like it." he frowns at that.

cupping your cheeks, he murmurs "i must need to show you how much i like it."

masterlist | @orangethecarrotcoloredpaperred

a/n: IM BACK BITCHESS. enjoy my slop!

Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”

He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.

“What?”

Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”

For a second, he just stares at you.

Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”

The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.

Not mine.

They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.

So you just stare at him.

At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.

His gloves, first.

They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.

Your gaze flicks lower.

His shirt, too.

Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.

He cleaned up.

The thought comes through the haze in pieces.

Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.

You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”

Simon watches your mouth form the words.

Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.

His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.

“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”

A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.

You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.

“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”

Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.

His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.

Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.

“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”

Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.

For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.

But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.

“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”

Your nails bite into his shoulder.

“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“

His hips move before you can say anything else.

A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.

“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”

Your stomach twists.

You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.

He pulls out just to thrust in again.

Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.

Simon feels it.

“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”

Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.

There is blood on him.

Someone else’s blood.

Graves’s blood.

The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.

You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.

Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.

Simon watches the realization move across your face.

“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”

Your voice is barely a whisper.

His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”

The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.

You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.

He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.

Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”

For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.

His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.

“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.

Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”

Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.

It doesn’t.

It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.

But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.

It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.

Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.

Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.

Simon feels it. Of course he does.

He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.

Your face burns.

“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.

His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”

The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.

Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”

“There she is.”

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.

Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.

“You liked that.” He croons.

You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.

“N-no.”

His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.

“Liar.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.

And now he has caught you reacting to it.

Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.

Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.

“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.

His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.

“You should be callin’ me reckless.”

Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.

His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.

Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.

It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.

“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.

You swallow. “You can’t—”

He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.

Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.

Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.

“I can’t what?” He murmurs.

You try.

You really do.

You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.

“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”

“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”

You can’t.

Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.

Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.

“Too far gone to scold me now?”

You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.

And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.

“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.

“So am I.”

“Simon—”

“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”

Your breath leaves you in a gasp.

He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.

“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”

Your face burns hotter.

You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.

But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.

He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”

“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”

His eyes flash. “There she is.”

“I mean it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.

“Try that again.”

You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.

“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”

“Probably.”

“Price is going to—”

“Already did.”

You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”

His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.

“Read me the riot act.”

Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”

“Yes.”

Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”

Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”

God. You think he’s lost his mind.

“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“

He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.

“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”

His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.

“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”

The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”

You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”

“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”

You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.

He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”

You do.

“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”

You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.

“And if he talks about you like that again?”

You barely manage the whisper. “What?”

Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”

For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.

One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.

“Leave it.”

Your breath trembles. “Why?”

His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”

And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.

Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.

Could it be a present? 

While you’re busy putting on another dress to show him, Gojo sneakily makes his way over to the pile and opens up that pretty little bag. What he finds inside delights him. 

Underneath the layers of tissue paper lay a lacy, pink set of lingerie, woven with the most dainty little flowers. He laughs out loud when he sees it, imagining you wearing it for him later that night. 

When he hears your footsteps he quietly tucks the lingerie back into the bag, but he can barely contain himself and has to cover his mouth to hide his smile. 

So later that night, he waits as you finish up in the bathroom, lying all suggestively on the bed with a hand tucked behind his head and a grin on his face.

The door opens up, and at first his view of you is hidden by clouds of steam from the shower. Then, you emerge from the fog like an angel, dressed in–

An oversized T-shirt and a pair of his sweats? 

You’re brushing your teeth and staring confusedly at your husband, wondering why he’s lying in this candle lit room in nothing but his boxers. 

“Toru…what’s all this?” you ask through a mouthful of toothpaste. 

Gojo quickly recovers from his confusion. “What? Can’t a man romance his wife?” 

After a minute of debating whether he’s really serious or not, you shrug, spit out your toothpaste, then join him on the bed for a good dick down. 

Step 2- Discover Her Secret Lingerie Collection In The Back Of Her Drawer

That lingerie set’s been in the back of Gojo’s mind ever since he first spotted it, but you haven’t brought it up so neither has he.

It could’ve been an impulse buy, something that initially caught your eye but you later regretted. Maybe it didn’t fit. Maybe you returned it. 

Gojo’s in the bedroom folding up clothes while he thinks this over, and then, like the universe can hear his thoughts, he spots something in the back of your underwear drawer.

Among the monochrome assortment of panties and bras, a flicker of color.

He just has to see what could be hiding back there...

A red, chiffon slip dress, trimmed with little lace hearts. 

But that’s not all. The deeper back Gojo looks into the drawer, the more he finds. 

Sets with thin camisole tops and flowy little shorts that’d perfectly hug the swell of your ass. 

Sheer, soft colored bodysuits. 

He’s not even sure how half of them are worn, but his favorite is a crotchless, light blue babydoll set the same color as his eyes. 

And everything is decorated in lace, lace, lace.

Lace bows, lace straps, lace flowers, lace trim–lace everything. In every shape and form, and in every color of the rainbow. 

How has he never seen any of these before…and how does he get you to start wearing them?

Step 3- Start Hinting Towards It In Conversations 

Gojo’s been wondering how to bring up the topic of the lingerie without admitting that he’s been snooping through your stuff. Sure, it was an accident, but any hint that he knows your secret might embarrass you and make you even more reluctant to wear them for him. 

But the perfect opportunity arises when he sees you in a pink sweater that’s the same shade as that first set of lingerie he saw. 

It’s something you rarely wear, a scratchy turtleneck that’s been sitting in the back of your closet for months. You've been debating whether or not to throw it out for a while now. 

When Gojo spots you in it his eyes light up and he wraps your waist in a hug from behind. 

“I like that sweater,” he says grinning against your ear. 

“Really?” You look down at the ugly thing you’ve got on. “I only put it on because it’s cold.”

“Yes, really. I really, really like it. Especially that color….”

“Oh. Well…thank you,” you respond, although you’re seriously judging your husband's fashion taste. 

Then, five minutes after the conversation has ended, Gojo brings it up again. “I told you I love that color on you, right?”

“Yeah, you told me…literally five minutes ago.”

Gojo smiles. “Because it’s true. I love it.” 

And you give him a confused little nod, because the sweater was about to go right to the donation center. But since he likes it so much, maybe you’ll keep it. 

In Gojo’s mind, complimenting the color of the sweater should translate to any other articles of clothing you have in that color. And once you connect the dots you’ll wear the lingerie for him.

Throughout the week he starts making even more puzzling, random comments.

“Put a finger down if you’ve ever hidden something from your husband.”  

“Have you ever wanted to wear underwear but like, fancier?”

“Wouldn’t it be crazy if we had sex while wearing clothes?”

But either you’re ignoring all of his hints or you really don’t understand what he means, because you haven’t been entertaining these remarks of his. So now he has to bring out one last trick.  

Step 4- Give Her Insane Amounts of Money Everytime She Goes Shopping

Gojo’s been practically begging you to go out shopping all week long, and you’ve finally finally agreed to go, although you don’t understand why he’s pushing so hard for it. 

“Fine, if you want me out of the house that bad…” you sigh as you grab your keys. 

“No, it’s not that. I’m coming with you.” 

Gojo takes you to an outdoor mall, and it’s a beautiful day outside. The sun is shining, the birds are singing. The perfect setup for people to make impulsive purchases. 

The whole trip Gojo’s on his best behavior, waiting patiently for you to browse through store after store, giving you his opinions as you try on different outfits. He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t even try to get you to stop at the food court so he can sample all of the desserts. 

Something else a bit…sweeter is on his mind. The thought of you using his card to buy yourself some more lingerie. 

Pretending it’s accidental, Gojo guides you towards one store in particular(one he knows sells lingerie), pointing out some random robe he sees in the storefront window.

“This one next!” 

You hesitate to go inside. “Are you sure?” 

Gojo nods. “Yes. I’m sure. It looks like your kind of place.”

You don’t move an inch, and Gojo smiles, thinking he knows the problem. ‘Of course she wouldn’t want me to follow her around when she buys lingerie! It’ll ruin the surprise.”

So Gojo just pulls out his card and hands it to you. “I’ll be over at the food court. Get yourself something… special.”

He gives you this little smirk that you have no idea what he means by, and he chuckles as he turns on his heel to walk away. 

While he enjoys something sweet in the food court he see a message from you asking if he’s getting tired and wants to leave soon. He just types back, “Nope. Take your time, sweetheart ;)"

And sends you an extra $100 dollars, because why not?

Surely you’ll get the hint. 

Step 5- Get Caught Jerking Off To Her Lingerie

It’s now been officially a week and a half since Gojo first found that lingerie in your shopping bag. But despite all his efforts, you still have no idea what he’s trying to hint at. The only thing he’s accomplished is making you think he’s lost his mind.  

The thought of you all dressed up in one of those lacy sets has been torturing him for a while now, so today, when you’re out shopping, Gojo can’t help but shove open your underwear drawer, pull out the first lingerie set he sees, and stuff it up to his nose. 

It smells like fresh laundry detergent rather than your scent and that disappoints him a bit but…the fact that it smells like laundry must mean you’ve worn it recently. And if you’ve worn it recently it means this fabric was all pressed up against your skin…

The hand that’s not holding onto the lingerie pulls out his aching cock, and he closes his eyes and jerks his fist to the thought of you. How you’d look splayed out underneath him on the bed, all decked out in soft, pretty lace. 

How he’d caress you through the dainty fabric and feast his eyes on the sight of you all wrapped up for him like his own personal present. 

Gojo jerks himself harder as the scene in his mind becomes more and more clear. He can practically feel the warmth of your skin. Taste the sweetness of your lips. Hear you moaning and and whining and–

“Toru?” 

There you are, standing in the doorway and watching your husband in shock. He quickly whips around to face you, looking surprised–but not the least bit guilty.

“I thought you–fuck–left to go shopping.”

“I was about to… but I forgot my coat…” Your explanation dies down and your confusion increases as you see what’s stuffed into your husband's fist near his face. 

A flash of light pink lace… it’s that set you bought last week! 

He’s sniffing it and crushing it in his grasp. Ramming his hand down onto his cock and making obscene moans, all while keeping eye contact with you.

“Is that my–”

“Yes, " he answers quickly.  “Why–why did you hide them from me, baby?”

It’s impossible for you to formulate a coherent sentence while watching the filthy sight unfolding before you. Your husband looking all crestfallen and hurt and furiously fucking his poor flushed dick. 

But if you had the words to explain you’d tell him that you weren’t hiding them, exactly. Most of your lingerie has been gifted to you by your friends. You’d only recently bought that little pink set on your own. Several times you debated surprising Gojo by wearing them one night, but you were too embarrassed to actually go through with it. So you were satisfied by just owning some pretty pieces of clothing to wear for yourself in the mirror every now and then. You never thought your husband would react like this.

“Wear it for me, please,” Gojo begs. And you can’t deny him when he’s asking like this. 

As you go over to him to reach out to pry the lingerie from his grasp, he quickly shakes his head. “No, no. The crotchless blue ones.” 

You raise a brow, because how would he know about that pair? Gojo just gives you a shy smile and watches as you open your dresser and take out that light blue set that matches his eyes. 

You can feel his heated gaze still on you as you slip your clothes off and take your time stepping into the dress. 

When you turn towards Gojo and he gets the full sight of you, his hips stutter and he almost cums right then and there. 

“Fuck–you look beautiful,” he breathes. 

The lingerie in his hand is forgotten and tossed to the floor as he sinks down to his knees and grabs your hips. His lips kiss at the soft flesh between your thighs before he’s parting them and watching as wetness drips from your swollen pussylips. 

“So wet for me,” he whispers, his warm breath ghosting over your clit and making you shiver. “Liked watching me jerk off, huh?”

Your husband nuzzles his nose towards the scent of you and and moans deeply, then he nudges two fingers inside your hole and licks a long stripe up to your clit. He starts sucking and licking and thrusting those fingers in and out of you. Then he’ll pull the fingers completely out and suck your wetness from them before shoving them right back in.

It's like seeing you wearing lingerie gave him some newfound vigor, because he's lapping and sucking you like a man starved. Like he'll die if he stops. And he's intent on showing you that with every motion of his mouth and hands.

When he pulls his head away for a fraction of a second to gulp up some air, you grasp his hair and pull him right back to you. “Keep going, Toru–I’m close,” you huff as you cling to the white strands of his hair for purchase. 

 Gojo obliges, grinning and mumbling about what a ‘needy little thing you are’, and yet he’s the one moaning and bucking his hips into nothing, already pussydrunk from tasting you for a few minutes. 

His hand gripping your hip moves back to your ass so he can push you even closer. And with this new sensation of being all pressed up against his face, you’re cumming, moaning and yanking hard on his hair in a way that he seems to like. 

He finger fucks you through the last waves of his orgasm, then rises to his feet and carries you over to bed. 

Gojo yanks his clothes off and hovers above you with arms on each side. And his eyes widen as he fully drinks in the sight of you laying down before him. Just like he imagined. But better.

 But he’s not moving. He’s not even breathing. 

And this is what you were worried about. Him seeing you like this and not liking it. Your hands instinctively move up to cover yourself but–

“No, sweetheart. Don't cover yourself. I want to see you.” 

Gojo gently moves your hands away, and his own start to roam over you, caressing your body and rubbing you through the material of the lingerie. It’s almost teasing, to have you so covered yet still so exposed. To have you in something only he will see. 

And then he’s kissing you, all hungry and hot and wet, while grinding his dick back and forth through your folds. 

“Toru, put it inside,” you're whining. 

He does, with one, deep thrust that has you gasping and arching your back. He sits inside of you for a bit, allowing you to adjust to the size of him.

“You take me so well, pretty girl,” he murmurs against you. 

And tonight your husband doesn’t fuck you, he makes love to you. All slow and gentle and passionate. Each thrust like a deep kiss into your body. Each touch of his hands tender, adoring graze. Like you might break if he holds you too hard.

The whole time he's whispering and murmuring praises, about how good you feel about how beautiful you look. Rambling a whole mess of words like he's not even aware of what he's saying.

He slides his dick alllll the way in, rolling his hips and rubbing over all your most sensitive spots. And then he dragggs himself out, his veins massaging your walls. 

His thumb travels down to swipe at your clit and it’s all too much–his mouth at your neck, his cock stuffing you full, and his thumb just gently circling until you finally finish and cry out his name. 

And Gojo’s close, too, his head tilted back and his eyes fluttering shut but fighting to stay open so he can keep watching you. His hips pull back and you know the second he thrusts into you again he’s going to cum, but you never feel the warm spurts of his release.

Instead, he pulls his dick out completely and aligns it with your stomach, finally shooting his hot ropes of cum all over your belly. He watches in fascination as the sheer blue material darkens in color and clings to your skin, and he starts thrusting his dick back and forth through his own release and spreading it all over your chest. 

You scoff in disbelief when he’s finished, but he stares down at the mess he’s made like it’s a piece of art. 

“W-what the fuck, Satoru? You know I can’t wear this anymore, right?”

Gojo wipes the frown away from your face with a gentle stroke against your cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll buy you a thousand more of these sets, baby.” 

“Have sex with me-“

“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“

“It’s eight fifteen.”

That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.

“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“

“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“

Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”

“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”

“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”

Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”

“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.

“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”

“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“

“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.

A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.

It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.

Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about. 

You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.

He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.

If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.

You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.

So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on

You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.

So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.

Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.

But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.

“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”

“You were serious?”

He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.

“Sweetheart-“

“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.

You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.

“Wait, just- Hold on-“

You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.

“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.

It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

“Why?”

“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”

“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”

You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”

Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.

Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.

“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”

You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.

“Sweetheart-“

“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”

“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“

“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”

Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.

“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.

Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.

“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.

You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.

Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.

At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.

If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.

You’re learning something about yourself.

You are not good at flirting.

The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.

“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.

“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.

“Why, you forget something?”

“No.”

“Then what-“

Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.

Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.

Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.

You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.

He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.

“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.

“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“

“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”

“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“

“I do now.”

“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“

You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.

Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.

“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.

You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.

You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work. 

But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.

No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.

So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.

“Sam.”

Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.

“Sam.”

“I’m listening, what’s-“

“Have sex with me.”

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.

“Just- Listen-“

“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“

“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“

“It’s already weird-“

“You’d be doing me a favor-“

“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”

 You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”

“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”

“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”

Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”

“Sam Winchester-“

“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“

“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“

“That’s not healthy-“

“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“

“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”

You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”

“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”

You nod, and Sam blinks.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Maybe.”

“You- You’re-“

“Don’t be an asshole-“

“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”

That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”

Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.

“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.

“Does Dean-“

“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

“I think you should-“

“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I- Okay.”

You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”

Sam snorts, and you scowl.

“I’m serious-“

“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”

You stand a little taller. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”

“I do not annoy you-“

“You’re annoying me right now.”

You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”

You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”

“You need to sleep with her.”

Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.

“Sammy, what the fuck-“

Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.

Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.

He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.

Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.

And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.

So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.

He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good.  He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.

Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.

But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.

“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“

“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“

“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“

“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.

Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”

Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“

“To take her virginity.”

He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”

Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”

“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”

“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”

Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.

But you’d asked him.

You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-

Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“How the fuck do you know that.”

Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”

“Sam-“

“She might’ve… Asked me.”

“She what-“

“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”

Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.

“No.”

“Dean, just-“

“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“

 “It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”

“She doesn’t want it-“

Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”

Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.

“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”

Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“

“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.

He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.

“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.

Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.

“Uh- Hey.”

“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.

Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.

“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”

“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“What-“

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”

Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“

“Hey- It’s- Woah-“

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.

You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”

He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.

Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.

Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.

“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.

“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”

Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“

“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”

You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now. 

Dean says your name, and you shake your head.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“

“What if it’s not.”

Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.

“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.

“What if I wanted to. Help you.”

“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“

“You said you didn’t-“

“I lied.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.

“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.

Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.

“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“

He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.

High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.

Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.

You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.

“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine again. “Dean-“

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.

This might be real.

“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.

“Yes.”

“I’m old, sweetheart-“

“I like it.”

Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.

“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“

Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his  you can’t shy away.

“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“

He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.

“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”

You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”

Dean grins back. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”

You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”

Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“

“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”

Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”

You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.

“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”

“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.

“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”

You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.

“You like that, huh.”

“Dean-“

“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”

 You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.

“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"

You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.

“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”

He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.

“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.

It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.

“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt.  “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”

You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.

“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”

Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.

“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“

 Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.

Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.

“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”

You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.

“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

“Dean-“

“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”

“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”

“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”

His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.

“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.

Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.

“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.

“Everything?”

“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-

“Hey,”  Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”

“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes. 

Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.

Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”

“Shut up-“

“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”

Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.

“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.

“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”

He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.

“You want a little more?”

You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.

“Say please-“

“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“

Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.

He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.

When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.

“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"

He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.

Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.

“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”

“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”

Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”

“Mh- Mhm.”

You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.

“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”

“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“

You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.

“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”

His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.

Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.

You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.

He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.

Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.

“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.

“You’re cute.”

“I- I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”

“Deeeean-“

“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.

“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”

You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.

“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.

Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.

“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.

You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.

“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.

“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”

“No, I mean like- It can’t-“

“It can.”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.

“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”

You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.

Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.

“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”

You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.

“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”

You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.  

“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“

His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.

“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“

“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“

Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.

“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“

Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.

“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“

Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.

His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.

You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.

“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.

“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”

You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.

He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.

Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.

He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.

“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.

“I like you too-“

“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“

He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.

“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“

You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”

Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.

“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.

“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.

“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”

✦End note: drooling for him ✦

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"Hey," your voice came through the speaker, instantly cutting through the lingering tension in Nanami's shoulders. "How was your day today?"

"It wasn't too bad," Nanami replied, his eyes drifting down to his leather shoes as he kicked them off. "Still exhausting, though. I just made it back to the hotel. Have you eaten dinner yet?"

"Mhm, had some takeaway," you said. There was a brief pause on the line, the kind of quiet that carried the weight of the distance between you. "I miss you."

The words hit him right in the chest, a sharp pang of longing making Nanami close his eyes. "I miss you, too," he said softly, meaning every syllable. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, pushing the strands back. "Alright... I'm going to have a shower."

"Okay," you hummed, a yawn clipping the edge of your words. "Call me back when you're done. I love you."

"I love you. Speak soon."

Nanami waited for the line to go dead before lowering the phone, the sudden silence of the room feeling twice as heavy now. He stepped over to the bed, reaching out to click on the bedside lamp. The small knob turned, instantly bathing the crisp white sheets in a warm, low glow.

Standing in the newly lit space, Nanami finally shed his suit jacket, draping it over the back of the chair. Reaching into the inside breast pocket of the jacket—the secure spot where he always kept his most important items—his calloused fingers brushed against the familiar, stiff edge of a photo.

He pulled it out, intending to just set it on the nightstand before his shower. But as he unbuttoned his shirt and stripped down to his dark blue boxers, leaving his tailored clothes in a rare, disorganized pile, Nanami’s gaze locked onto the small square of film.

In the dim, sterile glare of the lamp he had just switched on, the polaroid felt like a visual hallucination. The lighting in the photo was golden and overexposed, radiating a warmth that this room desperately lacked. There you were, caught mid-laugh on that beach in Malaysia from your last trip together. The ocean breeze was catching the hem of your white sundress, a single strap slipping carelessly off your shoulder. You looked bright, carefree, and entirely alive in the heat of the coast.

The shower was forgotten.

Nanami moved away from the chair, the weight of his exhaustion swallowed by a throbbing, pulsing ache. He sank onto the edge of the mattress and shifted his large frame back against the pillows. As he settled, his glasses slid down the bridge of his nose—blurring the rest of the room and leaving nothing but you in sharp focus.

Squinting through the shadows, his eyes traced the deep, low dip of the white sundress in the polaroid—the way it beautifully revealed your cleavage made his throat go completely dry.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away. His breathing hitched, a sudden, punishing ache tightening in his groin as his gaze lingered on your cleavage. Your skin still gleamed in the photograph from where he had slowly rubbed sunscreen over your body, his palms smoothing the lotion down the slope of your breasts until you were glistening in the sun—deliberately slipping his thumbs under the fabric of your dress to tease your nipples until they were hard under his touch.

The dark blue fabric of his boxers was already beginning to strain, his length thickening painfully against the cotton from the sheer force of the visual. Hearing your voice just moments ago had been no comfort, but seeing you like this now, with his skin still burning from the memory and the distance between you feeling like an ocean, it was an agonizing temptation.

His mind instantly raced back to that night in Malaysia. He remembered taking you back into the villa, his fingers catching on the fabric of your sundress to slide the straps down your arms. Burying his face in the crook of your neck—his tongue licking a wet trail up your throat, sucking greedily at your skin until you whimpered beneath him. His broad, calloused palms clamped around your breasts, kneading the soft flesh.

Nanami could still feel the exact sensation of sliding his thick, leaking cock between them, using the tight, sweltering cleavage of your chest to ruthlessly pump his length—watching your tits hug his slick shaft while he rasped how badly he wanted to stretch you wide open. The memory was so loud, so violently clear, that his restraint completely dissolved.

Low and frustrated, he groaned under his breath, finally reaching down to cup the heavy bulge straining against his boxers. His hand moved downward past that golden line of hair—the faint blonde happy trail disappearing beneath the dark blue cotton—his gaze locked entirely on the curve of your waist in the photo.

A ragged, breathless sound escaped his throat as he grazed his thumb over his throbbing tip through the fabric—making his stomach muscles flex tightly as the first slick beads of pre began to dampen the material. Unable to handle the restriction for another second, he hooked his fingers into the waistband and finally released his aching cock.

As the veiny, heavy weight sprang free, Nanami's calloused hand wrapped around it desperately—fisting the pre-cum up and down his hard length, his thumb deliberately smearing the wetness over the sensitive head to begin a slow, torturous stroke. Nanami was a man who prided himself on absolute control, but right now, every ounce of usual discipline was utterly gone, burned away by the raw ache of missing you.

He dragged his palm down to the very base of his shaft, knuckles brushing against his thighs before wrapping tightly to pull all the way back up to that leaking head. The slick pre coated his skin, creating a wet, sliding friction that had him closing his eyes just to focus on the sensation.

His brow furrowed deeply, sweat beginning to bead along his hairline and dampen his blonde strands. He kept his eyes wide—refusing to blink, his gaze entirely captivated by your carefree smile, the thin fabric of the sundress hugging your tits, and your warm, shiny skin glowing in the polaroid.

In the sudden heat of illusion, the sterile white noise of the hotel AC unit transformed into the distant crash of ocean waves. He wasn’t in this lonely room anymore. He was back in that villa, pinning you down into the mattress, pressing his lips to the sensitive column of your throat and breathing in the intoxicating scent of salt air and perfume, burying himself balls deep inside you.

Nanami’s hips twitched against the sheets as a large hand clamped around his length, pumping his fist up and down his shaft. Eyes shuttered tight, the memory consumed him entirely—imagining the slick drag of his cock against your wet, parted lips, the crushing friction of being squeezed tight between your tits, and the maddening sensation of driving deep inside your cunt. The urge to hammer into you over and over until you were stretched wide, stuffed completely full of hot seed, almost made him cum right there.

"Ah... fuck," he breathed out. The wire rimmed glasses slid further down his nose, utterly forgotten as his grip tightened. A faster, desperate pace took over, driven by the pleasure coiling tight and demanding inside his lower belly. Here was a man completely stripped of his carefully constructed rules—entirely at the mercy of a single polaroid of you.

His chest heaved, the stark white hotel sheets bunching beneath his massive frame as the rhythm fractured. Keeping a slow pace was no longer an option. Nanami’s knuckles went white, his rough hand fisting his veiny, engorged shaft with a punishing, frantic speed.

The sound of wet squelches filled the quiet room, his jaw locking as his thumb smeared slick over the rigid edge of his head. He brought the polaroid closer to his face, vision blurring with sweat as his eyes traced the line of your collarbone, the curve of your waist, and the soft smile he missed so dearly.

“So beautiful... ah,” he choked out, his voice dropping roughly into a low, rumbling groan. “You're so fucking beautiful, sweetheart...'"

The praise was a desperate murmur, breathed directly into the empty air of the hotel room—as if you were right there beneath him to hear it. His hips jerked upward, mimicking the exact rhythm of driving into your cunt. His thumb swept over his leaking pink tip sending a jolt straight to his groin. The coiled tension in his lower belly tightened into a hard, inescapable knot—his balls tightening. He was right on the edge, completely consumed by the ghost of your touch. 

Nanami choked out your name—a ragged, breathless prayer against the quiet room as he finally came. He ruined his hand as the first hot bursts of cum shot straight past his fingers, splashing against his lower stomach before the rest of the thick, heavy load spilled over his knuckles and flooded the blonde patch of hair at his groin.

“F-fuck, I miss you so much,” he groaned, his voice completely undone. Desperate fingers refused to stop, milking his length dry, forcing the oversensitive shaft through those last few strokes while thick, hot cream continued to drip down his twitching cock and palm.

He stayed frozen like that for a few seconds, his chest heaving, his fingers trembling where they still gripped his settling length. The lingering echo of the Malaysian surf dissolved back into the sterile, humming silence of the hotel room.

Slowly, the drugged fog of pleasure began to recede, leaving behind an aching exhaustion. Nanami let out a long, unsteady breath that trembled past his lips. He let his head sink back into the pillows, his glasses sitting crookedly on his nose. With slow movement, he used his clean hand to lift the polaroid back up to his face.

In the dim, warm light of the bedside lamp, you were still there—smiling, carefree, and beautifully out of reach. He stroked a thumb over the glossy surface of the photo—as if he were truly touching you—before setting it gently on the nightstand.

He forced his heavy limbs to move, sitting up on the edge of the bed to clean himself up. The cold reality of the business trip settled back over his shoulders like a lead weight, but as he looked back at the small square of film under the lamp, the lingering warmth in his chest reminded him exactly what he was working so hard to return to.

Nanami reached to grab a few tissues from the nightstand, his fingers still trembling slightly from the aftershocks of the release. But just as his hand brushed the box, his phone buzzed loudly right beside it. He paused, a drop of sweat rolled down his jaw as he looked down at the bright screen.

A message from you popped up on the display:

“finished with your shower? :)”

Your pussy clamps down on nothing from the promise in his words, slick leaking from your entrance as desire continues to build inside you, and you can't help but nod and agree to anything he has to say right now. He laughs softly, kissing you again and again, moving his hand from your clit just to better situate himself.

He wraps one hand under your body, pulling you closer by your waist, positioning it to where he can rub your clit while moving the other hand to lift your leg. He slides his cock against your folds, gathering your slick, coating his length in your arousal to make it easier to push inside. His tip leaks precum, the head red and swollen with need, and you move your soft hand down to smear it with your thumb before guiding him to your entrance.

"Goddamn," he curses, his tip slipping inside of your wet walls, your pussy instantly giving way to his familiar length when both of you let out a rough moan of approval.

Simon sinks in all the way, his cock nudging against your cervix, and he rests there, feeling the way your walls flutter around him while trying to adjust to his size like you have to every single time. Your fingers grip the sheets, trying to steady yourself from the feeling of being so full, and you bite your bottom lip to muffle the sounds of pleasure that threaten to rip free and wake up everyone in the house.

"Si, please," you beg, rolling your hips back against him, silently asking for him to move, for him to do anything he wants to you.

His hand moves from your clit, moving to press down on your lower belly, and the sensation leaves you feeling euphoric from how deep inside you he sits. He groans from feeling himself there too, his cock twitching in the depths of your pussy just from the thought alone. One finger traces the lines of your stretch marks, silently worshipping all your body has done to give him his children. You let him, giving him the time to be there with you, giving him the time to think back on everything that has happened to make him the father he is today.

"I wouldn't be anything without you," he whispers breathlessly, his fingers finding your clit again where he rubs tight, quick circles while he pulls out just to push back in again.

His cock bullies your insides in the best way. The veins and ridges of his length slide through your walls, molding to him, welcoming him in the rawest way possible. He angles his hips to hit your sweet spot, and you do everything you can not to cry out for the man behind you. He hits your cervix, knowing just how much pressure to apply to make it pleasurable for you. Simon doesn't go too fast or too slow, his pace is meant to build your orgasm steadily, to build the anticipation.

"You feel so good," he praises, rolling his hips against your ass over and over again, pinching your clit between his calloused fingers and rubbing at the same time.

You moan quietly, rocking back and forth against him to meet every thrust while spreading your legs even wider than the way he has you positioned, begging for more. Your fingers tangle in the sheets, your other hand cups your breasts, toying with your sensitive, hard nipples to relieve the ache in them. Your head digs into the soft pillow, drool dripping onto the fabric from where your mouth hangs open ever so slightly on silent moans, and your eyes shut tight as you give your body over to him.

"Oh f-fuck Si," you whimper, shivers racking through your body as heat begins to pool in your lower belly,

He pounds against your sweet spot, his fingers dig into the soft fat of the inside of your thigh, his fingers work your clit with efficiency just the way you like it. You push back against him, letting him reach even deeper inside of you, and you grind against his fingers, but your body is confused on where to focus when everything feels too good. You pull, pinch, twist your nipples, searching for more stimulation while your orgasm builds and builds.

"Yeah? That feel good," he asks, growling out the words to bite back his groans.

You nod your head, it's the only thing you can do as he fucks you dumb and clouds your mind, inhibiting you from being able to form any coherent words or important thoughts. He fucks you faster, deeper, harder, thrusting inside of you with little control as his mind and body beg him to make you cum. His balls slap against your ass, squelching from the contact from how wet you are for him,

Your climax sits in your lower belly, coiled tight like a spring ready to snap, and your body begins to shake with pleasure as he continues to drill into you. He knows you're so close, he can taste the goosebumps on your skin when he kisses your shoulder, see the shivers racking through your body while you writhe, feel the way your pussy clamps down as if it never wants him to pull back out.

"Cum on my dick baby… I know you can do it," he says, encouraging you while placing his mouth on your neck, sucking the soft skin until purple bruises bloom underneath.

You squirm in his grasp, desperate to feel the pleasure he speaks of, and when your body becomes rigid and your muscles draw taut, you give yourself over to it. Cum gushes from your pussy, leaking out around his length, coating his shaft in rings of white cream. Your body trembles against his, your moans ring out in his ear even while trying to be as quiet as possible, and when you start to twitch from overstimulation he eases up on your clit.

"That's it. You're such a good girl for me."

Simon pounds into you harder, focusing on his own climax now. His hand moves from your leg, letting it hang in the air while he spreads your ass to get a better view of your soaked pussy sucking him in. Groans fall from his lips, grunts fill the air with each thrust of his hips, and the sight of you taking his impossibly large dick has him cumming instantly.

"F-fuck, goddamit… feels so good," he says, thrusting a few more times before burying himself to the hilt and releasing his seed deep inside of you.

A guttural groan rips from his throat, far too loud, but neither of you care. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out with every pulse of his length, hitting your cervix and leaking out when there isn't room for anymore. Your pussy flutters around him, milking him of every last drop of it until there is nothing left and his cock stills inside of you. It creates a mess between your thighs, one that he will happily clean up.

His body slumps against the mattress, his chest rising and falling rapidly while he tries to catch his breath, and you pull his cock out just to flip over and face him instead. Simon pulls you closer, basking in the scent of you, in the warmth your body gives off. His eyes roam your face, taking note of your afterglow, of your half-lidded eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, of your swollen lips and drool stains.

He kisses you hard, but slow, savoring the taste of you, his fingers gripping your skin as if he can't seem to get you close enough. You place your hands on his chest and push him flat against the mattress before straddling his hips. His hands find your ass, kneading the plush fat, softly grinding you against his semi-hard length before you playfully slap him.

"No more… and you better pretend to still be asleep when I bring the kids in here with breakfast," you say, scolding him for distracting you from the Father's Day activities you have planned.

"Yes ma'am," he replies, laughing softly, wrapping his hand around the back of your neck to pull you back in for one more kiss before letting you leave. "Do I get dessert after?"

His hand falls between your legs, slipping two fingers into your pussy, curling them until he hits your sweet spot and your back arches ever so slightly before pulling them back out again. He brings them to your mouth, rubbing cum against your lips, silently asking you to open for him and when you do, you clean them off while nodding your head yes and gazing down at him. He groans, and sets you down on the floor, trying to hide his hard, aching cock with the sheets and telling himself to let you go before he fucks you in bed all day.

│Masterlist│

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