Lost's Explicit Media

“Why are we going to a record store in the first place?” Sam sighs. 

Dean insisted upon going out of his way to a music store off the highway, tens of miles away from their last hunt. The drive has everybody feeling restless, even the driver in question. 

“Last I recall, you were the one who kept complaining about hearing the same songs over and over,” Dean huffs, shooting his brother a look. “I’d say I’m being rather courteous to go pick out some new tracks.”

“What a gentleman,” you snort from the backseat, leaning forward. You grasp the front bench, right behind Sam’s neck, and he feels your fingers graze his collar. He swallows thickly — not that you notice. “Let me guess: you’re gonna make all the decisions and we don’t get a say in it, right?”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Dean says, flashing you a smug grin. “My car, my rules. Take a hike if you don’t like it.” 

You stick your tongue out at Dean — childish, yes, but it’s effectively vexing for his fragile ego. He huffs when he turns his attention back to the road.

Sam laughs, giving his brother a look. “You’re such a jerk, man.”

Dean is quick to follow up with: “Whatever, bitch.”

Blessedly, the Impala does eventually park outside the record store. You climb out before the Chevy has even finished rolling to a stop, much to Dean’s chagrin. Sam grins at your antics, and a minute later, he climbs out to find you stretching outside the store. 

“C’mon, yoga master,” Sam teases, strolling up beside you with his hands in his hoodie pockets. “Stretch your legs when we’re inside.”

After playfully shooting the younger Winchester some side eye, you follow him into the music store. Dean has already made it in, eagerly flipping through cassettes and gawking at the plethora of options. One of the workers strolls by to talk to him in a friendly, customer-service appropriate tone — a tall, brown-skinned brunette with shiny coiled hair — and Dean turns up the charm while he chats her up. Sam wrinkles his nose at the sight, and you roll your eyes, turning around to flip through the many, many bins of vinyl records. 

Sam hovers behind you, idly flipping through covers without any particular interest. You, however, take your time pulling out records, inspecting the cover art and the contents with a thoughtful hum. Sam keeps taking a peek at you from the corner of his eyes, smiling when your eyes flash with recognition.

“Oh, shit. I wish I could’ve brought my record player,” you sigh wistfully, holding up Weezer’s self-titled album. The bright blue cover shines under the buzzing fluorescents overhead. 

Sam glances over from the section behind you. He squints, nodding absentmindedly. “Weezer, huh? Are they any good?” 

The immediate, utter shock that crosses your features nearly makes him wince. 

Gently sliding the record back into place in the bins, you turn to fully face Sam, arms crossed. “‘Are they any good?’ They’re Weezer, Sam. They’re amazing.”

An embarrassed laugh puffs out of him. He shoves his hands in his jean pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Sorry. My knowledge starts and ends with Island in the Sun.”

You gawk, jaw dropping halfway to the floor. “Are you serious? You really don’t listen to Weezer?”

Sam shrugs, wearing a shy smile that makes him look somehow even younger than he is. “I’ve only heard a little. Dean’s more of a classic rock kinda guy, so.”

You squint your eyes at him in accusation. “So you only listen to what you brother makes you listen to?” With a huff, you shake your head, already reaching into your jacket pocket for your precious iPod. “C’mere. There’s no way I’m letting you get away with this.”

A brow lifts, and Sam slowly crosses the few feet that separate him from you. If there’s one thing he knows about you, it’s that you guard your iPod with your life. Dean once tried to borrow it for a few hours while the three of you did research over a particularly tricky poltergeist, but you threatened to skin him alive and feed him to a pack of werewolves. The intensity of your reaction was enough to ward the brothers away from your beloved MP3 player like salt to a spirit. 

Sam hovers over you as you shuffle through your music, eyes darting over the names and albums that fly by. You scroll with one hand, using the other to plug your earbuds in, expertly unraveling them from a knot — all whilst you ramble. 

“I can’t believe you don’t listen to them! Island in the Sun is good, yeah, but you need more exposure than that. I mean, I’m definitely putting you on to the rest of that album later, but whatever. They just came out with Raditude — it’s different from their usual stuff and, like, way more pop-y, but I think you’d like it,” you say, offering Sam an earbud. 

His head tilts much like a curious puppy when their owner rustles a bag of treats. “Only if you say so,” he muses. He takes the earbud from you, fingertips brushing against yours. He tries to ignore the sharp zap of electricity that ripples through him under that brief touch. Oblivious to his slightly flustered state, you land on the album in question, clicking the button on your iPod to begin playing the first track.

Your eyes flit up to catch Sam’s reactions as the first quick strums of a guitar ping through the earbuds, opening up the song to a steady tempo. He’s looking down at the tiny iPod screen, squinting at the leaping dog on the album cover. The upbeat kick of drums and Rivers Cuomo’s soft, whining voice gives way to a catchy chorus, filled out by call-and-response background vocals:

Then I said, “Girl, if you’re wondering if I want you to  (I want you to) I want you to (I want you to) So make a move (Make a move) ‘cause I ain’t got all night.”

Without noticing, Sam inches nearer to you, encroaching on your space. The longer the track goes on, the more he finds himself stealing glances at your expression: your head bopping to the beat, lips upturned and mouthing the lyrics, eyes sparkling. The energy is infectious; he smiles at you fondly, averting his gaze back to the screen every time he catches himself staring for too long at a time. 

Unbeknownst to Sam, you’re stealing glances at him, too. He’s smiling — thankfully — so he must like the song. Whether he realizes the subliminal messaging you’re sending his way is another story entirely. 

By pure coincidence, you finally happen to look up at Sam at the exact moment that he looks your way. Eyes meet, but neither of you turn away. Time slows down, crawling along so even Weezer isn’t at the forefront of your mind anymore. Despite the song blasting through your eardrums, everything narrows down to you and Sam alone. 

Of course, it’s only now that you realize just how close Sam is. His arm brushes against yours, hair hanging in his face as he leans in to meet your height. He’s near enough that you could reach up and touch him — kiss him, even — but you’re still waiting for Sam to catch on and make the move himself. 

He’s hesitating, though, as per usual. Sam wouldn’t be Sam if he didn’t overthink every minute interaction. He leans in close, slanting his body in your direction, but he’s tight-lipped. What if he’s misreading the signs? What if he’s right but something terrible happens to you because he’s cursed? Sam can’t help but imagine you pinned to the ceiling, bloodied and on fire or dying some other miserable death all because his doomed touch fell upon you. But there you are, entirely oblivious to the worst of his shame, and he can’t stop staring at your mouth in spite of it all. 

“Alright, don’t start suckin’ face in public, now,” Dean interrupts, removing the illusion of choice altogether. Sam jumps away from you so fast that the earbud falls out, swinging toward you like a pendulum. You blink, finally looking up to see Dean, who’s looking awfully smug. He lifts up a plastic bag full of new cassette tapes, rustling it in your face. “Off we go, kids.”

“Shut up,” Sam huffs under his breath, flustered and annoyed by the suggestion in Dean’s words. He walks fast, hurrying ahead of you and Dean to get even a second to collect himself. Beside you, Dean wiggles his brows, bumping shoulders with you. 

“You might not be gettin’ lucky, but I am,” he jives, flashing his receipt in your face, where the cashier from earlier apparently wrote her number. “Sucks to suck, huh?”

If you could, you’d shank Dean here and now, but he bounces off to the Impala before you get the chance, whistling a chipper tune. At least one of you is getting laid.

. . .

Dean fucks off to “interrogate the locals” (read: sleep with the girl he met at the record store), and you’re being studious by doing research at the local library. Sam is left to fend for himself at the motel, given the fortune of a rare break as he flicks through the TV channels. He lets them play for a second each before popping to the next one, then the next, then the next. Sam’s thumb scrolls to the next channel on autopilot, bored out of his mind, until he lands on MTV. Miraculously, the channel is airing a Weezer music video. 

Sam knows you’re busy and all, but he’s also missing your company. He’s alone, he didn’t even find any decent porn to keep him occupied, and his cellphone is just an arm’s reach away. He dials your number before he can think about it for too long and psyche himself out of it.

You pick up on the second ring, your voice soft and tinny in his ear. “Hello? Everything okay?”

“Hey,” he greets, watching the television. “Weezer’s on MTV.”

There’s a pause. You’re knee-deep in searching for leads on any new cases, jotting down possible references for later. If Sam is calling you about what he’s watching at the motel, of all things, he must be bored as all hell. You laugh, rubbing your strained eyes — you’ve been staring at the computer for way too long. 

“Yeah? Which music video?”

Sam leans back against the headboard, cushioned by cheap, lumpy pillows. “Buddy Holly.”

“Oh? That’s a good one,” you muse, clearly enthusiastic. “They didn’t use CGI at all for the video, if you can believe it.” 

“Really? That’s cool.” Sam’s chest gets all warm from hearing your voice crackling through his phone, sharing your little bits of trivia. He’s still a little flustered and pent up from trying to jerk off a half hour ago, and your hushed tone sounds more seductive than you intended. He swallows, shifting on the bed and desperately attempting to ignore his growing hard-on. “Have you found any leads?”

Sam’s voice sounds a little funny — like he’s straining to keep his voice even — but you blame it on your imagination or the shotty cell reception.

“Nothing much,” you sigh, lips pursed as you flip through the notes you’ve compiled so far. “Some weird stuff in Oklahoma, but I don’t know if it’s our brand of weird. I figured we could go over it later.” You glance up, lowering your voice further when one of the librarians turns her head in your general direction, no doubt hearing the noise. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”

“A little bit,” he admits, smiling even though you can’t see it. Weezer are still bopping their heads to their own music, footage from Happy Days spliced into their performance. He wishes you were here to watch this with him, even though you’ve probably seen this music video a hundred times by now. He wishes he could feel your weight in the bed beside him, the heat of your body. Sam closes his eyes for a brief moment, pretending you’re leaning into his side — the hand on his thigh isn’t his, but yours, warm and heavy upon his worn denim jeans. 

You click your tongue, oblivious to Sam’s wandering hand back at the motel. “Well, maybe you should have come to the library with me, nerd. The research stuff is supposed to be your thing.” 

“Hey, you’re the one who volunteered to do it,” he huffs, cock twitching beneath his jeans. Your playful disapproval stirs up an unexpected wave of heat in the pit of his stomach that rushes downward. He starts to graze his hand over his crotch — no pressure yet, just the slightest weight dragging up and down the inner seam. His voice starts to drop in pitch. “You could’ve just stayed at the motel. You know I’d have let you use my laptop.” 

Your eyes roll. “Mhm, sure. For five minutes, maybe,” you tease, mindlessly scrolling through an article on the library’s computer. “You have control issues, babe. You’d probably hover over my shoulder the whole time.” 

The casual pet name that slips from your lips has Sam sucking in a sharp breath. He swallows, finally pressing the heel of his palm down against his jeans. They grow tighter, his cock straining to break free from the layers separating himself from his hand — the hand that Sam is still imagining as yours. 

“I wouldn’t hover,” he insists, though he hardly sounds convincing. “I’d let you do your thing.” Even Sam knows it isn’t true; he’s just arguing to hear your whispered, fluttery voice in his ear. If he tries hard enough, he swears he can almost feel your breath on his neck. 

“You are so full of shit,” you mutter; the grin in your voice is obvious. “You act like you’re hiding nuclear launch codes on that thing.” 

You lean forward on the desk, lightly tapping your fingers over the keyboard. The longer you sit here talking to Sam, the more you regret not staying behind at the motel; you’re in a hell of your own personal making, really. You could have done the usual thing and hung back with Sam while Dean fucked whatever poor girl he came across. Sure, you’d be stuck acting like a lovesick idiot all night, but at least you wouldn’t be the loser that chose to be all responsible instead of spending the day with the guy you’ve had a crush on for damn near a year. 

Sam doesn’t respond for a minute. He’s too busy unzipping his jeans, sliding his hand down the front of his boxers. His fingers follow the shape of his cock, brushing them lightly over himself like he imagines you might do for him. When he grips himself through the thin layer of fabric, he bites his tongue, hips jerking forward instinctively. 

A prolonged silence follows. You check your phone to make sure you’re still on the call; it hasn’t cut out at all. When you press your cell back to your ear, you can hear a bit of rustling and shallow breathing. 

“Sam?” Your tone is hesitant, prodding. “Still there?” 

He’s leaking precum, tenting his boxers. Sam swallows, and it’s audible through the phone.

“Yeah,” he grunts, cursing himself for how rough his voice comes out. He tries again, hoping to sound somewhere in the ballpark of normal. “Yeah, I’m still here.” 

He really shouldn’t be doing this — if you find out that he’s jerking off to your voice, he’s royally fucked. He flubs every attempt to ask you out on a date, he goes red when you mindlessly flirt with him or call him a pet name — yet here he is, acting like a fucking pervert while you’re doing something important. Even Dean would call him a freak for acting like this. At least Sam has enough self-restraint not to take it a step further and start smelling your clothes — he’s not that stupid. Despite the thought crossing his mind, he wouldn’t risk cumming all over your underwear or whatever just to get off. 

That still doesn’t justify his current predicament, though. 

You hum, sensing that something strange is afoot. “Is Weezer still on?” 

Sam completely forgot about the TV. When he peeks his eyes open, the image has shifted to showcase an entirely different band. He doesn’t know who they are or what the song is; his attention is far from the music right now. 

“No, not anymore,” he murmurs, grinding against his palm. He tips his head back on the creaky wooden headboard. A sigh brushes past his lips before he can think to cover it. 

For a few beats, you say nothing, shifting your cell phone to the other ear. You lean back in your seat, listening closely to Sam’s breathing; even over the fuzzy quality of the speaker, his sharp, baited breath crackles through clear as day. It makes you feel warm all over, thighs pressing together unconsciously. Your eyes dart around the library; you lower your voice even more, ducking behind the privacy dividers that separate the computers. 

“Sam,” you murmur — and oh, if you knew what your saying his name like that did to him, you’d be on your feet right now. “What are you doing?”

He chokes, hand freezing over his erection. “N-Nothing.” A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. Even he knows that wasn’t even remotely convincing. 

You huff in amusement, licking your lips thoughtfully. “It doesn’t sound like nothing,” you say, shifting in your seat. The heat between your legs is flaring up quick, spreading like a wildfire. “Are you… enjoying yourself?”

If Sam had any doubts about whether you knew what he was doing or not, that teasing question confirmed the truth. You know exactly what’s happening, and you’re toying with him like a cat to a mouse. His skin burns with a blush that explodes from head to toe. He removes his hand from his crotch in an instant, running it through his shaggy hair instead. He sputters into the phone, feeling like a complete fucking idiot loser creep. What kind of sicko gets off like this? To a person he’s not even dating, no less? It’s not like you’re some stranger — you hunt with him and Dean, you’ve known them for years, you’re a friend. He must be truly psychotic if he’s actually dumb enough to start jerking off to someone who’s basically his coworker, someone he’ll have to see in close proximity for the foreseeable future. 

“I’m not— I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t let me stop you.” Your voice cuts him off, and Sam doesn’t dare to move an inch, convinced that he hallucinated the words. 

“Wh… What?”

You roll your eyes, forcibly shutting down the computer and grabbing your bag from the floor beside your feet. “Keep going,” you reiterate. “I’ll be over soon.”

“What?” Sam sputters intelligently, only for the call to abruptly end. He sits up, eyes wide as he stares down at his cell phone. His hand goes slack, and it bounces off the bed and to the floor. Swallowing harshly, he shifts against the sheets, turning his gaze to the obvious tent in his pants. 

You told him to keep going, but Sam isn’t so sure he can do that. If this goes how he thinks it’s going to go, he’s going to bust in his hand only to proceed to struggle to get it up again by the time you make it to the motel. He sinks back, groaning, clutching the sheets and humping the air — the only semblance of relief he’ll allow himself.

But the minutes drag on. Realistically, he knows it won’t take long for you to return to the motel room, but he was already so close to cumming from the sound of your voice; he’s barely holding on as it is. 

Sam takes deep breaths. His jeans feel absolutely suffocating. It wouldn’t hurt to just relieve some pressure, right? That’s all he can do to keep from cumming in his pants, after all. With shaking hands, Sam reaches down, popping the button of his jeans, then slowly pulling the zipper down. The interlocking teeth break loose, and he lets out a sigh when his cock has a bit more room to breathe. His boxers are still too tight, but the cotton at least has some stretch to it that doesn’t make this so unbearable. 

Just then, you finally bust through the door, breathing heavily. Sam jolts upright, startled by the sudden intrusion. He swings his legs to sit on the edge of the bed, hitting his skull on the headboard in the process. He scrambles to look normal and totally inconspicuous, even though his jeans are unzipped and his damp boxers have a very obvious tent in them. 

“Hey,” he chokes out, taking in your appearance — frazzled, jacket slipping down your shoulders, chest heaving. He squints. “Did you—?”

“Run here? Yeah,” you confirm, kicking the door closed behind you. Your bag is haphazardly tossed on the desk near the window. It’s impossible to keep your eyes from drifting down to Sam’s clothed erection; you nod towards him, already shrugging your jacket off, draping it over the desk chair. “You didn’t finish.”

Sam is starting to think he’s on another planet. How you can be so casual about all of this is equal parts concerning and reassuring. 

“No, I didn’t— I couldn’t…” He trails off, and despite how embarrassing this all is, it only gets worse when Sam blushes. He wipes at his cheeks like it might somehow remove the redness from them, but it stubbornly remains. 

Your head tilts. “You couldn’t?” You approach slowly, crossing the short distance between you two until you’re standing between his legs. “What, you need help?”

Sam stares up at you. His cock twitches, straining painfully against his boxers. He almost wishes he could die on the spot to escape the shame of it all. 

“I… This is so weird,” he sighs, laughing dryly to himself. He looks down, starting to cover his erection, but you get closer, nudging his knees further apart. 

“Don’t do that,” you say — not scolding, exactly, but deeply dismayed by his lack of confidence. “You’re the one who seduced me with Weezer over the phone.”

Even though your words are in jest, Sam groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah, that’s the weird part.” 

He’s retreating in on himself before you’ve even gotten the chance to touch him yet. That won’t do, not when you ran here, sweating for twelve minutes straight just to jump his bones. 

“Well, maybe I like weird,” you huff, reaching out to tip his chin back. He finally looks at you, guided by your hand; his brows are upturned, eyes all big and glinting and puppy-like. You bite your tongue to keep from telling him all the aggressively fond (and downright filthy) thoughts that press against the forefront of your mind. 

“You… liked that?” He asks tentatively. Sam is half-convinced that he’s about to wake up from a wet dream, that he’ll wake to find that he’s perspiring through his clothes for a whole different reason.

His question almost makes you laugh, but this is clearly a sensitive subject — Sam is deathly allergic to realizing his own attractiveness, as you’ve long since deduced — so you nod, leaning in.

“Yeah,” you breathe, mouth hovering over his. “I like it, Sam. I like you.”

You take the leap and kiss him so hard that he nearly falls back against the bed. He sucks in a sharp breath, pulling back for a split second as if to convince himself that you’re actually here, actually wanting this. When you don’t show any sign of stopping, he finally turns his brain off and pulls you into his lap. 

Teeth click together as you both fall against the bed, kissing sloppily. It’s like a switch has been flipped, because suddenly, Sam isn’t the shy, gentle giant you’re used to talking to. He sucks at your bottom lip, surprising you with the eagerness behind it. You brace your hands against the sheets, holding yourself upright as Sam’s hands grip your waist, already pushing your shirt up to feel more skin. 

With your legs slotted alongside his, you’re able to press your knee against his erection while you grind on his thigh. Sam groans, hooking a finger through the belt loop of your jeans to guide your hips. The feeling is dizzying — even more so when he parts his lips, licking into your mouth. 

Everything is escalating fast. The motel room feels hot; you couldn’t stand another minute in your clothes if you tried. Thankfully, Sam has the same idea, because he hastily tugs your shirt up and over your head. He helps you with your jeans, next, hands fumbling over your hips and thighs; you climb off of him for just long enough to shimmy out of the denim, kicking it to the floor. 

Once you’ve crawled back into his lap, Sam yanks you closer, rolling over to lay on top with you below him. He hovers over you on the mattress, the springs squeaking under your combined weight. His mouth lands on your neck, spreading wet kisses across your skin while he shoves his jeans all the way down with one hand, kicking them off his ankles. 

Sam works his way further up, kissing behind your ear; your breathing gets increasingly heavy as his tongue starts to drag up that sensitive strip near your hairline. You’re still sweaty from running all the way from the library to the motel — definitely from this, too — but Sam moans when he tastes the salt on your skin. There’s a moment where he stops kissing you to press his nose against your damp skin, inhaling deeply; he could spend forever with his face buried against your neck like this, smelling the familiar musk of your sweat. He pants heavily, the hot air making you shudder and sigh. He tugs you closer by the hips, and that’s when you feel his cock twitch against your thigh. 

You start to reach for it without a second thought, gravitating towards the bulge as if compelled by some higher, hornier power. You bite your lip as your hand lands against his erection. Sam groans, his sounds unkempt as you palm him through the thin layer of his boxers. Emboldened by the noise he makes, you curl your fingers around his length, tracing the shape of him. The sizable wet patch from his precum is soaking through the cotton, making your hand damp along with it. 

Sam’s mouth lands over your ear, and he licks the outline of it. Unexpectedly, it feels good. A weak whimper escapes you under the attention, your spine tingling when his hot tongue swirls around the soft appendage. You briefly forget that you were touching him, too busy melting into the sheets. When your eyes flutter shut, Sam groans again, tracing down your arm to find your hand. He gently guides you to his waistband — letting his desires be known for once in his life — and you remember exactly what you were getting to. 

Your fingers break past the elastic of his boxers. The happy trail leading down to his cock is sparse; even without giving it a proper look, you can feel that he’s neatly trimmed all around. Sam’s hand leaves yours to push his boxers further down, and you wrap your hand around his length before it can spring out and hit your thigh. It’s thick and heavy, flushed at the tip from all the blood rushing south. Sam’s breath hitches in your ear as you work your fingers to the head of his cock, circling your thumb over the tip before spreading the precum down the length of him. 

“Fuck,” Sam sighs, unable to help himself; he rolls his hips into your open hand. Pride swells up in your chest, and you wrap your fingers completely around him, slowly guiding your fist up and down his cock. He gives up on tonguing your ear for a minute, dropping his forehead against the bed, moaning and thrusting his hips forward. Your free hand slips around him to slide up his back — that stupidly tight shirt still on for reasons that make you want to tear it off — until your fingers card through his hair. 

“When’s the last time somebody touched you?” You ask, voice low and breathy in his ear. It clearly triggers something in him; he bucks into your fist, gripping at the sheets. 

His reply is shy, ears blazing red. “Can you, ah, not ask that?” 

It takes a Herculean amount of effort not to grin. “I’m just asking. You’re so sensitive.”

Sam all but whimpers, shoving his face against the crumpled bedsheets. “Feels good,” he mutters, muffled against the mattress. “...Been a while.”

You lick your lips, slowing the rhythm of your hand. He huffs and puffs, trying to make up for it by canting his hips faster, but it’s of little use. He’s on the verge of begging you not to stop when you speak again: “It gets better than just my hand, you know.”

You’re lucky that you survive after saying that. 

Sam pounces on you, forgoing all attempts at restraint and conveniently forgetting his own shyness. His mouth presses against yours in a hungry kiss, devouring you like you’re his last meal. You finally tug at his shirt, and — to your immediate relief — he pulls it over his head, carelessly tossing it to the floor. 

Sam finally makes a move for your underwear, greedily slipping his hand under the waistband. He only gives you a brief glance to check that this is okay, that you really want more, but your hand finds his and guides it down to answer without words — just like he did for you. Sam flashes a small, grateful smile, letting his middle finger swipe through your wet folds. You moan, but the sound is quickly swallowed up by his mouth in another kiss. His long fingers experimentally run over the heat between your legs, applying gentle pressure to see what makes you tick. 

Every part of you feels sensitive; you’re practically gushing all over his fingers already, and he’s barely even massaged your clit yet. He leaves teasing swipes, his hand getting stuck between your thighs when you close them around his wrist. Sam doesn’t mind at all; he still manages to slip a finger inside you despite your closed legs, and ironically, that has your legs falling open like a door off its hinges. 

Sam’s kisses turn sloppy as he divides his attention between your mouth and your fluttering cunt. He pumps his finger inside you whilst using his thumb to lightly press against your clit, massaging it with tight circles. A second finger joins the first, stretching you open, and you choke on a moan. Your hands fly up to grab his bicep — which is unfairly huge — as your hips finally give up and impatiently buck against his deft fingers. He pants against your mouth, briefly reeling back to watch as you cum. It happens fast — his fingers are slipping through your folds, drowning in the release that spills onto his digits. He works you through your orgasm, rubbing his nose against your jawline while your walls pulse around his fingers; Sam only removes his hand when your legs kick against the bed, sensitive from the overstimulation. 

You lay against the mattress, sighing deeply. Your arm covers your eyes for a moment, and Sam watches you breathe through it. He can’t help but tear his eyes away, trailing his gaze down your body, watching your chest rise and fall with every exhalation. He looks down at his own fingers, now shining in the light, slick with a thick layer of your cum. 

Sam doesn’t give it a second thought: he lifts his hands to his own mouth, tasting you. His cock recovers quickly, springing up to nudge against your thigh, and you remove your arm to find him blissfully licking your cum off his fingers. It gets you hot all over again. He looks far too happy to lap you up like that; but you don’t know how many times he’s woken up from a wet dream about you, imagining you like this or with his head between your legs or your lips around his cock. 

When he remembers to open his eyes, you’re already looking at him. He’s still savoring the taste of you when you tug him back down, dragging him into another kiss. Sam feels suddenly, terribly impatient after waiting so long to get off; he reaches for your thigh, pushing it up to spread you open, and he lines himself up with your glistening center. He presses the head of his shaft between your folds, smearing your wetness up and down his length, watching you squirm beneath him. His breath hitches, and he finally can’t take another second of waiting. He’s so hard it hurts, and he hasn’t gotten to cum once, but he’s determined to last long enough to fit himself snugly inside you. 

His cock finally pierces into you, and your eyelids fall shut. He fills you up completely when he bottoms out — and even then, he’s so big that the full length of him doesn’t fit all the way inside of you. There’s still another inch hanging out, but he doesn’t try to force it in, not when you’re already being stretched thin. 

Sam hovers over you, gripping the sheets beside your head. His long lashes flutter as he rolls his hips nice and slow, mindful enough even now to let you adjust. You sigh and tremble beneath him, squirming under his weight. Your hands reach around his body, fingers crawling up like spiders to grip his back. The pressure of your touch encourages him to pick things up, to go at a steady — but not distasteful — pace. He’s trying so hard to be a gentleman; he doesn’t want to get too carried away, not after he’s already spent so long pining after you and praying he might get to touch you. Sam isn’t selfish. If he’s going to get you in bed, he wants you to feel good before anything else. 

You lay under him, breathing heavily, and slide your hands down to his lower back. He falters from the feeling of your possessive tug, so you raise your hips to meet his next downward thrust. He’s holding back — you can tell. His brows are upturned, eyes squeezed shut — all of his features twisted up in concentration. It’s sort of cute how courteous he is, but you’re determined to whittle him down to the shape of his desires. 

“Sam,” you breathe, “you’re thinking too hard.”

Sam opens his eyes. His expression is still a little tense, his pace still dreadfully polite. He swallows harshly, fingers twitching against the bunched up bedsheets beneath your head. 

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he manages to say, cheeks burning. 

You tip your head at an angle, staring up at him with a fond, lightly exasperated expression. “You won’t,” you assure him. “Please, Sam. Don’t make me beg. It’s not really my thing.” 

He huffs out a flustered laugh, always so easily amused by you. He leans down to steal a kiss from you, sucking in a breath and offering a dangerously deep roll of his hips. Your hands tighten your grip on his back, pulling him closer still, and he groans into your mouth. With renewed confidence, Sam tips in to his own needs, thrusting harder, making the bed shake. 

It’s not enough, not for either of you. Sam pulls out, letting his hard, leaking cock spring back against his navel. Before you can complain or ask questions, Sam turns you on your side, laying behind you. He slides one large hand between your legs, gripping your inner thigh and lifting it up. He spreads you out, using that same hand to guide the head of his cock back inside you. The tight drag of his cock through your walls — every vein and ridge — is delicious. His hand quickly returns to hold your thigh up, and he takes you from behind, groaning against the back of your neck. 

The angle has Sam dizzy with want, possessing him to finally stop giving a fuck and take you the way he’s always dreamed of. He spreads you out, rocking into you viciously, punched-out moans filtering past your parted lips. He kisses behind your ear, digging his hand into the meat of your thigh while the other keeps him upright on the mattress. Underneath you, the bedsprings squeak and strain, and the heat in the dingy motel room nears a boiling point. 

Sam feels his orgasm coming before he has the sense to warn you. It’s a wonder how he even managed to make it this far, given how close he was just listening to you on the phone — but now he’s about to cum inside you if he doesn’t get his shit together. He bucks his hips a few more times before beginning to reel back, carefully guiding himself out—

“Don’t,” you say quickly, reaching down to catch his wrist against your thigh. “It’s okay. Don’t move.”

If Sam could, he’d probably marry you on the spot.

Sam bucks his hips forward, sharper than before, and you gasp. He hangs his head, pressing his nose against your neck and panting like a dog. Damp skin slaps together as he nears his release. Sam can feel how you squeeze around his cock, and if your desperate whines are any indication, you must be close, too. 

Pushing himself up, Sam moves to hover over you, keeping you on your side. The hand on your thigh slides up to the back of your knee, bending it as he fucks into you at an angle. You moan, close to drooling against the damn pillow as he drives you into the mattress; his own sounds grow louder, unkempt and unashamed, until Sam feels his balls tighten. He groans aloud, his free hand practically tearing a hole in the sheets as he cums inside you. His release is hot and thick, filling you to the brim.

The heat that fills you is almost enough to have you tumbling over the edge yourself. Sam is still thrusting into you, hand flying to your clit to massage it with tight circles. You choke on a moan, cheek buried in the pillow as your walls suck him in one last time, squeezing tight, before bursting open with your release. Sam lets out a shuddering breath, watching you whimper and tremble beneath his weight. His hand leaves your clit, moving back to your thigh; he squeezes it lightly, staying inside you until your breathing evens out. 

Sam finally slides out of you, moving to lay by your side. You roll onto your back, shoulder to shoulder with him. His skin is warm and sticky from sweat, blotched red from his flush. Sam stares at the ceiling for a good, long while, as if expecting your body to float up and be set aflame at any moment. 

But nothing happens. No demons, no fires, no mercy killings, no death. He turns his head to look at you, and you’re still right where you were minutes ago. Sensing his stare, you loll your head to the side, opening your eyes to find him already looking at you. Relief tugs at the corners of his mouth, his expression melting into its usual boyish tenderness. You squint at him, a smile of your own steadily growing. 

“You look happy,” you muse. “Proud of yourself?”

He snickers, searching your expression. “Something like that,” he rasps. There’s not a hint of regret to be found. He lays on his side, draping an arm across your waist to pull you in. You sidle up to him without hesitation, caressing his forearm affectionately. How many months had you spent hoping for this? Praying you could get even a smidgeon of courage to get close to him? If this is a dream, you’d be a fool to pinch yourself awake.

Sam’s cell phone starts ringing, startling you both from the peaceful silence, and — with a disgruntled sigh — Sam rolls over to fish for his phone on the floor beside the bed. He sits on the edge of the mattress and flicks it open with his thumb, pressing it to his ear. 

“Hey,” Dean greets from the other line, sounding mysteriously serious. “Have you gotten laid yet?” 

Sam blanches, staring at his phone as if his brother might be able to sense the glare Sam is trying to send his way. “What? Why would you—?”

“So you did,” Dean says proudly. “I have a sixth sense for these things, man. Forward my congratulations or whatever. I’ll let you have some extra alone time, you seem like the girly pillow talk type.”

“Dean—”

“Deuces, brother.” 

Dean abruptly hangs up. You sit up in bed, the sheets rumpled beneath your form. With a wrinkled nose, you lean towards Sam. 

“He knows, doesn’t he?” 

Sam sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. He tosses his phone on the nightstand, nodding gravely. “Apparently.”

You click your tongue, rolling your eyes. “Figures,” you mutter. “He has a sixth sense for these things.” Sam is still sitting on the edge of the bed, his back turned to you. With a low, thoughtful hum, you shimmy closer to him, laying a hand against the ridges of his spine, propping your chin up on his shoulder. “I mean, if he already knows, we could always go again. While we have time and all.”

He freezes, a renewed blush covering him from head to toe. Sam releases a wheezy laugh, running a hand through his hair and glancing your way. Your eyes are sparkling, mischievous and wanting. Sam is a weak, weak man — he turns to face you again, his confidence returning like the tide. 

“Yeah? You want to?” He asks, already climbing on top of you. 

Falling back against the sheets, you laugh, tossing your arms around his neck. “I want you to.”

> masterlist. > main.

“Well, Amy, it’s not getting better.” Mike, with his hundred-dollar haircut and his pinstripe tie, smiled at the camera like he wasn’t reporting on the doom of America. Hughie ran his fingers through his own hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a cut at all. “Vought’s certainly pouring everything they have into this defense, but that’s exactly what we expected. Homelander isn’t just their hero, he’s their money-maker. I mean, over the past fifteen years, have you been able to even hear the word ‘Vought’ without thinking of Homelander right after?” Mike laughed. “I didn’t think so.”

“They got anything new?” MM materialized on the sofa arm, and Hughie yelped.

“Holy- How are you so quiet-“

“I move like the wind, Hughie. I’m one with the sky, sky’s one with me.”

Hughie blinked. “Really?”

“No.” MM jerked his head at the TV. “News?”

“Right, I- Sorry.” Hughie looked back to Amy and Mike, both smiling so wide it must’ve hurt their faces. “Amy, she- She says there are rumors. About a new witness.”

MM’s jaw tightened. “Our side, or theirs?”

“They don’t know yet.”

“Shit,” MM ran a hand over his face, glaring at the TV. “Well, you text me when you know. Our best hope is that it’s just another fuckin’ Homelander fanatic, they discredit him to the jury, just- Getting up on that stand and kissing his ass and being useless.”

Hughie nodded. His chest felt hollow. “Or it doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “Because all of our guys are just- Starlighters. Doing the same thing.” He glanced up nervously, meeting MM’s sharp gaze. “I mean- To them. I don’t think our guys are the same, but- You know.”

For a second, they just started at each other. MM looked back to the TV. His lips pressed in a thin line.

“Yeah. I know.” MM stood back up, giving Hughie that half-smile none of them ever had energy to back up in their voices. “Text me.”

“Yeah, I- I will.” 

MM grunted, and wandered away. Hughie looked back to the TV, but they’d moved on to banter about Amy’s new porch. Her husband was building it for her. Their dog liked the darker wood they’d chosen, for sunbathing. Amy was laughing about it now, but she’d get frustrated with something about the development soon. Just like with the kitchen renovation. Hughie knew the anchors pretty well, by now. It was what happened, when their voices basically lived full-time in his house.

“Amy is talking about her kitchen again?” Frenchie slid next to him, and Hughie bit his tongue. He needed to stop jumping.

“Actually, it’s the porch now.”

“Ah. Are they using a smoothed wood, or a-“

“I- I don’t know. It’s dark.”

“Oak, or cherry, or-“

“Frenchie. I don’t know.”

Frenchie shrugged it off, leaning further back in the couch. Hughie coughed, settling back into the cushions, his hands braced on his knees. Better, he supposed, to lose it a little at Frenchie. He never let it stick anyways.

The TV kept playing. Kimiko moved to sit near Frenchie’s feet, and Annie came out of the bathroom to perch at Hughie’s side. She ran her fingers through his hair in a silent greeting, and Hughie offered her a small smile. She returned it, something that had been heavy over her features softening. He grabbed her hand, and she squeezed it in return.

“Where’s-“

“I don’t know.”

Annie glanced back to the door. “Do you think he’s-“

“Yeah. Probably,” Hughie sighed, and he knew it didn’t matter, but he looked anyway. Save for them at the couch, and MM at his desk, it was all quiet. No press outside, like at their apartment. No Mallory pacing, or blaring phone calls just so Singer could yell at them for being useless.

No Butcher.

They hadn’t seen him in a day or two, but that wasn’t anything new. Not over the past few months. Hughie rolled out of bed, and people were already yelling at him for a comment about the trial. He got to work and MM clapped him on the shoulder and Kimiko smiled at him and gave him coffee and when he asked where Butcher was, everyone went quiet. He went through the day, and people yelled at him about not finding the thing. The one that would bring Homelander down, no space for Vought paying their way around it, no excuses. Just death, or downfall. He got home, another day with nothing in his hands but a phone he was afraid to look at, and the silence yelled at him for not doing more.

“He’s obsessed,” Annie murmured. “I’m worried about him.”

Hughie gave her a half-amused look. “You’re worried? About- Butcher?”

Annie sighed. “It’s- I don’t like him, but- He’s still a person.”

“He is a person,” Frenchie said, not looking away from the TV. “An obsessive, angry, bastard of a person.”

Kimiko gestured something, and Frenchie hummed an agreement.

“She says he is so far into his own arse, he will not see when the answer walks right,” Frenchie whistled, mocking a walk with his fingers. “In front of him. And I agree.”

Hughie gave them an incredulous look, but couldn’t seem to find an agreement that didn’t taste like sandpaper. Butcher had been obsessive, ever since Maeve told him that thing about the supe. She’d claimed—at least to Butcher, who was never the most reliable source—that it wouldn’t be like Soldier Boy. This supe would be stronger than Homelander, more willing to fight him, and easier to control. Hughie, privately, thought Soldier Boy had been all those things, except maybe the stronger than Homelander part. He’d been close, though. Close enough that it didn’t matter. But all they’d had to do was wave some weed and burgers under his nose, and he’d listened. He’d even ended up being so willing to fight Homelander, it was a problem. That’s how they’d lost.

Butcher said this supe—the Anomaly—wouldn’t lose.

“She’s gonna see it like I see it,” he’d said, smiling with teeth and a glint in his eyes. “And we’re gonna kill ‘im, once and for all.”

They’d all looked at each other, worried and silent. Killing Homelander wouldn’t fix everything. Another supe never fixed anything. But that didn’t stop Butcher. They still hadn’t found something that could.

“This just in,” Amy told the camera. “New poll numbers show that 37% of the American public believe Vought, that Homelander acted in self-defense. 43% favor some form of guilty charge, although the split among their answered varied from the death penalty, to a hundred dollar fine. 20% remain unsure, and are waiting to hear more evidence as it’s presented.”

“Thirty-seven.” Hughie breathed. “That’s- There are videos, of him lasering that guy in half! People can’t actually believe this, can they?!”

MM grunted, setting down his gun on the desk. “Yes, they can.”

Hughie swallowed, and Annie’s grip on his hand tightened. This was their last shot. The last way to do it right, clean and easy, before- 

He could still hear the crackle of wires and cracks of bone, from Vought Tower. It was one of the many things, he still heard, when it was a little too quiet. He didn’t want to hear anything like it, for the rest of his life. If this didn’t work, he didn’t see a world where that was the only kind of sound he heard, ever again.

The door cracked open, and their heads all shot up.

“Mornin’ cunts!” Butcher walked into the office, holding a big paper bag that was either bagels, or a bomb. “Anyone put the coffee on yet?”

“It’s 2pm, Butcher,” MM said, hands fisting on the desk. “Where the hell have you been.”

“Out. Around. Under, just a tad. Bagel?”

MM’s face didn’t turn any less sour, but he paused. “You got-“

“Cinnamon raisin and schmear. Fuckin’ disgusting, but only the best for my best.”

MM grunted, and took the bagel. Butcher smiled, smug and pleased with it, and turned to the rest of them on the couch.

“Bloody hell, you lot ain’t moved since I left-“

“We’re watching the trial,” Hughie said, scanning over Butcher for any bullet wound or serration. He always tended to come back with those and not say anything. “What have you been doing?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Butcher waved him off, and Hughie only worried more. “You got any progress, on trackin’ the Anomaly.”

Annie crossed her arms. “No. Because we haven’t been doing that.”

Butcher stiffened. The mock merriment stuttered and twisted on his face. “Why not. I fuckin’ told you-“

“You’re not my boss, Butcher-“

“I am now, sweetheart,” he tossed the bag off to the side, and Kimiko crawled over to poke around inside. “You want to come play cowboy, that’s the deal, though I done made myself clear-“

“You did,” Annie tipped her chin. “That doesn’t mean I have to agree.”

Butcher’s lip curled, and Annie’s hands fisted. Not again.

“We’re just not sure she’s real, Butcher.” Hughie tried, putting a hand on Annie’s knee. Silently begging her not to do anything, to rock the boat. “We’ve been looking- You’ve been looking- I mean, everywhere. There’s nothing. Not a trace.”

Butcher grunted. “Soldier Boy wasn’t supposed to be around and kickin’ either.”

“Well, that was Soldier Boy,” MM muttered. “And I’m glad he ain’t up anymore.”

“Of course you are glad,” Frenchie said, taking the bagel Kimiko passed him. “He killed your family.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“I am just saying, it makes sense that you are sensitive-“

“I am not sensitive, I just don’t like working with coked-up egomaniacs-“

“Did we give him coke?” Hughie frowned. “I don’t think we gave him coke.”

“I mighta given ‘im coke,” Butcher said, waving them off. “But that ain’t the point. This isn’t gonna be another Soldier Boy, MM. It’ll be different, I swear.”

 MM took a deep breath, leaning back in his seat and glaring at Butcher down the bridge of his nose. Hughie was never sure how he did that. The man was sitting down.

“It ain’t ever different, Butcher.”

“But it will be. This time.”

MM shook his head. “We need other options-“

“No- No.” Butcher’s mouth worked, his body getting loose the way Hughie saw predators relax on the Nature channel. Like he was going to pounce. “We ain’t got the time. Homelander’s out there, right now, about to cheat the system in front of the whole world, and no one is liftin’ a damn finger to stop it. They won’t lift a finger when he wins either. It’s us, or nothing.”

“It’s never nothing-“

“It’s always nothin’, Starlight,” Butcher sneered. “So we find the Anomaly, we fuckin’ make her if we have to, but I ain’t walkin’ into the new regime without a weapon to tear it apart.”

None of them had an answer. There was never, really, a good thing to say. Butcher was right, and wrong, and they’d been in this cycle for three years, and Hughie was getting tired. Annie got him the bagel. Plain, with blueberry cream cheese. He looked back to the TV, and Amy was talking about how she was worried her dog was eating the new wood. Nothing changed.

They really needed something to change.

Hughie wished that he had any clue, what the hell that was.

The clerk of court told the room to rise. Homelander stayed seated, his legs crossed and gaze fixed on his gloves. There was something gray there, on the leather, and no matter how he scrubbed at it, it wasn’t just going away. His face pushed down, and a pressure of heat built behind his eyes. It was unprofessional, noticeable, dirty-

“Homelander,” Ashley hissed. “Please stand up.”

Homelander rolled his eyes, but stood at the last second. This judge—balding, thin, wearing glasses for fucks sake—didn’t deserve his attention. None of these people did. Ashley’s little sigh of relief grated into his brain, the scribble of pencil and clack of typewriters made his skin itch, and everyone in this room was breathing so loudly. He could feel their eyes, trying to bore through him. Trying to see something he wasn’t going to offer them.

Guilt. Remorse. All those stupid buzzwords Ashley had been feeding him, since the trial started. He’d gotten out of interviews by just taking off whenever the trial was called for the day, but then there had been the helicopter. Trying to follow him around, a vulture, whirring blades and a grinding engine that he could cut through like butter if he wanted.

“Please,” Ashley begged every morning. “Nothing today.”

She said please too much. Looked at him with those beady little bug eyes and her bald head and always looked seconds from getting on her knees and kissing his boots. Pathetic.

But he didn’t do anything. He was being a good little show dog, smiling at the cameras and grinding his teeth to stop the shoot of lasers. Maybe they’d give him an ugly metal for it. He’d take it with a smile.

He always took everything with a smile.

Homelander sat back down, when the trial started back up again. They had another one of his supporters on the stand—Vought lawyers, good for fucking something—and the testimony was going to be the exact same as the last one. The Starlighter assaulted Ryan. Homelander dealt with it. Self-defense, protecting a little boy from a crazed, anti-American revolutionary. Homelander didn’t bother to listen to it. It was hollow, all of this was fucking hollow. Everyone in this courtroom should be rising for him. He should be the only witness they needed, he should just take the stand and tell the judge he was innocent, and this would all be over. No more trial of the century bullshit. He wasn’t even on real trial, he was playing dollhouse to please the Vought Board, he was a fucking puppet again and this piece of dirt wouldn’t get off his fucking glove-

The gavel banged, cleaving through the ringing in his ears, and Homelander looked up. It was over. The judge was walking off. Finally. That had taken a million years.

He stood up, rolling his shoulders and starting for the exit, and Ashley’s head shot up from her phone.

“Sir- Homelander, just- Sir, please wait-“

“Stop saying please, Ashley,” he called, not looking back. “Follow me or keep making out with your little fucking phone.”

He heard the scramble of boots and fabric. Ashley was shoving away her phone and following him. Homelander rolled his eyes. Kissass.

“Sir, we have a meeting with the lawyers-“

“No, you have a meeting with the lawyers.” He smiled at the reporters, bowing his head. They all started barking and shouting, like starved fucking wolves in a cage. Homelander didn’t let his plastered smile drop from his face. “I am going home. Back to my son.”

“Your- Ryan is at school, sir-“

“Then I’ll take him out of school.”

“Of- Of course, but-“ Ashley tripped over the ledge of the door, boots clacking on the wooden floor. “If you could just- Do the meeting, then take him out of school-“

“I don’t need to do the meeting.”

“I- I know that. But- Sir, the Board would really feel better if I could reassure them that you’re sticking to the plan-“

“The plan?” Homelander spat, whipping in a circle.

Ashley scrambled back, steadying herself on a water fountain. Homelander braced his hands on his hips, taking a deep breath through his nose. He wouldn’t kill her. Not here. The floor was too polished, it would be a waste.

“Ashley,” he said slowly. Controlled. Nicely. “I do not care about the plan.”

“I- I know, but-“

“Shh.” He held a finger up to his lips. “I’m talking right now.”

Ashley nodded, her heart racing so fast it might burst. Homelander’s lip curled. Maybe it would drop right to her stomach, and she’d finally grow something fucking balls.

“I am not going to that meeting. You are going to go for me, and anything actually important, you will tell me about immediately. But anything else, anything stupid or- Or anything? I do not care.”

Ashley swallowed, and nodded. Her jaw worked. Homelander rolled his eyes.

“Speak.”

“The Deep is taking the stand!” She blurted. “Tomorrow. This is a strategy meeting for that, they- They want him to be a character witness-“

“For me?” Homelander scoffed. “Tell them I don’t need a character witness. My character is the only thing keeping this fucking shit-show afloat, Ashley, and- Actually, tell me who thinks it isn’t.” He nodded to himself. “They should know better. You should know better.”

Everyone should know better. He was Vought, the Tower was his tower, this trial was more a test of who he was going to slice in half by the end of it. The people who’d doubted. Who’d thought he could possibly ever fucking lose.

“And tell them I want to testify,” he added, waving a hand at Ashley’s frozen body. “We can just get it over with.”

“O- Over with?” Ashley blinked. “Sir, you- You can’t rush justice- Not that it’s justice you’re going to lose, but- We have to do it the right way-“

“No, you have to do it the right way. I do it whatever fucking way I want.”

He turned again, making his way towards the doors. Ashley followed. She always did. Sometimes, Homelander wondered if one of his powers had secretly always been keeping women on a leash.

It wasn’t. His mouth ticked, a chill pushing through his spine. If it was, you wouldn’t have lost her.

He didn’t lose her. She died. Big difference. He would’ve saved her, if Butcher and his team and Soldier Boy hadn’t been pulling him in fifty different directions. They killed her. They killed her.

“Tell me if we have anything on Butcher, too,” he called back to Ashley, shoving open the courtroom door. “And tell the Deep that if he wants to testify, he better not mention a single fucking tentacle or fish, or I’ll cut off his dick and feed it to his fuckbuddy sharks.”

The crowd roared at the sight of him. Cameras flashed, people reached over the barricade to try and touch him, Starlighters booed but he didn’t let it make anything but his jaw twitch. They’d be set right soon. They’d see. Everyone always fucking saw, that he wasn’t the problem, he was the solution. They’d fucking see.

He glanced at his glove. The smudge was still there. He tucked his arm behind his back.

“Go- Got it- Sharks and- Butcher, and-“ Ashley stopped next to him, panting and sweating and smelling horrible. “Sir, I really would appreciate it if you could just come to this one meeting-“

“It’s not just this one meeting, Ashley! It’s this one, then another, then another,” Homelander said through his toothy smile, waving his clean hand at the crowd. “I’m not doing it.”

“But-“

“But?”

He gave her a sharp look, and she balked immediately. His nose twitched, and he looked back to the crowd.

“Please let us try and handle this,” she whispered. Homelander could fucking taste her fear. “The Deep- I know he’s stupid, but people love him for- some reason.” She took a long inhale, inching closer. Homelander considered swatting her like a fly. “If we get even a whiff that our way isn’t working, I’ll tell them you’re going on the stand, but- But-“

Don’t fucking say it.

“Please,” Ashley breathed. “You’re doing perfect, sir. You have enough on your plate. We can finish this, for you.”

Homelander shot her a look. She was flushed and pale, her wig starting to get askew, her eyes wide and flicking over his face, like he was some bomb she expected to go off.

He did have enough on his plate. He had more than they could possibly imagine. The world was a heavy thing, to carry, even with all his strength.

He didn’t bother to give Ashley an answer. She wasn’t worthy of any more words. He took off into the sky, leaving the roaring crowd behind and getting high enough that they couldn’t be heard.

The world was even bigger, that humans were able to fathom. But he could fathom it. He could see from the ocean to the deep woods, he could look over all of it and understand exactly what it needed. What all those people, smaller than ants, deserved. He was the judge. He was the jury. This trial wouldn’t matter, when they all saw that.

And everyone was going to see it.

And if they didn’t, well.

Ants were quite easy, to be stomped under larger feet.

There it was. That pretty woosh of air, that was William Butcher’s favorite sound in the world. It meant Homelander was out there. Meant he was close, and too stupid and arrogant to think to look down. He was going to cherish it, that last time he heard the sound. When it was a fall right into the ugly mud with the rest of them, and there was nothing to catch him. No one who cared enough to try. Just Butcher, waiting. Ready.

He’d be ready. He was always ready. And if Homelander looked down, he’d see it. Butcher would smile. He always smiled, when he thought of Homelander’s ugly face marred and bloody and twisted in pain.

One day.

One day he’d smile, and Homelander would be too fucking dead to smile back.

“We’re clear,” he jerked his head to MM and Kimiko, waiting behind him in the ally. “Let’s move it, cunts.”

Kimiko rolled her eyes, and marched past him with her tongue sticking out. Butcher made a face at the back of her head, and MM sighed.

“Y’know, maybe if you said please every once in a fuckin’ while-“

“Please is for schoolgirls and alter boys, Mate. You waitin’ for one, be my guest. I hear they got supe patrolin’ the alleys, take your chances with them.”

MM glared at him, and Butcher laughed. He clapped him on the shoulder, spun his crowbar in his hand, and walked after Kimiko. They stuck to the walls, as they slipped past the crowd outside the courthouse. Bunch of braindead sheep, screaming about the glory of their great leader and his fun little cape. Whatever kind of happy pills they were taking, to make them that fucking stupid, Butcher wanted one. What he wouldn’t give, to have an empty head and smile on his face.

“Hughie givin’ you anything on that new witness?” He muttered to MM, sighing when he shook his head. “The fuck’s the point of sittin’ in front of the box all day, if they ain’t gonna figure anythin’ out-“

“They’re worried, Butcher,” MM said flatly. “Hell, I’m worried. There’s no way this trial is clean, and if he wins-“

“He’s gonna win, MM. Don’t worry your pretty head ‘bout that.”

MM scowled, and Butcher held up a hand for silence. They were getting close to the backdoor. If they were going in and out, they had to be quiet. Vought got word they were sneaking around their computers, they’d get their heads mounted in Times Square like it was London fucking Bridge.

“I’m not worried,” MM hissed. “Hughie’s right, there’s video, this should be cut and fucking clean-“

“Never is, though. You know better than to think anythin’ else.” Butcher glanced down the alley to Kimiko, typing some shit on her phone. “Oi!”

She flipped him off, not looking up. Butcher shot MM an exasperated look, and only got a the fuck am I supposed to do about it shrug in return.

“You wanna give us a fuckin’ hand?” He called again, and Kimiko huffed, tucking her phone back in her jacket.

She marched over, kicked the door open, and gave Butcher one of those you’re welcome, dickhead looks. Butcher smirked in return.

“You textin’ Frenchie? Tellin’ him all about you day?”

Kimiko’s nose wrinkled in disgust, and she walked through the door without another look back. She was lucky she was useful, and more amusing than Butcher would ever admit. One of the better ones. A good tool, willing to do what it took.

She’d scored some extra favor, by agreeing to this. Butcher had been sure he was heading in alone, but MM had muttered something about not having the time to attend a funeral, and Kimiko had—according to Frenchie, although Butcher was pretty fucking sure that sometimes the man just lied about what she was saying—been open to looking for the Anomaly.

“She’d like to find someone, stronger than Homelander. And a woman,” Frenchie had smiled. “Girl power, no?”

Kimiko had signed something else, and Frenchie had nodded.

“She is hoping this one isn’t a Nazi.”

Butcher was hoping that too. Stormfront had been a pain in the ass to deal with. Whatever the Anomaly was, she’d have to be easier. Butcher imagined some angry cunt like Maeve, all teeth and sharp smiles and fisted hands. He’d tell her to get Homelander, and she would without blinking. Hell, even if she did have some psycho tendencies, all the better. More willing. Easier to control. 

Soldier Boy had been too far up his own little dick, to listen. That had been Butcher’s mistake, last time. Getting involved with someone who was self-righteous. The Anomaly wouldn’t be.

She better fucking not be. Or Butcher was going to have another Supe to kill, and the Boys were going give him their sad we told you so puppy faces. They were all already running around the city, trying something stupid and soft and downright fucking foolish. Talking about their feelings, thinking if they said please and got on their knees, someone would listen. They should know better by now. No one ever listened. If something was going to change, they had to do it with their own two, doomed, blood-caked hands.

“Butcher,” MM hissed behind him. “You’re tracking mud on the fucking floor-“

“They got maids to clean it up,” Butcher shrugged, and MM sighed, all dramatic and loud.

“You’re leaving tracks, asshole.”

Ah. Butcher looked over his shoulder, and he had, in fact, left a clean map of where he was walking. Oops.

He smiled at MM, though. No weakness. Everything was part of the plan, and when it wasn’t, yes, it was. “Then we better move fuckin’ fast, eh?”

MM looked like he was going to sock him, but he looked like that most days. It hadn’t bothered Butcher in years.

“You wanna kiss me, or keep your eye on the prize?”

MM shook his head, shouldering past him into. “You’re such a fucking dick.”

“Aww. Hurtin’ my feelings, mate. Here I was, thinkin’ we were about to go steady.”

MM ignored him, and Butcher laughed. That had always been something he loved about the man. The mission got done, dicking and twirling around or not.

Vought lawyers were just as arrogant as the people that paid them. They used public Wi-Fi, left their laptops unattended while they got coffee, and didn’t sweep their fancy meeting rooms for bugs. It wasn’t that hard to plant something that—if Hughie had done his job—would let them poke around in some poor cunt’s drive for the files they needed.

“I still think we should just ask Mallory for the Supe records,” MM muttered. “Vought has to register all of them, like guns-“

“And like guns, a few always slip between their tight little cracks.” Butcher examined the table. All it’s leather briefcases and sleek computers and-

He smirked. He was getting lucky today.

“That one,” he nodded to the head of the table. The computer with the Vought logo and ugly striped blazer over the back of the seat. “Put it in that one.”

Kimiko nodded, pulling the drive out of her pocket, and MM frowned.

“Butcher-“

“Vought logo. Ain’t a contractor.” Butcher shoved his hands in his pockets. “More than just a couple fuckin’ emails on that thing.”

MM sighed, but when Kimiko gave him a questioning look, he nodded. “Just- Do it.”

Butcher grinned, leaning out the door. It was quiet. Everyone was still out on the lawn, simpering and fawning over Vought.

“You think you’ll look for Ryan?”

Butcher’s head whipped back around. MM was staring at him, arms crossed over his chest, and Butcher narrowed his eyes. “Fuck you on about.”

“Ryan-“

“What about ‘im?”

MM shrugged, not even blinking. “That computer might have something on him.”

“Something on ‘im?” Butcher scoffed. “What, you think we’re gonna fuckin’ try to off him or something?”

“Jesus, Butcher, no-“

“I ain’t pokin’ around for info on the lad. He wants to talk, he can fly, just like his daddy.”

MM gave him one of those tired, almost pitying looks. Butcher tolerated them, from Hughie. From anyone else, he was seconds from throwing a punch.

“You got something you wanna say to me?” He spat, and MM just shook his head.

“Nope. Not a thing.”

Butcher grunted, looking back to the hall. This wasn’t therapy. Ryan had gone with Homelander. That had been his fucking choice, and Butcher wasn’t about to drag the kid back by his ear. Wasn’t even his fucking kid. It was Becca’s. Becca’s boy. No blood. Nothing to pull him back.

Just his smile. Always looked more like Becca’s than Homelanders. He’d talked like Becca, too. Laughed like Becca. Liked the same cereal and bounced on his feet like she used to.

He’d made a promise. Wasn’t much good, a promise did a dead person. He didn’t even have the means to protect Ryan. The boy wouldn’t be safe until he was away from Homelander. This was what would get Ryan safe. Ending this, once and for all.

Shoes sounded down the hall. MM stiffened, and Butcher looked to Kimiko.

“You think you wanna hurry it up, before we get turned into lawyer chow?”

Kimiko closed the laptop, stuck her tongue out at him, and gave MM a thumbs up.

“Done?” He said, clapping his hands when she nodded. “Alright. Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

 They walked out, but Butcher lingered. He looked at the crowbar in his hands. Heard his heartbeat in his ears, mixing in time with the clack of expensive heels and loafers. They could play spy, or he could just get what he needed out of their big mouths, quick and easy, bloody and fast-

“Butcher.” MM hissed. “Move.”

Butcher grit his jaw, and moved. He’d play nice, until they all realized what he already knew. What he’d known from the start.

This ended one way. This elevator only went down, and Butcher was already at the bottom. Waiting for them to catch up. Ready.

When he finally had his supe, to get Homelander on his knees, he was going to be fucking ready, whether he clawed out of the pit after or not.

Homelander pulled Ryan out of school. It wasn’t really school anyways, just some tutoring thing Vought had arranged. Homelander had thought about pushing against it—he’d never gone to any kind of school, and he’d turned out perfect—but Ryan had asked him not to. Something about liking learning, which was boring, and strange, but Homelander would allow it for now. He’d just spent too much time with his mother speaking Spanish and reading books. He’d grow out of it, once he was shown the better way. The good way.

“I got us ice cream,” he announced, pushing through the doors of his apartment. “And I got you a new ga ming… thingy.”

He swept a hand to the console he’d had marketing drop off. Ryan blinked at it, then Homelander.

“It’s a Voughtbox.” He prompted, when Ryan just kept staring at him. “Voughtbox six. It has more games and- Shiny buttons, and- I don’t fucking know. It’s the new one.”

Ryan nodded slowly, shifting in that nervous way Homelander was trying to work out of him. They weren’t babyish mortals who needed to be nervous. The Sun didn’t get nervous about the Earth. It didn’t even think about the Earth. And when the Earth got to cocky and close, the Sun would just fucking eat it.

Homelander opened his mouth to share that bit of wisdom—he was good at it, maybe he should write book—when Ryan finally managed to remember how to speak.

“Does it have a Kindle function?”

“A- What?!”

“Kindle. Or- Any e-book.” Ryan looked down to his shoes. “All my books are just- Vought stories now. I miss reading.”

“Books.” Homelander muttered, his jaw twitching. “You- You want books. All the things in the world in this tower and you want a book.”

“I- I’m sorry-“

“Don’t.” He pointed at Ryan firmly. “Say sorry. We don’t say sorry. We,” he gestured between them. “Are never sorry for anything. You- You want books, you get books. My son gets whatever he wants, even-“ His nose wrinkled, his voice dropping under his breath. “Weird, nerdy things.”

“Oh- Okay.” Ryan’s ears turned red, but a smile pulled on his face. “Thank you, Dad.”

Homelander’s shoulder relaxed. Dad. That was right. He was a father. He had to be patient, because that’s what parents did. Probably. He was working it out, but whatever his instinct was would end up being the right call. He’d thought about what he’d want from a father his whole life. It had prepared him for this. For being exactly what Ryan needed.

The only thing that was missing was a mother, but he’d tried. He’d really fucking tried, to bring Ryan a good, self-respecting, sweet mother. It would’ve been perfect.  

They’d be fine on their own. Homelander would mourn, and Ryan would never have to know what they’d lost. He still had a father. A good father. Was more than Homelander had ever gotten, so he should be fucking grateful.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “You are very welcome, Ryan. Let’s- Ice cream.”

 He clapped his hands together, and turned for the freezer. Ryan liked ice cream. At least that part of him wasn’t awkward and fucking weird.

“You going to open the Voughtbox?” Homelander asked while they ate. “I heard it has Hero-Fighter 5000.”

Ryan frowned. “What’s Hero-Fighter 5000?”

“I don’t know. I never played it,” Homelander shrugged. “I just remember that they made me do voices, for my character.”

Ryan’s eyes widened. “You have a character? In the game?”

“I have a character in every game.”

“That’s so cool.”

Homelander’s mouth ticked up, and he hummed in approval. Ryan smiled at him, with big, blue eyes. His eyes. Ryan was his son, of course he understood that was cool. Maybe Ryan was finally starting to see, how amazing and perfect their lives were when the ants didn’t get brave and bite at their ankles-

“Dad?” Ryan poked at his ice cream with his spoon. “Can I ask you something? Please?”

Homelander leaned back in his seat. “Of course. Anything, son.”

Ryan smiled again, a little smaller. Homelander returned it, raising his brows in question, and Ryan cleared his throat.

“What was my- My mom like? When you knew her?”

Homelander hand curled into a fist. He kept fucking asking this. Poking around it, trying to get Homelander to reminisce about some sort of love story that had never existed. As a woman, Becca Butcher had been next to nothing. Pretty and feisty and there. As a lover, Homelander had wanted her, and he’d gotten what he wanted, and it hadn’t even been that good. He hadn’t even thought about her again, until Butcher showed up, getting loud and dramatic about everything. As a mother, she’d been annoying, and breeding his son to be weak.

He’d never loved her. Ryan wanted him to have, though, he could see it in that soft, gooey part of the kids face that was still too human. He’d hoped Stormfront would’ve helped him understand that gods loved gods, before she’d been burnt to a crisp. But Homelander hadn’t loved Stormfront either. Not really. She’d been too much like Stillwell. Tricking him. Trying to control him.  

Homelander had only loved one woman. And she was gone.  

“Dad?” Ryan said softly, and Homelander blinked.

“What- Becca?” He laughed, loud and sharp. “Oh, we didn’t really know each other. Not really. I had fun- We both had fun,” he said quickly, at the confused look on Ryan’s face. “And of course she- She meant something to me. She gave me you,” he grabbed Ryan’s hand over the table, smiling wide. “And that is all that really matters.”

Ryan’s throat bobbed. He looked to Homelander’s hand over his, and slowly held it back. Homelander’s smile widened.

Progress-

“So you didn’t- Love her?” Ryan whispers, and Homelander jaw ticked. “Not like- Like Butcher-“

“Butcher doesn’t know how to love anything,” Homelander spat. “Not you, not heroes, certainly not a- a woman. The woman I loved, he never could’ve-“

“The woman you loved?” Ryan cut him off, and Homelander went rigid.

 There was a ringing in his ears. A loud, loud ringing that was turning into slow music. There was a sweet smell and glowing haze, sharp eyes that fawned and batted and the coyest, prettiest smile he’d ever seen. Hair blowing in the wind and a shy, endearing bow of a slender neck. It fit like it was meant to be in his hand. Her voice blended with the music. She fought him before getting on her knees, then watched him like he was the only star in the sky as he grinned down at her.  

The counter cracked. Homelander’s fist had gone right through it.

Ryan winced and leaned back, but Homelander yanked him forward with their hands locked together.

“Let’s play Hero-Fighter 5000,” he said firmly. “Now.”

Ryan nodded, and Homelander smiled. He guided them to the couch, never letting go of his sons elbow.

He wasn’t going to let anyone else go.

“I’ve known Homelander forever, bro.” The Deep stuck out his chest, grinning around the courtroom. “Give me that Bible back, I’ll swear on it again-“

“That is not how it works, Mr. Moskowitz,” the Judge said. “As we have told you, many times.”

“Well, I’ve told you not to call me that, and you keep doing it anyways-“

“It is your name, in the eyes of the law. Please answer Mr. Goodman’s question.”

“Ugh.” The Deep rolled his eyes, looking back to the seedy, thin Vought lawyer in front of him. “What am I supposed to be answering again?”

A-Train slumped in his seat, fighting the sigh pushing up his throat. “Does Homelander have violent tendencies,” he said under his breath. “The question is does Homelander have violent fucking tendencies-“

“Stop muttering,” Ashley hissed, shoving his arm. “It’s rude.”

A-Train gave her a flat look. She still had that crazed, stiff look of focus, that she wore in meetings about new brand pitches and everyone’s various fuck ups. Like she wanted to tear out her how eyes but couldn’t bring herself to look away from the car crash. Like she thought the train barreling off the cliff might suddenly just grow wings and fly back to the track.

“You can’t seriously think this is working,” A-Train said, and she shot him a tight glare.

“I think he’s doing his best-“

“His best is shit-“

“Well it’s all we fucking have, okay? Unless you want to get up there and talk about how good and generous a person-"

“Ashley.” A-Train sat a little taller, glancing over his shoulder.

He wasn’t here. He’d fucked off to hang out with his kid, and he probably wasn’t going to be back for the day. He hated these things—more than the rest of them, probably, which was a real feat because they were soul-draining and mind numbing—and liked to leave everyone else to suffer through them without him. Even though it was his fault. A-Train hadn’t killed that Starlighter. He hadn’t even been around when it happened, and somehow he was the one stuck in this stupid courthouse, listening to the Deep test the limits of perjury.”

“We’re best friends,” he was telling the jury, that big, white-toothed smile on his face. “Homelander and I, we go way back-“

“We have established,” Goodman muttered, running a hand over his face. “That you and Homelander go way back. Could you please tell me if he has violent tendencies.”

“Right. Sorry, bro, I just-“ He waved a hand at his head. “I keep forgetting. Probably not sleeping enough, you know. I’ve been trying these melatonin gummies, but they might be the ones laced with weed- Not that I smoke weed,” he looked at the judge with wide eyes. “And- If I do- I’m not the one on trial right now-“

“Mr. Moskowitz,” Goodman snapped. “Does Homelander have violent tendencies.”

“Um….”

The Deep looked at Ashley. She shook her head frantically, turning it into fixing her hair when the judge followed the Deep’s gaze.

“No!” The Deep said confidently, and Ashley almost seemed to shudder in relief.

“Nice one,” A-Train muttered, and she flipped him off under the bench.

“Shut up,” she tugged her phone out of her pants pocket, eyeing the bailiff. She’d already been yelled at about phones in the courtroom five times.

“Where’s your blazer?” A-Train frowned. “I’ve never seen you without one, it’s like a- A naked turtle-“

“All turtles are naked, asshole,” she muttered. “I left it in the meeting room, it’s too hot in here, and- Where the fuck is Homelander? He was supposed to be back for this, a character witness doesn’t work if he’s not here, he has to show that they’re actually friends-“’

“They’re not actually friends.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t matter, he doesn’t even have to touch Deep, he just- He said he’d be here-“

“Ashley, it’s fine.” A-Train shrugged. It was actually pretty nice to not have Homelander here. The whole room didn’t feel like a bomb, about to go off. “We’re winning right now-“

“Are we?!” She hissed, voice rising to more than a whisper. “Are you sure we’re winning? Because we have to be sure we’re winning, we- We have to win- You don’t understand what happens if we don’t win-“

A-Train leaned back a little. She was spitting on him again. “Jesus, calm down-“

“No, you calm down-“

“We’re going to win, we always win-“

“Until we don’t,” Ashley hissed. “What the fuck happens when we don’t?”

A-Train blinked. He didn’t think about that, ever. It wasn’t something that needed to be thought about. That was one of the things that kept him here, even when everything felt like chains wrapping around his bones. They had the money, they had the people, they had everything. They always won. A few loud dissenters like Annie and Hughie and their little gang were nothing, compared to the might of the empire.

They had to win. That was just how it worked. So A-Train stayed on the winning side.

“I have to go get him,” Ashley muttered. “I- I have to. Stay here.”

She slipped out of the courtroom, and A-Train slumped back into his seat.

Stay here.

Like he had a fucking choice.

Hughie’s knee was bouncing. Annie put a gentle hand on it, and gave him a smile.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said softly, and Hughie nodded.

“Right- Right. It’s going to be fine.”

Annie wished, in the very delicate fibers of her heart, that either of them sounded convincing at all.

This plan wasn’t their best, but she’d learned after a few months of working with the Boys that when Hughie had sheepishly told her this plan isn’t our best, okay, he’d been a liar. These people didn’t have best and worst plans. They had plans that were either going to get them all killed, or plans that should get them all killed, but somehow didn’t.

Annie really hoped this was one of those last plans. Especially because she’d come up with it, and if she had to go back to Butcher with head down and Hughie’s limp body in her arms, she might as well just turn herself into Homelander.

She’d thought she’d be good at this. She thought that she’d come in and show them the right way to do things, and then they’d do them, and everything would go back to being fine. But everything was in shades of gray that she couldn’t turn white, and it was complicated and difficult and exhausting.

Which didn’t mean she’d give up. But she also wasn’t going to tell Butcher he was right. Giving up would come before that.

No one was worried enough, for Annie’s tastes. About Butcher’s infatuation with the Anomaly. At least with Soldier Boy, Annie had MM in her corner. But now he was off chasing ghosts, and she was stuck with Hughie and Frenchie.

Not stuck with. She loved Hughie, and Frenchie could be fun. She needed them both, if this was going to work. Just like they needed her, if it went sideways. Not that she’d be able to do much. 

“Do you think they’re going to find anything,” Hughie mumbled, eyeing the door. “Or- You know. Another dead end.”

Annie shrugged, letting out a slow breath. “I don’t know. I just- I hope that if she is real, Butcher’s right. And it’s different.”

Hughie gave her a confused look. “Different like…”

“Not like another weapon.”

“Oh.” Hughie nodded slowly. “You think she’ll be like- a pacifist or something? I- I don’t think supes are pacifist - You’re not a pacifist-“

“I’m careful.” Annie said smoothly. “And I don’t hurt people.”

Hughie hummed, and she squeezed his knee.

“It doesn’t matter, Hughie. This is going to work.”

Annie needed to practice her convincing voice in the mirror. She’d been so good at it, when she was lying to a camera. But Hughie, with his big, trusting, puppy eyes and affectionate smile, it was harder. She wondered sometimes, if he was disappointed in how bad a liar she was too. If he’d noticed how quiet and dim she’d been lately, and was getting sick of it. Getting sick of her.

“You’re right,” he squeezed her hand, and she felt a little sick. “It’s a good plan, Annie. It’ll work.”

Annie smiled, and it hurt her cheeks. Hughie had always been a much better liar.

“Any word from Butcher?” Hughie asked Frenchie, who hummed, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

“Non. Which is either very good, or-“

“Very, very bad.” Hughie ran a hand over his face. “Can you text MM? Make sure they haven’t- I don’t know. Been kidnapped?”

Frenchie nodded, pulling out his phone, right as Hughie’s buzzed.

“Oh- Shit,” he glanced up at Annie. “It’s her, I have to-“

“It’s okay. Go.”

Annie scooted back, making room for him to move past. Hughie kissed her cheek before he went, and Annie caught his arm.

“Be careful.”

“I will be.” Hughie smiled tightly. He shifted on his feet. “She won’t hurt me. I- She won’t.”

Annie nodded, and let him go. He was less convincing that time.

“MM says they’re still alive,” Frenchie told her, after a few minutes of the van being empty. Annie nodded, pressing her lips in a tight line.

The silence was sticky. It pressed on her chest and wound in her stomach, tighter than she knew how to handle. Frenchie had lit up a cigarette and opened the window, and she watched the smoke fade into nothing. Careless. Free. Must be nice.

“Why didn’t you go with them?” She asked Frenchie, and he tilted his head, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth. 

“Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t want to use Butcher’s weapon.”

“Ah. Wise.” Frenchie huffed, something close to amusement. “He is not good at controlling them, ever.”

Annie hummed in agreement, looking down at her shoes and pulling at the laces. Hughie was taking too long, maybe she should-

“I’d like less people,” Frenchie said suddenly. “To… Be hurt.” He met her gaze in the mirror, something tired in his voice that reached his eyes. “It is getting hard, isn’t it. To clean up all the blood.”

It was. A lot of things were getting very, very hard. 

“Do you miss it?” Frenchie asked. “Not knowing what a human bone looked like?”

Annie swallowed, and nodded. “Every day.”

Frenchie nodded, putting out his cigarette on the window, and the door swung open. 

“Sorry that took so long- Oh, Jesus.” Hughie pinched his nose, climbing back into the vehicle. “Frenchie, were you smoking in here again?”

“Non?”

“No-“ Hughie huffed, giving Frenchie an exasperated expression—hands on his hips and face loose—that made him look like a disappointed mother. “It’s still in your hand, dude.”

Frenchie flicked it out the window, and gave Hughie a winning smile. Hughie ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“You know what, whatever.” He stepped to the side. “I found her.”

Victoria Neuman rolled her eyes, stepping past him into the van. “Found me,” she scoffed. “He got lost. I found him.” She smiled at Annie. “Hey. Long time, no see. You guys- You’re always avoiding me. It’s actually pretty rude.”

Annnie returned the smile, and it felt cold on her face. “Sorry, we’ve been busy-“

“No, you haven’t been. You’re afraid, I get it- It’s just-“ She looked between Annie and Hughie with a long sigh. “You two. Of all people. I thought you’d get it.”

“Well, we- We didn’t-“ Hughie shot Annie a nervous look, and she gave him a what am I supposed to do look. She wasn’t friends with Neuman. Hughie was. He was the one who believed she’d be helpful.

Annie wondered sometimes, against her will, if Hughie would still believe in her if she turned into something darker than she was supposed to be. If his kindness and hope would extend to her, if she stopped being the light.

“Oh- We don’t have time for this. I’m on a schedule.” Neuman sat down on the van bench, then froze. She looked down at her hand, horror creeping over her face. “Is this sticky?”

“Um- Yeah.” Hughie grimaced. “Please don’t ask why, because I don’t know.”

Neuman blinked at him for a second, mouth open and brows knit. She looked at Annie, then Frenchie, and let out a sharp breath.

“Jesus,” she glanced over her shoulder, leaning slowly back. “You people- How are you still alive?”

“We’re not sure,” Hughie mumbled, fidgeting with his sleeves. “Listen, Vicki, we really appreciate you meeting with us-“

“Yeah, I know you do. You want to actually tell me what I’m doing here?”

Hughie looked at Annie, and she just nodded. Neuman wasn’t her friend.

“We were hoping,” Hughie said slowly. “That you might have something that could help us? With taking down Homelander?”

Neuman snorted. She grinned at him, then Annie, then paused. Her smile twitched down. She blinked, shook her head, and laughed again. “You- You’re fucking serious.”

“We’re at a dead end,” Annie said, leaning forward. “And we know it’s a big ask, but you know how dangerous he is-“

“Yeah, I know how dangerous he is!” Neuman’s voice raised to something harsh. “Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I’ve just- Had a way to kill him this whole time and just not used it?”

 Frenchie hummed, giving her a pointed look. “You did work with him, no? To send away your own father-“

“I didn’t have a choice,” Neuman snapped. “He- He was threatening my-“ She held up a hand, as if to physically stop herself. “You know what, no. I don’t have to explain myself to a bunch of- Unemployed idiots-“

“Technically we still work for the CIA-“

“Do you?!” Neuman rolled her eyes. “You could’ve fooled me, with how you’re dressed and- Smell, and-“ She looked around the van. “This.”

Hughie’s ears turned red. “Well, they- They’ve never really paid us a lot.”

“No shit. They must really value your services-“

“Vicki, please,” Annie said, pressing her hands together and trying not to balk under Neuman’s gaze. They were both supes. Annie was no less, than the shaper, cleaner woman across from her.

She needed to get better at lying to herself, too.

“We just need anything,” she tried to keep her voice steady. Like delivering lines. She was just delivering lines. “Anything you can give us at all, no matter how small. If you really want him gone, just- Just this once. Not for us,” she paused, watching Neuman carefully. “For Zoe.”

Neuman sat taller. A strange shadow crossed her face, and her fingers flexed on her phone. She sighed, looked up to the ceiling, and shook her head.

“You people are like- Like fucking ants,” she said. “You just- You keep coming back.”

“Oh,” Frenchie tipped his head. “That is good, I am going to use that-“

“Shut up.”

He swallowed, and nodded quickly. Neuman let out a slow breath, her tongue flicking over her lips, and a taut smile pushed at her lips.

“Tell you what,” she sat up, adjusting her coat. “I’ll give you a little snack to- To fucking choke or whatever, and you leave me alone. You leave my daughter alone, and you don’t tell anyone I told you. Deal?”

Annie’s throat was tight. She exchanged looks with Hughie and Frenchie, and got tiny, reluctant nods in return. What other choice did they have. Annie looked back to Neuman, opened her mouth, and-

“Can we tell Butcher?” Frenchie asked, frowning at the air. “And Kimiko, and-“

“Obviously you can fucking tell your team,” Neuman snapped. “It would be insane if you didn’t.”

Frenchie shrugged, slumping fully over his seat and raising his hands, palms up. “I was only checking. No need to pop any heads.”

Neuman’s eyes narrowed. Annie quickly cleared her throat.

“We won’t tell anyone else. We promise, just- Anything.”

Neuman’s mouth worked. She drummed her fingers, looking around like she was expecting cameras, and for a second, Annie thought she wasn’t going to say anything at all.

When she did speak, it was quiet. Slow. Careful.

“About three years ago,” she murmured. “Stan- He asked me to bury something. And I mean really bury it. Kill even the thought of an investigation, any kind of evidence, any story- All of it. Not a word, even in their own heads. That’s what he said.”

Hughie swallowed, crossing his arms. “What- Was it like flight 37? Or-“ He went pallid, as Neuman’s jaw tightened, her eyes getting almost sad. “What? Worse?”

“I- I don’t know.” Neuman sighed. “When he came to me, I expected that. I- I expected Herogasm, I was ready to clean up a massacre, a disaster, a- a fucking nightmare. But-“ She shook her head, her voice getting quieter. “It was just one girl.”

Silence hung in the van. The lump in Annie’s throat was like a rock, and it was sinking down to her stomach. None of them seemed brave enough to speak, even Frenchie’s mouth in a thin, worried line.

“Psyche Meyers,” Neuman breathed, brows knitting tight. “Twenty-four. Smart girl. PhD candidate, actually. Saw a picture- Pretty. Really pretty.”

The rock hit Annie’s gut, and the bile of her lunch was pushed up her throat.

“Official story- The one Stan gave me, to make official, was that she killed herself. And I- I don’t know what actually happened, he didn’t’ tell me, but-“ Neuman swallowed. “I know the night before she vanished- A few weeks before Stan came to me- She was at a Vought party. A few people- They saw him near her. And they won’t remember now, but if… If there’s anything…”

She trailed off, and Hughie swallowed, his words tight and choked.

“The trial. If Homelander, if- he-“ He looked to Annie. “That’s- If it is that, and we can prove it-“

“But that is what happened with Becca, no?” Frenchie cut in. “We could use Becca-“

“No,” Hughie shook his head. “Ryan. And- Butcher would never let us. But, this girl- Psyche?”

He looked to Neuman, and she shrugged. “I didn’t name her.”

Hughie sighed. “Well- That’s not my- Is she dead?”

“Legally? Completely.” Neuman straightened her jacket, moving to her feet. “But that’s all I know. The rest is-“ She smiled between them. “All you. Good luck. Try not to die.”

She smiled at Hughie, before she left. Nodded at Annie. 

But Annie’s head was spinning. Her vision was blurred, and she was still fighting that vomit. A girl. A dead girl. That was all Neuman could offer them. And Annie-

She wasn’t even shocked anymore. Just sick, and tired, and frozen.

She couldn’t bring herself to nod back.

When Butcher was angry, he got loud. Kimiko hated it. It was like the bark of the war dogs, right into her skull.

They’d been in this bathroom for almost two hours. MM was on his phone, watching the trial coverage with the subtitles. He’d turn it to Kimiko, when she leaned closer. Butcher had been ignoring them both, leering at the laptop and slamming on keys. Hughie said that never made computers work faster. Butcher never seemed to care.

“Fuckin’- Fuckin’ hell,” Butcher hissed, slapping the tilted back screen. “They got files on files ‘bout supes who can grow their nails and shit glitter, but not a single mention of a supe stronger than Homelander?”

Kimiko would think that was on purpose. If she had a secret weapon to kill her other weapon, she wouldn’t keep information about it on a laptop. She looked at MM and his pinched expression, and wondered if he thought the same thing. If he did, he wasn’t saying anything. If Kimiko could get words out, she’d be saying so very many things to Butcher all the time. She didn’t understand how the rest of them didn’t, sometimes.

“Maybe she doesn’t exist, Butcher,” MM muttered, and Butcher’s lip curled.

“Nah. That ain’t it.”

MM glanced up, face heavy with exhaustion. “Man, come on-“

“She’s out there,” Butcher snapped, slamming on the laptop again. “Somewhere. Fuckin’- Somewhere, there’s somethin’- They’re just- Hidin’ it-“

“Or we should stop wasting time, and look for other options-“

“I swear to the fuckin’ lord and his sweet little bloody lamb,” Butcher hissed, everything on his face filled with venom. “You mention other options again, I’m smashin’ your precious phone through the wall and flushin’ the pieces down the toilet.”

MM didn’t look impressed. None of them ever were anymore, expect maybe Hughie. But they backed off. They always backed off with sighs and annoyed grunts. Kimiko glared at Butcher. She wouldn’t back off. He was wasting everyone’s time, looking for another supe to try and control, and it made something in her chest burn.

“Don’t gimme that look,” Butcher said, shooting her a smirk. “Frenchie’ll start gettin’ jealous.”

She flipped him off. It was the best thing she’d ever learned how to do. There was a lot of white-hot, atomic fury—the kind that swirled in her chest and tightened her muscles and made it hard to breathe sometimes—that she could put into the gestures. And Butcher never flinched, but his lips twitched and he took the tiniest step back. He thought she didn’t see it. She always did.

“I think they put the Deep on the stand,” MM muttered, peering at his screen. “Either means their floundering, or they’re just- Real fuckin’ confident.”

“That one,” Butcher grunted. “The don’t flounder. Not with their million dollar floaties.”

MM sighed, rubbing his jaw, and Kimiko raised her brows. She didn’t understand how American trials worked. Frenchie had tried to explain it to her, but it had all been very confusing and contradictory. Couldn’t be that good a system anyway, if they had to spend months figuring out that Vought was evil.

Frenchie said it was more complicated than that. Kimiko didn’t think it should be. It was one of those things she found herself agreeing with Butcher about, which was always sticky and crawling on her skin. 

She tapped MM’s shoulder, and nodded to the door. They were on the floor of the big stall of the men’s room, because Butcher said Men didn’t shit in public. Kimiko believed that. She was starting to think men just swallowed all their shit, and then spewed it back out their throat with words.

Maybe she should try that, to speak.

No, too gross.

MM gave her a questioning look, and she sighed, cupping her hands and pretending to drink from them.

“Ah.” He glanced at Butcher, still glowering at the screen. “Be fast.”

Kimiko nodded, and bounced off the toilet. She didn’t really need a drink. The area was just starting to smell like sweat and salt and spit, and it reminded her of wet, toxic gasses that used to sting her nose. She slipped into the women’s room and washed her hands, keeping an ear on the hallway. Everyone should be in the trial. She’d be fine, just stretching a bit. Fixing her hair, her jacket, using the lip gloss Annie gave her.

She liked it. She liked having Annie around—and her lip gloss, and knowledge of reality television, the best thing America had to offer—even if she seemed very concerned every time Kimiko came into the office with blood on her knuckles.

“We don’t have to do it like this, you know,” she’d said last time, touching Kimiko’s shoulder like they were both made of glass. “You don’t have to do it like this.”

Kimiko had smiled, but known those were the words of a woman who had been in the light for so much of her life, it took the shadows creeping over her skin for her to notice the dark. Kimiko would like there to be another way. She’d like to be made of glass, if they didn’t like in a world where anything weaker than concrete broke.

At least the lip gloss made her mouth shiny. That was a little bit of light she’d never been able to have to herself.

Heels clacked in the hallway, and Kimiko’s head shot up. She grabbed the sink, ready to rip it off and throw it and run. The door pushed open.

“I don’t care that you don’t know where he is, I don’t pay you to just- Think about it and give up, you have to find him.” The red-headed Vought lady marched into the bathroom, and Kimiko froze, grip on the sink tightening. “No- No- Don’t guess. Look. I swear to God, Tyler, if you say the Tower one more time-“

The lady’s looked at Kimiko, as if she trying to share the exasperation. Then she looked away. Kimiko blinked. Her grip slacked.

The lady froze. She looked back, eyes slowly getting wider and wider. A strangled sound escaped her throat, and her phone clattered to the tile.

“Holy- Holy- Fuck no-“

She turned back to the door, heels clacking, and Kimiko lunged.

The woman was bigger than her, but felt small in her hands. She went down easy, but screamed and kicked her way into the men’s room. It was pretty rude, in Kimiko’s opinion. She could’ve just killed her, but she was very nice and Hughie said killing was bad.

Butcher and MM stared at her, when she presented the lady. Butcher mouth curved into that crude, kind of ugly smirk. MM grabbed the bar against the wall to stay up right.

“Where the fuck did you find her?”

Kimiko shrugged vaguely. It didn’t really matter. They had her now.

“Motherfuckin’- This means we have to go-“

“Ah, hold on,” Butcher closed the laptop, taking a slow step forward. “Not so fast now. This is a gift, mate. Let’s not be idiot cunts and throw it back.”

MM crossed his arms, giving Butcher a flat look. “How the fuck is this,” he jerked his head at Ashley, who had started to tremble like a baby. “A gift.”

“Good question,” Butcher said, almost alight with glee. “Guess who’s computer I’ve got, livestreamin’ right into ours?”

Ashley went almost limp, a weak sound escaping her throat. MM’s jaw ticked.

“You- Fucker.” He turned to Ashley. “No screaming, alright? Or she snaps your neck. Got it?”

Ashley glanced back at Kimiko, and she tried to give her a reassuring smile. No necks would be snapped. She’d just knock her out a little.

She probably needed to work on her smile more. Ashley made a sound like a cornered animal, and nodded frantically to MM. He nodded at Kimiko, and she let her hand go from Ashley’s mouth.

“Oh- Oh fuck-“ Ashley coughed, glaring around the bathroom stall. She was still shaking in Kimiko’s grip. “You- You psycho’s, you’re going to get us all killed-“

“Awww,” Butcher drawled. “You’re worried about us, ain’t that sweet. We’re worried ‘bout you too.”

 “I- I’m not-“ Ashley swallowed, hands pressing against Kimiko uselessly. “You- You’re going to kill me-“

“Not yet-“

“Butcher,” MM grunted, and Butcher chuckled.

“I’m just bein’ honest with the lass, ain’t my fault she sided herself with the blood suckin’ cunt team-“

“You’re the blood sucker’s,” Ashley spat. “At least I don’t actually hurt people-“

“Yeah, you just get out the fuckin’ Mr. Clean and scrub the street when your moneybags do-“

“Hey,” MM clapped his hands. “Focus. They’ll notice she’d missing, Butcher. Ask her what you want, or we need to start running, now.”

Butcher’s smile tightened—it reminded Kimiko of Kenji, when she told him to stop playing with his toys before dinner—and he sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. He looked Ashely up and down, titled his head, and took another step forward. Kimiko could smell that fruity vodka he’d always used as perfume. Sickly sweet and stifling.

“Tell us every fuckin’ thing you now,” Butcher hissed. “’Bout a supe called the Anomaly.”

Ashley paused. Her heart stuttered under Kimiko’s hands, and for a second, she thought Butcher might’ve been right the whole time. Ashley was going to tell them where to look. They’d be given the weapon, they’d have the way out, this could be over-

“The what?”

MM sighed. Butcher stiffened.

“The Anomaly,” he spat. “Vought secret, female supe, powers bigger than Homelander-“

Ashley laughed nervously. “Are you crazy? There- There’s no one stronger than Homelander for- For fucks sake, Vought designed him to be unstoppable, he’s unstoppable-“

“Everything is stoppable when you got the machinery, love,” Butcher sneered. “And I don’t know what you think is happenin’ right now, but company secrets ain’t gonna matter when we smash your head through this fuckin’ wall-“

“What secrets!” Ashley shrieked, her heart pounding. Kimiko could almost hear it in her own skull. “There- There are no secrets, there are no secrets-“

“Don’t you fuckin’ lie, you Vought suckin’ little cunt-“

“Butcher,” MM grabbed his shoulder, his grip on his phone making his wrist flex. “Just- Look.”

He shoved his phone under Butcher’s nose, and Butcher paused. His eyes narrowed on the screen. He grabbed the screen, eyes darting back and forth.

“This- what kinda name is Psyche-“

“Greek, I think.” MM sighed. “But that’s not the- Look at the other shit-“

“I’m lookin’. You really trust-“

“It’s from Annie.”

Butcher’s jaw ticked. “Well, if it’s real, it ain’t enough-“

“But it’s something. And-“ MM glanced at Ashley. “Even this Anomaly thing is real, they clearly don’t tell her fucking shit.”

Ashley’s face fell,  and Kimiko smiled. She’d laugh if she could.

“They- They tell me things- I’m the CEO-“

“You really think braggin’ about your clearance to us is gonna help you right now?” MM said, and Ashley swallowed. Kimiko didn’t know someone could be that pale, and she hung out with Hughie all the time.

“We’ll- Bloody hell,” Butcher shoved the phone back to MM. “Let’s get eyes on that shit, but- I ain’t givin’ this up-“

“I know you’re not.” MM muttered. “You stubborn fucking bastard.”

Butcher smiled and spread his arms. “Hey, you don’t love me for my pretty face.”

MM rolled his eyes, and jerked his head at Kimiko. “Let her go.”

Butcher stiffened. “Now, hold on-“

Kimiko held Butcher’s gaze as he raised a hand to stop her, and let go of Ashley.

She stumbled forward, right up to Butcher’s chest. His eyes narrowed. He lurched forward, and Kimiko almost dived forward. She didn’t like Ashley, but she liked her clothing and didn’t want to burn it to hide another murder, and she was really trying to murder less overall-

Ashley scrambled back. She hit the sink next to Kimiko, breathing fast and shallow like a deer. Butcher’s sneer curled, eyes glinting, and Ashley made a weak sound. She turned, and sprinted out the door. MM caught Butcher’s arm before he could follow.

“Not worth it.”

Butcher grunted, but didn’t look like he agreed. That dark, predatory look turned to Kimiko, but she didn’t flinch. She’d been on the other side of it too many times to care anymore.

“Let’s move,” MM said, and they did. The laptop got smashed. They slipped out the bathroom window, and took off.

MM gave Kimiko his phone in the car. She pulled her knees up to her chest, and scanned over the screen. Something, MM had called it. But Butcher was right. It didn’t seem like enough.

What was another victim, in a world built on bodies. Not much. Never much. All that usually remained was anger. Anger like hers. Like Butchers. He was still glaring Kimiko her in the mirror, but she didn’t get afraid of things. Not anymore. Not the way Butcher seemed to want her to. The wrath of a war dog scared her as a child. Now it was just an annoying sound, as the anger built and built and built in her own chest. She wouldn’t bite on his word. She wouldn’t do anything on his word. Not when she was made of so much anger it pushed her eyes open at night, and Butcher—filled with so much more wrath, she sometimes saw it simmering off his skin—seemed to be filled with more.

Homelander waited until the sun was down. Ryan had gone to bed, and he was an impossibly obedient child. He was supposed to ask to stay up late, instead of just agreeing. Homelander had even offered another ten minutes—for them to be together, to bond, to make up for all that time Becca Butcher had stolen from them—and Ryan had refused it.

“I- I think I’m tired,” he’d said, yawning wide. Homelander had almost rolled his eyes. The yawn was overkill, as if Ryan didn’t think he’d believe him.

But Homelander hadn’t pushed. He’d have other ways, later, to test if Ryan was still harboring some kind of secret hatred. If he was just waiting for the right moment to stab Homelander in the back, like everyone else had before him. He’d remind Ryan in the morning, that they were family. A real family. Blood. Homelander made Ryan, and they had the same V running through their veins, and there was nothing—fucking nothing—that meant more than that.

He hovered in the air, outside the red-brick building. His cape was supposed to catch the wind, but there wasn’t enough of it. The lights of the city didn’t reach this part of town, and Homelander liked it like that. Everything that glowed was his. His empire, his legacy, his world. Everywhere humans—real, meat and bone humans that bowed like sheep to the wolf—were, was Homelander’s.

This place was all rats and sewage in the streets. Of course, it belonged to Butcher.

A light flicked on in the apartment, and Homelander adjusted his gloved. That goddamn speck still hadn’t come off, but he’d make it. His will wasn’t about to be defeated by a bit of fucking dirt.

He landed on the fire escape, his hands behind his back, and waited. Butcher let his shoulders slump, when he was alone. His features etched in exhaustion, his shirt unbuttoned and hands slower than Homelander ever saw, anywhere else.

Butcher started boiling water, probably for tea.Homelander huffed. British people.

“You waitin’ for me slip into somethin’ for you?” Butcher said, not looking away from the stove. “Or are you comin’ in?”

Homelander’s jaw ticked. He slid open the window and ducked inside, trying to keep his spine as straight as possible. “You look,” he looked Butcher up and down. “Tired.”

Butcher grunted, and didn’t answer. Homelander scowled, bracing his hands on his hips.

“How do I look?”

“Like a cunt.”

Butcher hadn’t even looked up. Homelander shifted on his feet and cleared his throat, and still nothing.

“You know, I haven’t seen you and your little team in a while,” he started. “I’m starting to think you’ve given up on killing me, William. Which isn’t very nice of you, we made each other promises.”

Butcher’s lips twitched. Homelander leaned around, trying to figure out what the fuck that smug, bored expression meant.

“Do you have something for me soon? Is it a surprise? If it’s a surprise, you have to tell me.”

Butcher gave him another strange look, eyes gleaming like coal in the dark. Cold and heavy but—if scratch and sparked right, the way Homelander was fucking trying to do—dangerous and bright.

“If it’s a surprise,” Homelander said. “Don’t say anything-“

“Who’s Psyche Meyers?”

Homelander stumbled back. The words settled into his chest like shrapnel, aching and ripping at his heart. He’d never heard her name aloud. Not from another mouth. From Butcher’s mouth. The pain curled. It rubbed against the steel of his ribs and burned.

“What.” Homelander kept his voice slow and cold. All the heat was building in his chest. Behind his eyes. Butcher wasn’t allowed to see it. She’d been too elegant, too holy, too sacred, for Butcher’s dirty fucking hands to touch.”

“Psyche Meyers,” Butcher crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. “Young girl. ‘Bout mid-twenties, real fuckin’ knockout, even in just a pervy photo.” Butcher whistled, and Homelander grinded his teeth.

He didn’t know what the fuck he what the fuck he was talking about, he didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, he didn’t know what the fuck-

“You heard of her?” Butcher asked, and Homelander swallowed. He didn’t let his face twitch, didn’t let his legs move back.

Steam was pouring out of the kettle, fanning around Butcher’s smirk. He was stronger than this. Stronger than Butcher’s mind games. Stronger than the shriek of the kettle in his ears, the ghost in his skull, the sound of her name.

“Who? Nike?” He scoffed. “I don’t know every supe on the planet, Butcher, that’s- It’s very bigoted of you to assume-“

“Psyche,” Butcher cut him off, grabbing a mug from his sink without breaking Homelander’s gaze, and Homelander rolled his eyes.

“Whatever, that’s still- I expected better-“

“Never said she was a supe, either.” Butcher hummed, reaching for the kettle. “What kinda powers she got?”

Homelander took a long, slow breath through his nose. He’d come here to have fun. To distract himself, with something that mattered even less than this stupid trial. And Butcher- Butcher wasn’t playing nice.

But he was still asking. Homelander shoved down the thick, smoldering anger Butcher had dragged from the base of his neck. He stretched it out, nose twitching, and didn’t entertain this. Butcher just knew a name. Anyone could know a name. If he knew everything—if he knew what she’d been, what she’d meant—he’d be saying that. He’d be aiming for Homelander’s heart, not his throat.

“Ryan’s asking about his mother.” Homelander said, and Butcher stopped pouring his tea. “He wants to know if I loved her.”

Butcher looked up slowly, and Homelander smiled.

There it was. That hatred. That burning flame that they shared, that was going to consume the world. And when Homelander stood in the ashes alone, he’d miss it. He’d miss them.

“I tell him the truth, of course. Becca was just- a fling to me. Nothing real. You’re the one she really loved, for-“ His nose wrinkled. “Some reason.”

Butcher wasn’t moving. His heartbeat was slower than a turtle, but that was something Homelander had always admired about him. The anger. How it outweighed the fear, just like him.  

“I think I should be going, before you break your jaw brooding all over me,” he waved, taking a step back to the window. “Don’t wait up for me, tomorrow. And- Remember. I’d like the surprise.”

And Butcher’s lips curled back up. And Homelander froze.

“Trust me,” Butcher said, low enough that only Homelander would ever be able to hear. “We got one.”

Homelander laughed and nodded and waved it off, but he couldn’t hear his own dismissal and mockery. Not over the whistle of the kettle, although the steam had stopped minutes ago. When he stepped out into the fire escape, it wasn’t even drowned out by the wind. And when he flew and flew and flew, it only got louder and louder. Instruments swelled behind it. Strings and the clash of cymbals and the croon of an angel. A glowing angel.

His glowing angel. Higher in the clouds than he could reach, now. Than anyone could.

Homelander landed in a crater of ash, far in the upstate of New York. There wasn’t a living thing for miles, to see him staring with hollow eyes at the wreckage. Any bit of the burned rubble could be her bones. That pressure, that boiling wrath, it pushed up Homelander’s throat. His eyes flickered and his hands curled and uncurled and his breathing turned short.

The roar split the sky, and red beams of light carved into the already dead ground. The world didn’t move. Didn’t care. The ground should be shaking, it should be afraid, Homelander had lost and so the world should be afraid, should be blooming with new offerings, new songbirds, new angels. But it didn’t understand.

It would. Homelander would make sure it did, and then he’d have it. Everything that was left, he’d have it all.  

A bit of ash, floated up and landed on the lapel of his suit. He brushed it off, but didn’t look back to see that it stuck. He flew back to the tower, with it graying into his suit. And the rest of the world was quiet. The daisies and weeds that had been pushing through the ashes of the crater had been missed by the slice of Homelander’s laser, but still been buried in the ash of the aftermath.

There was going to be wind tomorrow. There usually was, after a while. And it would blow away the ash, and something would always, always grow.

✦chapter 2

✦End note: butcher got a single w today with his ragebaiting but guys i dont think it's going to last ✦

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

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

And you? You’re topless, skin still slick from the pool, your bare tits pressing against Dean fucking Winchester like you’re trying to climb inside his ribs, nipples hardening to aching peaks with every scrape against the damp cotton of his shirt. 

The kiss lingers like lightning in humid air – slow, searing, and inevitable. His mouth is hot and greedy on yours, tongue sliding deep, tasting like the beer he never got around to drinking and pure, pent-up desperation. 

His hands roam – big, calloused palms sliding down your bare back, following the trail of water droplets down your spine, mapping your waist with reverent hunger, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as if memorizing scripture written in skin.

You pull back just enough to grin against his lips, wicked and a little sun-drunk, your voice a velvet dare wrapped in saltwater sweetness. “Strip, Winchester.”

Dean blinks, lips kiss-swollen, breath stuttering, those forest-green eyes – now as dark as storm-tossed mangroves – drifting across the empty parking lot. His gaze roams the cracked pavement and Baby gleaming under the lights. There are no guests, no souls stirring, and even Kyle the gator has retreated into the shadows.

“Here?” he croaks, his deep voice sounding like gravel dipped in raw want, cheeks flushed under freckles that scatter his skin like starlight.

You nod, biting down on your bottom lip, water still dripping from your hair down your tits. “Right here,” you confirm, smirking. “Unless the Sunshine State’s finally made you shy. But trust me, Florida’s not gonna judge us.”

He barks a laugh that sounds half-drowned, a mix of disbelief and surrender swimming underneath. “Sweetheart, Florida stopped judging the second that dude grilled fish on his hood.” 

He then reaches behind his neck, grabbing the hem of his tee and yanking it over his head in one fluid motion. And Jesus fucking Christ, the sight of him makes your mouth water. 

Moon-silver and neon-glow illuminate the broad planes of his chest and shoulders, littered with cinnamon freckles across tanned skin, tracing the soft give of his stomach and the light trail of hair arrowing downward and disappearing inside his jeans like an invitation.

Boots thud against concrete next. Then his belt. He pops the button on his jeans slowly, eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to look away, but you never would. His stare alone causes liquid heat to pool low in your belly. The denim then slides down those thick thighs and bow legs, and fuck, the outline of his bulge in his black boxers is already obscene – impossibly hard, straining painfully, and completely ready for you.

The second he kicks the jeans aside, you barely manage to wait and surge forward, crashing your lips back to his. Tongues tangle, wet and messy. Your bare breasts press against his bare and warm chest now, nipples pebbled from the cool night air and the way his hands cup them, thumbs brushing over the sensitive buds until you moan into his kiss.

And then, with a playful grin and a wicked laugh, you shove.

Dean’s eyes go wide as he stumbles backward, arms windmilling for half a second before he hits the pool with a spectacular splash. Water explodes around him in bursts of turquoise fire and diamond spray. 

When he surfaces, water streams down his gorgeous face as he pushes wet strands of hair from his forehead. You can’t help but giggle when he looks at you equally shocked but stupidly turned on as well.

“You little–” he starts, but you’re already launching yourself in after him, bikini bottoms still clinging to your hips. 

You hit the water smoothly, gliding over to him, and the second you’re close enough, his arms band around you, hauling you against him. You wrap your legs around his waist, grinding down against the hard line of his cock through his soaked boxers. He groans, low and wrecked, hands palming the globes of your ass as you kiss him again – filthy, open-mouthed, all teeth and tongue and years of finally, finally, finally.

Your teeth tug cheekily at your lower lip as your thumbs hook into the sides of your bikini bottoms, shimmying them down your legs underwater. You make a show off it, making sure he catches every second of it as you toss the soaking-wet fabric onto the concrete by the lounge chairs. 

Dean’s jaw goes slack, ravenous juniper eyes devouring every naked inch of you. “Fucking hell, sweetheart…”

Your smile curves like the crescent moon above. “Your turn, Winchester. Fair’s fair in Florida.”

He doesn’t argue or even hesitate, shoving his underwear down his hips and kicking it somewhere toward the shallow end. Even through the aquamarine blur of pool water, you recognize the sheer size of his cock – perfectly long, thick, and heavy, tip flushed a deep rose. 

God, you’d kill to take him into your mouth and see how far he’d get till you choke around him. Maybe if Sam doesn’t return anytime soon, you still might find some time to try in the motel room later. 

For now, though, you just pull him close and wrap your legs around his waist again, naked skin meeting naked skin underwater. You claim his plush lips, slow and deep, tongues dancing like the palm fronds above in the ocean breeze. His cock slides hot and heavy against your belly, and Dean hisses at the contact, forehead dropping to yours.

“Fuck, baby… you sure?”

He’s never called you baby before. In fact, you can’t remember if you ever heard him call anyone baby before, except for his beloved car, and your heart flutters a little at the thought. 

You still can’t believe you did this. Maybe you did get hexed or possessed down here in Florida after all. God knows you never behaved like this in any of the other forty-nine states. But there’s an undeniable electricity vibrating through your blood that you’ve never felt before, and you’re still not sure if Florida is truly to blame or if it’s all just Dean Winchester’s fucking fault. 

You answer by reaching between you, wrapping your hand around his length and stroking him slow and tight, your fingers not even closing fully around his massive girth. He’s rock-hard, velvet over steel, the head already leaking. 

“Been sure for years,” you whisper against his lips, his little grunts of pleasure like the most beautiful song in your ears. “Now shut up and touch me.”

Dean doesn’t wait to be told twice, letting his hands explore with exquisite and maddening patience now, no longer rushing. Calloused palms wander up your ribs, groping your tits with worshipful weight, rolling your nipples between fingers till sparks explode behind your eyelids. 

His mouth trails kisses down your throat, sucking gently at the fluttering pulse there, then lower and lower, lips closing hot and wet over one sensitive peak, teeth scraping skin. You arch into him with a throaty moan that echoes softly through the empty motel lot.

One hand then slips between your thighs, fingers parting your folds and finding you soaked – hotter than the Florida night, slicker than the pool. Two thick digits circle your entrance teasingly before pushing inside your pussy with barely any warning. 

When he curls them just right, deeply stroking that perfect spot with devastating accuracy, you cry out, head tipping back. The water laps at your tits as he pumps them in and out before his thumb finds your clit, drawing lazy, firm circles that make your hips jerk against his hand and scream for more. 

“Look at me,” he murmurs, voice husky and commanding. 

His green eyes are hooded now, pupils blown wide with lust, swallowing the color until only a thin ring of emerald fire remains. He watches every flutter of your lashes, every parted gasp, as he pumps his fingers faster, scissoring them, pressing deeper. The water splashes around your joined bodies in rhythmic waves, cool against the burning heat building inside you.

“Goddamn,” he growls against your neck, sucking a mark there that will surely bloom in more beautiful colors than the Florida sunsets have to offer. “So fucking tight. This what you’ve been hiding from me? This pretty little pussy dripping for me all this time?”

You clench around his fingers, rocking your hips harder against his hand. “Dean–… Oh God–”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, thighs trembling around his wrist. He doesn’t relent even for a second, adding a third finger that stretches you beautifully while his mouth claims yours again, swallowing every desperate sound. 

The coil in your belly tightens and tightens – sharper, brighter, hotter – until it shatters. 

You come hard on his fingers – clenching, pulsing, a broken cry spilling into the night. Unfathomable pleasure crashes through you in golden, syrupy-sweet waves, leaving you boneless and gasping against his shoulder as you cling to his chest like you’d drown without him.

But Dean’s nowhere near done. 

He pulls his fingers free, spins you around gently yet firmly, and presses your front against the cool tile of the pool wall. Your elbows brace on the edge, tits deliciously squished against the slick surface as you still try to catch your breath. 

Dean crowds in behind you, his massive frame enveloping you, cock sliding hot and heavy between your thighs. He teases relentlessly – dragging the thick, velvety head along your drenched slit, nudging your swollen clit with every pass, coating himself in your release.

“Dean,” you whimper, pushing back, chasing friction. “Please…”

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath scorching against your skin. “Want to feel every inch, baby. Want you dripping for it.” 

Those lust-drunk eyes stay locked on your face as he notches the head at your entrance, pressing in the barest fraction before pulling back, again and again – torturous, perfect torment.

Only when you’re shaking, begging in broken whispers and moans, does he finally thrust forward – slow, inexorable, stretching you open inch by inch around his considerable girth till he’s buried to the hilt, balls-deep in the tight heat of you. The fullness is fucking harrowing in the best way possible, bordering on overwhelming, a delicious burn that melts into liquid bliss.

“Fuck, yes,” you moan, the sound echoing off the motel’s stucco walls. He feels enormous like this, the blunt tip pushing against your cervix. 

“Son of bitch, sweetheart…” Dean’s groan is guttural, animalistic as his forehead drops to your shoulder, the scruff on his cheeks and jaw scraping your skin. “You’re practically strangling me.” 

Then he begins to move – deep, rolling strokes that send water splashing in time with his hips. He pulls back and slams in again and again, and the angle is destructively perfect – his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes like supernovas. 

One hand then snakes around to rub your oversensitive clit while the other grips your hip tighter, anchoring you as he fucks you against the wall – harder, faster, hotter. The pool water sloshes wildly around you, cool against overheated skin, and every thrust sends ripples outward like you’re the center of some filthy hurricane. 

Dean’s mouth is on your shoulder, teeth grazing and biting skin, deep voice rough in your ear. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Been dreaming about this pussy for years. Fuckin’ years. You and me in this stupid state… finally losing our goddamn minds together.”

You push back against him, meeting every merciless thrust, the coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter again. “Give it to me, De. Want you to ruin me.”

He snarls – actually fucking snarls – and fucks you like the world might end tomorrow (which to be fair, it always could in this life). The night spins in watercolor blurs of neon rose, chlorine blue, and moonlit silver. Your second orgasm builds slower but deeper, a gathering storm fed by every filthy praise growled against your ear and the relentless slap of wet skin on wet skin.

His strokes are deep and punishing till all you see is buzzing neon and twinkling stars above. His fingers work your clit faster, pinching and rubbing until your thighs shake. 

It hits you like a tidal wave, stronger than the first, vision breaking into prisms of color as you clench hard around him, crying out his name into the humid Florida night.

Dean fucks you through it, hips stuttering, chasing his own release. “Fuck, baby, gonna–… where–”

“Inside,” you barely manage to gasp. “Come inside me.”

He buries himself deep and follows with a choked moan, throbbing hot and thick inside you, ropes of cum marking your fluttering walls and filling you to the brim as pleasure wracks his powerful frame. 

His forehead then drops back to your shoulder, breathing ragged, strong arms wrapping around your waist like he plans on never letting go. The water settles slowly around you both, lapping gently now, as if even Florida is giving you a minute to breathe.

For a long moment, there’s just panting and the buzz of the motel sign then, cicadas humming a lullaby as the two of you stay locked together, not wanting it to end. 

Then, Dean begins pressing soft, reverent, open-mouthed kisses along your neck and shoulder before scoffing an amused laugh against your damp skin. “Florida’s still a goddamn circus, but I think I just found the main attraction.”

You laugh breathlessly, turning your head to catch his lips in a lazy, sated kiss. “Told you. Sink or swim, Winchester.”

He chuckles against your lips. “Well, Florida can still eat my ass.”

You grin broadly and wiggle your brows. “Pretty sure that’s my job now.”

Hope you enjoyed this smutty little summer treat, friends! I'll see you guys back next Friday for another smutty treat with Russell Shaw that will get your heart rate up 😉❤️‍🔥

On July 31, we're then diving back into Glitch 🔮 (If you can't wait that long, Interlude II, Chapter 7, and Chapter 8 are already on Patreon, with Chapter 9 coming this Sunday 🤓)

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DW Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@jensensswthrt @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @samslvrgirl

@xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown @star-yawnznn

@spnaquakindgdom @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato @supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Most of Ben’s dirty secrets aren’t exactly… secret. He’s tried to fuck you in front of the team multiple times, he always tells you to moan his name loud enough that they’ll hear, and if he can get away with it he’ll make you walk around with his cum dripping out of your cunt. He proudly declared that you gave him your panties to keep, and tell you like it’s romantic that he only jerks off to the thought of you now. If anything, the deepest secret he holds is that he does find it romantic. That he’s capable of that now, with you, and he wants nothing more than to just… be near you. Without sex. To love and touch you like some boring, normal pussy. Maybe a little sex. He’ll probably be able to talk you into it.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Body count rivaling Genghis Khan. He got around in his day, and it’s taught him to know every body almost like he knows his own. You have to give him a rule, that he’s not allowed to say that he did this position with Princess Diana, because you don’t really want to hear it. You just want to see him do the position. He rolls his eyes and calls you a brat, and you smile and say he loves it, and damn him, he does. He loves that he got all that experience, too. Real easy for you to benefit, from all that hard work.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Ben can brag about his past and throw around your panties all he wants, you always get to know the truth. That at the end of it, he’s just a romantic old man who wants to do missionary. He likes being fully wrapped around you, likes how easy it is to manhandle you, like how your eyes roll back and your nails dig into his bicep as you get the air fucked straight out of you. He likes that he can kiss you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and that he can push your knees to your chest and turn it into a mating press, giving him easy access to your swollen, sensitive clit. You only tease him about it a little. The sex is too good to do anything else.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He’s more serious with you, than he ever was with anyone else. Especially at the start, when this was something that mattered, and he’d never had that, and for the first time in a hundred years there was a fist in his gut that was trying to hold onto something. That clenched hard enough to make him sick, that made him paranoid and tense, because what if he lost you. He fucked you like it was a job. Like that would prove his dedication to this, to you, without him having to say it. Over time, he relaxed. Jokes get cracked, and the teasing gets insatiable, and you can’t go a day without something suggestive that makes you laugh, then moan as his hand presses between your thighs.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Ben didn’t bother grooming until you. His actions and face and body spoke for themselves. Whatever was going on down there was what you got, and you’d better be fucking happy with it. And you were. You are. But he saw you taking care of your bush and got curious what the fuck you were doing, and you explained that it was still hair, it needed to be washed, and now he does that for you, then makes you clean him. He gets cocky, his hand in your hair as you lean down, and doesn’t bother to stop himself from getting hard while you touch him. It usually ends with you pressed against shower tiles. You never complain about that either.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He’ll deny it to the ends of the earth and over God’s ballsack, but he’s more romantic than you would’ve ever guessed. Once he learns what that strange, warm feeling he got when he looked at you was, he’s committed to it. It’s annoying, but nice, and he really fucking loves nice things. Just like he loves you. And there’s nothing better than whispering that against your skin, or fucking you nice and slow and loving until you’re sobbing, then making you admit that you love him back.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

If it was a sport, he’d take gold. And silver, and bronze. If someone were to take a blacklight to his bedroom it would look like a crime scene, especially before you got together. He doesn’t deny himself, ever, and that meant stomping away at seemingly random points during the day, just to jerk himself off and moan your name to the walls. Once he did it in a Chili’s bathroom, just because you smiled at him. Not his best moment, but real far from his fucking worst. And you deserve to be worshipped like that, enough that he can’t even control himself. He counts it as romantic, and you never admit it, but you kind of think it is too.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Ben walks a fine line between an exhibitionist and overly possessive. He marks your neck up with hickies and parades you around like his most prized thing, but gets narrow eyed and rigid when people watch for too long. He wants you to scream his name loud enough for everyone to hear, but clenches his jaw at the idea of fucking where someone might actually walk in and see you naked. He records a video of you and puts it in a safe. Fucks you in a bathroom with the door locked, puts you in his shirt and nothing else, but barks at anyone who’s gaze lingers on your legs. You’re his to worship and adore, not some other nosy fucking pussy’s.

He’s only a fucking man. A man who wants things he won’t talk about, like kids and a simple fucking life. If he could he’d knock you up for the rest of your fucking lives, keep your tits swollen and belly round with his kid. Making them is the fun part, breeding you like you’re begging for it—and you are—and then a few times after to make sure it sticks. Then you get all glowy and gorgeous, beaming and fucking Ben’s. Everyone knows it, from that swell of your stomach, and you get so horny you give him a run for his damn money. Perfect.

Pet names are cute, but detached before you. Doll for most women, sweetheart if he’s trying to piss them off, and not much else. But you, you get kid and darling and babydoll and pretty girl falling from his lips without thought. And then there’s the shit you call him. Benjamin when he’s in trouble—which is fucking hot—and Benny when you’re extra fucking needy. If you’re desperate enough he gets sir, and if he fucks you just right, he can pull a daddy from your swollen lips. You flush and get embarrassed and deny it later, but he knows what he fucking heard. And he’s going to get you to say it again.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

As much as Ben loves the bed, or the shower, or the table or the counter or the floor or the dresser, there’s something about the wall and the couch that make him feral. If he’s got you against the wall, he can pin you with your hands over your head and his arm cradling you against him, and he gets to make your whole body bounce with every thrust. Maybe he can even drag you off the wall, and just fuck you standing in the center of the room, his arms the only thing keeping you up right. On the other side of that is the couch. Bending you over it and smacking your ass, pushing you down until you’re limp and dangling forward, stupid moans falling from your lips as he fucks you dumb and pretty. Completely at his mercy, and happy about it.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

It would be quicker to list the things that don’t get him going. Sometimes it’s the way you said a word, a look you gaze him, the way you squeezed his hands or glared at him all hot, and now he needs to be inside of you or he’s going to go fucking insane. Once you screamed about a spider, he killed it, and suddenly you were being fucked into the sofa. More times than you can count he just wants to. No foreplay or real motivation besides seeing you, and deciding you really needed a good fuck.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He makes the list clear, when you get together. He’s tried damn near everything, and he won’t be pissing, shitting, or getting cucked. You can get on top, but he’s in control. You can try and tie him up, but he’s just going to break out of it and fuck you like you deserve. Giving up control isn’t really something he knows how to do, let alone tolerate after Russia. He spent too long in a box, and he’s not fucking letting anyone get one over on him again. You tell him that’s shell-shock. He rolls his eyes and tells you to hire a shrink about it. You do, because you’re the only one who can get away with it. You might be able to get away with anything, around him. He likes finding out.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Of course he prefers fucking receiving, he told you once. Getting a girl with nice lips and a warm mouth around him, fucking her face until she’s choking and still begging for more, nothing fucking better. Of course, your mouth is another story. Almost brings him to his fucking knees, when you get going. He’s broken the kitchen counter three times, to the point that you just leave it wrecked and tell him to grab there. And then he gets between your legs, and works out how all those men he thought were pussies could get off on just this. Tastes like fucking Heaven, gets you gushing and screaming and squirming for him, opens you up like nothing fucking else. You get caught in his beard and he refuses to wash it out. You cum on his face and he rolls on his back, pinning you down until your body gives out and you fold over him like a toy, trembling with the pleasure he’s devoured out of you.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

There aren’t many ways Ben doesn’t like it, but slow and rough is always going to take the cake. Pulling almost all the way out of you before slamming back in, watching your eyes roll back and hearing that perfect little whine. You milk his cock whenever he drives against your g-spot and beg him to go faster, but he holds the pace. Not like there’s much you can do about it, limp and mindless under him. Eventually he’ll take mercy and start to fuck you like you’ve earned, the brutal pace turning into micro thrusts when he falls over the edge with a groan.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

You have to limit him. There are too many times where he’s pulled you into a closet or dragged you off to bed with guests over, just to pull one more out of your greedy little pussy. And you know you’re always going to let him, even when he shouldn’t. Three a day, you tell him, but that quickly becomes four, then five, then six, and then you give up all together. It’s as if he gets energy fucking you. It’s almost scientifically amazing, and it feels like fucking heaven, so there are worse quirks for a boyfriend to have.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

There isn’t something Ben hasn’t done. If risks are being taken, it’s you, trusting him when he says he’s got some shit you’ll like. You believe him—he’s good at knowing about that, and it would scare you how good he was if it wasn’t deeply helpful—and trust him, because he’s your Ben. He’d never hurt you. One time, you do try to suggest something he might not have done, and he laughs in your face and calls you cute. He’s been slinging cock like a gun before your grandparents were alive. You tell him he’s never allowed to say slinging cock again.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Once, you made a bet with him that you could take it until he was out. It was one of the best and worst choices of your life. He came about thirty times, you came so much you stopped counting—and can’t even remember what number made you give up—and it only ended because Ben started to get worried that you would go into sex hibernation. You told him that wasn’t a thing, and tried to tease him that he was just out. He’d been rock hard when he stopped. You have a feeling that he could’ve done that all over again ten times and still be ready for round one thousand, but he let you have the win. It’s the only kind you have, in the sheets.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

At first, he’s offended by the idea that a fucking robot could get you off better than he could. He still is a little offended. If you use your vibrator, he also gets a shot at it, to remind you which is better at knowing you and your body. But then you show him remote control vibrators, and he turns into a monster. He shoves it into your hand and orders you to put it in, and when you laugh you end up pinned to the mattress and kissed everywhere while he slides it in himself. Ben becomes obsessed with it. Making you glare at him while your thighs shake, smelling your arousal, knowing that you’re probably going to climb him like a fucking tree the second you’re alone. Maybe before, if he does this shit right.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Ben has a talent. A gift, even, and it’s going to ruin your fucking life. He thinks of working you up like a sport, trying to you right up to the edge of screaming before he pulls you into his lap and makes you fall apart with a single, light touch. It’s even more fun then, because you’re sensitive after you cum. And that’s just how Ben fucking likes you. Wet and needy and sensitive, all his to ruin however he likes. You thank him after, and he feels about a million feet fucking tall.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He doesn’t see any point in trying to keep quiet. Sex is meant to be loud and raw. Skin slapping on skin, hands grabbing and moans being forced out of your throat for him to swallow. He dirty talks you loud enough for it to be heard through the walls, and groans you name loud enough to be heard from space. He’s proud of it. The way you get all turned on by his moaning, then adorably embarrassed when the team tells you they could hear .

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Ben really fucking loves cock warming. Sitting you on his lap for no reason at all, burying himself in your hot little cunt, and just keeping you there until he’s had his fill. You get so fucking whiny and gorgeous, calling him names when he won’t move and then pleading and sweet talking him when that shit doesn’t work. He gets drunk on it, how you flutter and pulse around his rock hard cock, looking at him with those glossy eyes and whimpering his name. Sometimes he shoves a book into your hands and makes you read it, because you’re always trying to get him to fucking read. When you’re gasping for air and leaking down his thighs, he’ll give in and fuck you. Then, the next week, he’ll do it all fucking over again.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Horsecock. World ending. Tree trunk thick and uncut. Next question.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Of Ben’s many experiments on your body, one of your favorite quickly grows to be somnophilia, simply because he’s a fucking dog. You know he has self control, and he’ll never make you do anything you don’t want to, but he gets twitchy when he’s been pent up too long. And for Ben, too long is about twelve hours. You could give him a whole night before you went on a work trip, and he’d spam call you until you landed and picked up, demanding that you come back now. He’d spend the rest of his life fucking you, if he was allowed. Sometimes he tries to talk you into that, and you flush, because you’d be more “up for it” than you want to admit.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Ben doesn’t sleep much, after Russia. Been asleep too fucking long, he grunts, and you don’t push. But you notice—like you always do—that the rule doesn’t really apply to you. You wake up in the middle of the night, still where you passed out. Held against his chest like a child’s blanket, cradled like a baby bird, both of you bare as the day you were born and completely at peace. His lips brushing your brow and breathing steady. It’s beautiful to see. Almost sacred. You brush the hair from his eyes and kiss his nose. His eyes flutter sometimes, and you just stare at each other in the dark. You press your chin to his chest, and his mouth twitches into something like a smile. You both fall back asleep, and don’t speak of it in the morning. But—just like always—it will happen again.

✦Soldier Boy Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on aO3✦

✦Author's Note: i need him in a way that's concerning to feminism✦

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

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

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

That’s what makes you freeze.

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

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

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

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

But this.

This feels like a fever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?”

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

“No, I mean with Soldier Boy-“

“Ah, your sweet lil Ben-“

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

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

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

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

“Oh, fuck off, that’s all you do-“

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

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

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

“Butcher, I swear to fucking God-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you never fear Ben.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eating your- What?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck no,” Ben grunts, and you sigh.

“He doesn’t believe in the dryer.”

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

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

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

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

“What-“

“You’re not eating.”

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

“Why.”

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

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

“Um- The dryer-“

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

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

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

“But- Ben-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got something you wanna say to me?”

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

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

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

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

“You were sweating, Benjamin-“

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

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

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

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

“I- That’s not what I said-“

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

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

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

“I- You’re fucking- I hate you.”

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

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re a shit fuckin’ liar-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wha- What-“

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

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

“Ben, what’s- Shit-“

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

“I- Um-“

“Eat that,” he grunts.

You blink. “What?”

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

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

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

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

“Ben, what the fuck-“

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

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

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

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

“Jesus fucking- Ben-“

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

“Hi,” you breathe, and he grunts.

“You were supposed to eat the fucking apple.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What- What the hell was that?”

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

Hughie swallows. “I- Um-“

“Hughie-“

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

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

“Please don’t-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, that’s why I’m fucking asking-“

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

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

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

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

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

“Moment it hit the fucker.”

“Where you there-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Butcher-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your panties.

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

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

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

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

“I’ll give ‘em back later.”

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head, and his jaw ticks.

“Go.”

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

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

“Fuckin’ Christ- Go-“

“Why are they mine?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It doesn’t want hookers.”

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

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

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease-“

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

What do you want.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something fuckin’ funny?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It needs me?”

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

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

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

Worth it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Be- Fuck- Bennnn-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Too- Too much-“

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, and Ben smirks.

“Yeah. I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Marry me.”

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

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

“Of- Of course I meant it-“

“You sure?”

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

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

“Because I’m not crazy.”

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

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

“No, you brat, I’m marrying you.”

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

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

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

“It is not bad-“

“It’s horrible-“

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

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

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

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

“I’ll get you a fucking ring-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

✦End note: theory answered: yes he can ✦

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You want me to teach you?"

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

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

"You need me to teach you a lesson?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You just need to relax."

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

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

"Relax, darling."

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

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

"Jesus- that tastes good."

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

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

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

"Jesus- you taste good."

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

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

"So good- fuck sweetheart- fuck-"

///

“I swear I’m gonna throw up.”

“Come on, Dean. It’s not that bad.” You roll your eyes, softly kicking an angel Christmas ornament out of the way, being careful not to break it. 

“I’m choking, sweetheart.” Dean grasps his throat dramatically, clawing at his skin and making his voice thinner. “I can’t breathe. Oh no, there’s the light at the end of the tunnel. I leave everything to Baby.”

“You literally have nothing to leave. You don’t even have a will! You’ve been legally dead like—five times.”

Sam snorts somewhere behind you, still making his way through the giant pile of heart-shaped chocolate boxes by the door of the warehouse. 

Calling it a warehouse is a dishonor, though, considering all the walls are pure white marble and every corinthian column holding up the insanely tall ceiling is made of rose quartz. There’s no windows, lamps, or candles, and still the room glows in a golden-pink hue. The whole place buzzes with magic, like you’re walking into a giant ancient altar. You wonder what kind of cherub has enough money or power to build a place like this. 

You’d gotten a heads up from Castiel a few days ago about what Dean relayed as “a disturbance in the force” around Stockbridge, Massachusetts. You’d driven here last night, stopping a few towns over so Dean could get some sleep before making your way into town. 

You’d spat all kinds of speculations about what the disturbance could be—another horseman, Lucifer himself, maybe even God—just to find a glowing, castle-like building on a field just out of town instead. 

Deciding that walking in without any idea of what you’d be facing was a terrible idea, you decided to do some research first.

But somehow, none of the locals are able to see the warehouse even though the thing looms over the town, glinting bright pink under the sun, blinding and imposing even from the town square. 

You tried talking to some hipster girl outside an artsy cybercafé, the small hill where the shop was located giving you a perfect view of the building between all the valentine’s day decorations hanging from the light posts.

When she claimed to have never heard of such a place, you stood right next to her and pointed directly to the marble cathedral, forcing her gaze away from Dean and toward the horizon. Suddenly the owlish heart-eyes she was making disappeared, and fog settled over her irises. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, her whole body tensing. Then she blinked, like she was just waking up from a heavy nap, and turned back to Dean as if nothing happened. 

“Nah, the only church in town is down the street. Baptist, I think, but the nuns are pretty chill.” All three of you gaped as she twirled a strand of carrot-dyed hair with her finger, not even acknowledging you or Sam or the fucking magical castle right in front of her eyes. “Maybe I can show you the way? I know the perfect scenery route.”

You wanted to suffocate her with her woolen beanie, maybe scoop her eyes out with those stupid, huge non-prescription glasses. Instead, you gave her a polite goodbye and stomped your way down back to the town square, dodging inflatable cupids and heart balloons. Sam and Dean followed suit a few seconds after. 

You continued asking around, but every time you directed someone’s gaze to the warehouse, they got the same hazy look in their eyes. Some of them continued to talk after like Hipster Girl, some of them scurried away as soon as they snapped out of whatever spell they were under, one poor high school boy ended up throwing up into the pink rose bushes of the local park.

“So, are we thinking witch?” 

You were back in the Impala, officially declaring interviews useless around noon. Sam and Dean were in the front seat, munching on some hotdogs while you picked at your pink-dyed cheese fries in the backseat, chewing on heart-cut pieces of bacon as you thought back on Hipster Girl’s eyes, the opaque fog, the slight tremble of her lower lip. 

Her biting down on said lip when Dean used some cheap line, the twirl of her orange hair, the way Dean’s grin turned sharp at the sight of it—

You needed to focus. 

“Probs. There’s definitely some kind of incantation over the building, but I don’t know any witch powerful enough to cast magic over a whole town.”

Your voice was dragged, low and dull. Sam threw you a concerned look over his shoulder, you didn’t meet his eyes. “Deity, then?”

You shrugged without a word. The brothers shared one of their looks, and you knew it wouldn’t be too long until one of them—most likely Sam, because Dean is allergic to any kind of emotional talk—cornered you about what’s been going on. 

The truth is as embarrassing as it is hilarious, if you were anyone else and not the one living it.

Valentine’s day is tomorrow, and it’s been driving you insane.

All Dean seems to talk about is the festivity, and how eager he is to dive into the first bar he finds and “comfort all those poor, heartbroken, smokin’ girls.” You threatened him with your knife, “shut up or I’ll gut you open and feed you to some poor street dog.” He only got louder. 

Evading the man you’re in love with while he talks about fucking other women doesn’t work very well. Every tune in the radio is a love song, every movie in the staticky motel TVs is a rom-com, every diner you enter has a new Valentine’s milkshake. Everything is a reminder of the day of love, and while you’re usually indifferent to dumb capitalistic holidays, this year it feels like salt in an old, festered wound. 

Dean doesn’t love you, not like you love him. 

It’s the end of the fucking world, you’re hunting down the Devil, and still Dean can’t find it in himself to see you as anything other than the poor hunter girl they had to aid years ago and who they’re now stuck with. The man who’d sleep with anything that moves and has good tits, can’t fathom to look at you twice. 

Sam brought you back Valentine’s themed gummies when you stopped at a gas station this morning instead of your usual ones. You sneaked off to the restroom and flushed them down the toilet. 

You’re being petty. It’s Armageddon time, you’re entitled to some pettiness. 

You continued your research after lunch, but the whole town turned out to be incompetent. No records of the building or its construction, no local folklore or legends, no precedents of supernatural activity. 

Feeling restless and ready to break some skulls, you proposed to just walk in and see it for yourselves. Dean was all for it, but Sam forced all of you to grab some witch-killing bullets and a few extra guns first. By mid-afternoon, you were walking through the rose-tinted glass door of the place. 

You were expecting an evil lair, a palace of some kind, maybe an actual place of worship, but what you found instead was a storage room. 

“What the—” Sam cursed when he ran into the mountain of chocolate boxes he’s still trying to put back in place, sprawling them all over the ground. 

There were similar piles all around the shiny bronze flooring. Teddy bears, cheap costume angel wings, more Valentine’s decor. The place was flooded with pink, red, and white knick knacks. Some objects were propped up on pedestals—an expensive-looking vase, many marble statues of little angel babies and naked torsos, a half-eaten apple for some reason. Ballet music was playing from somewhere, there were romantic and erotic paintings everywhere but none were actually mounted on the walls, and the air was thick with the smell of rose petals and peaches. 

Which brings you back to the present, with Dean pretending to die from sweet, stuffy air while you all sort through the mess in search for something that gives away your cupid’s identity. After the fiftieth baby angel scented soap you’d accidentally stepped on, you’d just assumed it’s a cherub.

“Can’t wait to get out of this place. If any chick tomorrow smells like roses I might throw up all over her.”

The little glass swan you’re holding cracks under your fingers, you leave it on top of a velvet box before it breaks. 

“Have we ever heard of any angels that can bewitch a whole town?” You ask Sam, desperate to change the topic. 

You move to the back right corner of the warehouse, where a bunch of books are arranged in a neat pyramid. Maybe this cupid keeps a diary, who knows?

“I don’t think so, and cherubs are supposed to be pretty low-ranking. I’m not sure one of them would be able to manage something like this, but we should ask Cas.”

You nod, glancing up at Sam as he finishes with the heart boxes and moves to look through a stack of what looks like discarded love letters, judging by the glittery ink and tearstains on the old paper. 

Your eyes sweep the room and find Dean, who’s searching a honey-colored vanity in the far left corner. There’s a bunch of beauty products already laying carelessly on top, expensive blushes and mascaras and a million lipsticks. Dean keeps going through the cabinets, pulling out everything he finds. He picks up a perfume bottle and sniffles it, immediately grimacing. So much for feeling dizzy. 

He glares down at the bottle like it personally offended him, looking goddamned adorable under the pinkish glow, the golden flecks of his eyes sparkling. 

You focus back on the book pyramid and grab one at random, flipping it open with your chest heavy and your throat dry. Dean fits right in with the collection of beauty surrounding you, always the prettiest thing in the room. You, on the other hand, are more like a dark cloud in a perfect blue sky. 

The stupid flutter of your heart is immediately halted as it stops completely.

You picked up a porn book. Not a magazine, it has a hardcover and there’s text all down the right page, but the left page is pure porn. Three pictures, like a collage, all featuring the same couple. A girl on her knees, sucking some guy’s dick. The same dick now between her tits, a hint of a smile on her lips. The guy now with his head buried under her skirt, her head thrown back in ecstasy.

Regrettably but almost unconsciously, you flip to the next page. A guy, bright eyes hooded and pretty mouth parted, desperately humping a pillow. The book slips from your hands, landing wide open on the ground. You scramble to pick it up and snap it closed. 

Ignoring the brothers’ questioning looks, you leave the book back on the pile and grab another one. 

One by one, you open at least ten different erotic books. There’s one with a skinny blond guy being impaled in a dick way too big to feel good. There’s one with two girls making out in the mud. There’s one with a girl in a cowboy outfit riding a tied-up guy. Your cheeks flush at that one. 

You’re not a prude, nothing close. Inside you, there’s this thing. It writhes and snarls and wants. It makes you feel sick, it makes you feel high, it makes you want to explode. Sometimes, you let it out—muzzled and on a leash, but peaking its head through the bars of its cage. Most of the time, though, you keep it locked away. 

It feels too dangerous, perverse. It’s scary, just how feral it can be. 

It cannot be healthy. You’ve grown used to nothing in your life being healthy. 

You sort through the pile, no longer taking the risk of picking at random. Anything with the words “sexy,” “steamy,” or “adult” gets thrown away right away. Any slightly suggestive title gets turned around so you can inspect the information in the back cover. The books that look innocent enough get inspected further. Some of them are in other languages—some Italian and French, many of them in Greek. Anything you can’t read gets discarded.

Even then, most of the ones you open are explicit. Some are supposed to be clever little “hidden” books, some simply take whatever innocuous topic they name on the front page and turn it unnecessarily sexual. You read through half a cooking book before finding a recipe for cum cupcake frosting (ew), you find a porn version of The Wizard of Oz that makes you giggle, you find a mechanic’s guidebook that soon turns into a playboy mag.

You’ve started to open the books halfway through, just to skip any buildup bullshit, and quickly regret it. Because there, spread across both pages, is a black Chevy Impala. Not a ‘67, but a similar model. And on top, laying across the hood in a too-cliche pose, is a guy. He’s completely naked, lean muscles glinting in the sun of whatever arid place they shot this in, fucking up into a girl whose face has been cut out of frame.

The guy has dirty blond hair, a little too dark. His eyes are a shade closer to lime than forest, and his skin is paler than the gold that haunts your dreams. Still, there are freckles all over the bridge of his nose and shoulders. His nose is straight, his lips are full, and his jaw is sharp. It’s too fucking close. 

His eyebrows are drawn together, his mouth almost pouty as he grips the faceless girl’s thighs desperately. His feet are propped up on the front bumper, and he looks almost in pain as he thrusts inside the girl’s pussy. His chest is lined with scratches—deep, angry red that he sure seems to enjoy. It might be just you, but his lips seem to be holding the shape of a plea, his eyes teary and his whole body taut. 

His cheeks are red, the left one more than the right one. There’s bruises on his neck and down his chest. He looks hurt, he looks blissed, he looks so fucking horny. 

He looks like Dean. 

The beast wails, your thighs press together, you feel so violent that you could spontaneously combust. It terrifies you every time—how hot your blood burns, how feverish it makes you, how wrong it feels. 

Not pretty, not delicate, not sensual. Just ugly, destructive, all-consuming hunger.

“Hey,” Dean says your name, way too close. “Look!”

You shut the book closed so hard that the smack echoes through the warehouse, the blow making your bones shake. You turn around to face Dean like he caught you with your hands inside a corpse’s innards. You almost wish he had, you’d feel less dirty. 

“Hi.” Your voice is too high, your eyes too wide. Dean frowns. 

“You okay?” You nod, bobbleheaded, hiding the book behind your back. Dean’s eyes shift down to it, forest green that’d look beautiful all teary. You squirm. “You sure? What’s that thing?”

“Just a true crime book about ‘crimes of passion.’ It’s a little graphic, so I got a little shaken up. I’m fine now.” You wave your hand dismissively, Dean still looks suspicious. You clear your throat, kicking the beast until it whimpers and hides, and you smile. “You wanted to show me something?”

“Right.” Dean shakes his head, his mouth still twisted as he pulls something from the pocket of his jacket. “I found this, and I thought you’d like it.”

He extends his hand toward you, holding up some kind of bronze arm cuff. Three thin copper wires swirl in pretty spirals, braided carefully and embedded with pearls and crystal charms. Two flowers rest at the ends, rose quartz petals and iridescent centers. The whole thing sparkles like it’s covered in fairy dust. 

“It’s gorgeous, Dean.” You delicately pick it up from Dean’s hand, thumbing at the smooth pearls and cold metal. There's something engraved behind each petal, you can vaguely make out a few Greek letters. “Where did this angel get all this stuff?”

“Dunno, but I guess they won’t miss one thing.”

You blink up at Dean. He’s glowering down at his dirty biker boots, a hand scratching behind his ear. “You want me to keep it?”

Dean shrugs, and the question seems to grab Sam’s attention, the younger boy shuffling closer through the lovey mess. 

“We don’t come across beautiful things too often. You deserve beautiful.” The words seem sour in his own mouth, like they’re spilling out without his permission. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears. 

No, I don’t. Not really. 

You’re glad when Sam chimes in. 

“I don’t think it's a good idea to take stuff, guys. We’re still not sure it’s a cherub, and we don’t wanna upset anything.”

Dean glares at his brother, and you sigh dejectedly. Sam is right, and so is Dean. You don’t get many beautiful things. You don’t get quartz bracelets or Dean Winchester under you. That’s just your life. 

“There’s nothing in these books,” you murmur, none of this helping your already bad mood. “We should keep looking, find some kind of sigil or rune so we can confirm what we’re actually dealing with.”

With your shoulders hunched and your soul weary, you start to walk toward the vanity to put the arm cuff back. You’ve only taken three steps when Dean stops you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist firmly.

When you face him, his eyes are downturned and a little pleading. Too close, too fucking close. 

“At least try it on.” It takes you a second to figure out what he’s talking about, too lost in visions that make you want to take a dive into Hell.

“De—”

“Come on.” You don’t understand why he cares so much, but his grip on your wrist tightens. “When will I—any of us get enough money to buy something like that?”

You hold your breath, Dean’s fingertips, so callused from his pistol, gently tracing circles over your pulse. You deserve beautiful.

You nod, barely-there jerk of your head. Just this once. “Fine. But I’m taking it off before we leave.”

Dean seems satisfied enough, letting go of your arm before shoving his hands on his pockets, feigning nonchalance. You can see the mask slipping on, the armor he’s built from scar tissue and barbed wire through the years wrapping around him. You don’t understand how you were so fooled by his facade before, it’s so obvious now. 

Dean pretends to be cool, you pretend to be sane. Neither of you call the other out.

Slowly, you slide your right hand inside the cuff, being mindful not to break it or damage it somehow. It feels like something you’d break, too lovely for your reverse Midas touch. The bronze is cold against your skin, and the wires feel too loose all the way until they reach your mid arm. Like magic, the bracelet seems to resize itself, wrapping around you just tight enough not to fall, but not digging into your skin. Your whole body tingles.

“What do you think?” You extend your arm toward Dean, giving him a bright beam. 

He stays silent, something flashing on his face right before he grabs your shoulders, spinning you in place. 

You end up facing a giant mirror, gentle swoops and little doves engraved in the golden frame. Your eyes latch onto the jewelry on your arm, and it looks indeed beautiful. The flowers are delicate against your flesh, soft and too pretty to be yours. The sentiment appears to have extended to the rest of you.

Because when you find your own face in the reflection, you look… cute. Hard edges eroded by the soft lighting, fairy dust shimmering in your eyes and lips. It’s not a physical change, it’s still just you, but glowy. Every sweet feature enhanced, every detail you hate washed in a new light. 

It feels nice. It’s been too damn long since you felt anything other than contempt towards yourself.

Dean is behind you, looming over your shoulder, and he looks even more gorgeous than the arm cuff. He looks like an angel—not the real, douchy ones. Cartoon movie angel. He looks divine.

Almost instinctively, you lean back, craving the contact more than usual. Dean’s chest is there to hold you up, like it always is, and both of you exhale loudly. As if the same weight had been lifted off your shoulders. 

You can’t help but shiver when his breath brushes the side of your neck. You need to get a grip.

“Guys, I think I found something.”

Sam stands just behind the vanity, throwing you a double look over his shoulder when he finds you pressed together. Your cheeks flush harder than before, and you clear your throat at the exact same time Dean takes a step back. The distance hurts, but everything always seems to ache with Dean. You both walk over to Sam without looking at each other. 

There’s another pile of miscellaneous things at Sam’s feet, and for a moment you wonder if he only wanted to separate you from Dean in an attempt to save you from later heartache. But then you take a look closer. 

The first thing you see is a deck of tarot cards. Next to it is a baby blue crystal ball, a few boxes of incense, a bunch more candles. But then you see the sword, shadows swimming along the blade like lost souls. And the Book of Shadows, and the glowing bow, and the suitcase full of little vials. 

And the hexbags. 

“Shit, you think it’s actually a witch?”

“Not quite.” A voice comes from behind you, sweet like the summer breeze and pitchy like the song of birds. “But you’re getting warmer.”

All three of you turn around at the exact same time, Sam and Dean with their guns in hand. You tug your knife out from your belt, your fingers brushing your lower back. Your skin feels more sensitive than usual, you ignore it in favor of surveying your new companion. 

Your white-knuckled grip goes slack around the handle of your blade.

Sitting on top of a nearby pedestal, smooth as the statues around him and dazzling as everything else in the room, there’s a kid. 

He looks around eighteen or nineteen, his eyes big and angelic. His lips are pouty, bright pink and glossy. His whole body is glossy, that after-sex glow that makes people look holy. His hair is light blond and messy around his face, but in a deliberately sensual way, and he’s wearing an oversized white button up that barely covers his chest, hanging off a shoulder and showing his delicate collarbones. 

He’s blinking at the three of you naively, but the curl of his lips show a hint of provocativeness.

“Who the fuck are you?” Dean steps forward, still pointing his gun at the boy, but even he sounds breathless. 

The boy laughs, low and velvety, and it really is a sight to behold. Perfect teeth, pink tongue peaking out, smooth bare thighs dangling from the black plinth. He’s not the kind of man you’re usually into, you like them pretty but a little damaged. Still, because your whole body is tender and your stomach feels weird, you can’t help but ogle a bit.

It’s only fair, you’re almost certain the brothers are doing the exact same thing.

“Put that down before you hurt yourself, big boy.” The kid lands on the bronze floor gracefully, giving Dean an up-and-down look that drags you out of your enchantment slightly. He bites his lower lip, picking up a little dove figurine from a nearby table, spinning it between his fingers.

You’re always highly suspicious that anyone who sees Dean wants him. This time there’s not an ounce of doubt. 

Suddenly he locks his eyes on yours, and a fuchsia glows on his irises. 

Of course, someone like that could not be human. 

His lips grow into a mocking sneer, and he takes an animated step toward you. 

“Don’t get any fucking closer.” Dean blocks his way to you, his broad shoulders shielding you. It’s always hot when he gets protective, today is a little overwhelming. “What the hell are you?”

You turn to Sam, and you find him already staring at you. Silently, the two of you try to put it together while Dean distracts your Adonis. 

Clearly not a cherub. You can almost hear Sam’s voice in your head, easily reading the subtle twitches of his face. 

That’s certain, I don’t think angels can look like—that. Sam looks like he wants to snort, but he keeps his face perfectly still. Not a witch, either. 

You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. Porn books, pagan artifacts, every romantic thing to ever exist. 

“No wonder you kids are famous, look at you!” At some point, the boy had glided closer. The barrel of Dean’s gun is pressed to his sternum, he doesn’t seem concerned. Dean looks agonizingly unable to pull the trigger. “Those pretty faces, those eyes!” He cups Dean’s cheek with his free hand, tilting his face down even as Dean flinches but finds himself unable to move away. “I’m surprised Zeus hasn’t given you the Ganymede treatment.”

Greek smut. Greek letters in the back of petals. Greek gods.

“Holy fuck.” You gasp, dragging the god’s glowing pink eyes away from Dean. Only then is he able to scamper backwards, stumbling against your side. Roses, Valentine’s day, erotic overload. “Lord Eros.”

The boy giggles, absolutely delighted. Shit. 

Sam slumps at your side, finally recognizing who you’re up against. This isn’t good. This can’t be good.

“I see you’re the smart one! Such beauty as well.” Eros purrs, licking his lips slowly. It makes you squirm, both uncomfortably and for a different reason that makes you want to vomit. You must be worked up from the books. Your whole body feels swollen and vulnerable. “If anyone was to find my little vault, I’m glad it’s you.”

“All of this is yours?” Sam asks, lowering his gun. 

“I’m bad at throwing things away.” The god shrugs, twirling a blond curl on his delicate finger. “What can I say, I’m sentimental. I like to keep mementos from every mortal I meet.”

He says the word with such lascivity that it sounds like a slur. 

“Eros. Which one is that again?” Dean seems to have shaken off the god’s enchantment, sharp eyes now squinted and focused. He’s given up on his gun, though. You tuck your knife into your waistband.

It’s not like any simple weapon will kill the ancient god of desire. 

“Cupid, for the Romans.” Eros groans loudly at Sam’s words.

“Romans, they were so fucking boring.” The boy huffs, lips setting on a deeper pout, looking more like a bratty twink than a god. “Had such a hard-on for bloodshed and war, ugh. The Greeks knew how to have fun, they had hard-ons for each other.” He sighs, looking off into space, reminiscing of better times. 

You hope he’s not getting a hard-on. 

“Okay, so you’re like—a supercharged cherub?” You send Dean a shut up look, but he ignores you.

“Don’t you ever compare me to those guys!” Eros’ voice is still saccharine and melodical, but now he sounds all whiney as he squeezes the little dove in his hand until his whole hand is white. Dean’s shoulders relax. Oh no. “They’re disgusting little things who can’t tell love from lust! Them and their Christian puritanism, ugh!”

You can see Dean choosing his retort carefully, you try to give him another warning. Your breath stutters at the way the corner of his mouth tilts up, and you end up choking on the words. The arm cuff feels warm against your skin. Every inch of your being feels hot.

“Careful there, princess, you’re gonna break a nail.”

Eros goes perfectly still, Sam and you close your eyes in defeat at the same time. 

“I would be really careful, Dean Winchester.” His voice has changed, now thick like melted candy. And poison, definitely poison. “I may like you, but you are still simply a mortal. Do not mess with forces you are too feeble-minded to comprehend.”

“Dean,” you finally whisper, your hand moving to grasp his wrist. A piercing chill washes down your spine. What the fuck is wrong with you? 

“Am I supposed to be afraid?” He continues to mock, even when Sam is throwing daggers at him over your head. “What, you’re gonna shoot me with your little heart arrows?”

“Dean.” This time it’s Sam who speaks. Your throat feels too dry to do so, goosebumps rising all over your skin. “He’s not just any god. His father is quite literally the god of war.” Eros scoffs, rolling his now magenta eyes. He moves closer, until he’s just a step away from the three of you. You can’t handle the smell of peaches and cream coming from him, overwhelming and dizzying from up close. 

“Yeah, Daddy always scares people. Him and his big spear.” The god smacks his lips, staring at Sam until he recoils in his place. “But it’s not him who you should fear. Daddy likes to play tough, but he’s simple-minded. Unambiguous, methodical, and so fucking boring. Now, Mommy… that’s who you should be afraid of.”

His eyes scan you one by one, staying on you for just a moment too long before moving to Dean. Then, he grins, leaning so close that his little button nose brushes Dean’s crooked one. 

“But you already are, aren’t you?”

You’re not sure Dean knows who Eros is talking about, but he still winces. 

“We're not here to antagonize you.” Sam intervenes. You’re still too busy fighting your own body to do anything. “We just wanted to make sure everything was in order.”

“And it’s not.” Dean raises his chin, his obstinacy and stupidity implacable. Eros takes a little hop back, his grin only growing. “You have all of those people in town under a spell. We can’t have that just because you wanna be a little bitch about souvenirs.”

Dean and his fucking bravado. It’ll get him killed one day. Maybe today, while you’re too damn defective to act. 

You try to talk to Eros, take back Dean’s words, but another weird lightning strike flashes in your gut, and all that comes out is a faraway babble. Eros’ eyes flare.

“You’re more incompetent than I expected, Dean Winchester. But you’re also more… complex.” He looks from Dean to you a few times before settling on you. More specifically, on your arm. “Nice bling you have there.”

Shit.

Panic claws at your throat. Of course, your luck can’t get any worse. 

Immediately, your hands fly to the scorching cuff, trying to rip it off. It doesn’t budge, only getting tighter and hotter around your flesh the harder you tug, charring your fingers.

“What did you do?” Dean snarls. 

When the sharp metal starts to dig on your skin deep enough to break it, you give up. The bronze wires go back to resting gently around your arm as soon as you let go, reverting to warm and delicate. 

“I didn’t do anything.” Eros’ sing-songs, you fight to keep your breath even. “You did. It’s not nice to take what’s not yours, you know?”

Dean and you stare at each other, terrified. Hot flashes, ache between your thighs, wet.

You double over, hands holding your lower stomach. Every cell in your body howls, your mouth waters, your legs tremble, and you can’t hear anything. For a moment, you’re sure you’re dying. 

“—me! I took it! Kill me!”

Dean’s voice sounds underwater. Sam is yelling your name. Eros’ cackle is piercing. It brings you back. 

“I’m not gonna kill her, silly! What a waste that’d be.” The air around you shifts. Suddenly, a finger is tapping on the quartz flowers. Your knees falter. “I’m the god of desire, baby. I’m here to make people feel good.”

“Wait, wait,” you cry, trying to straighten up. You only manage to take a step toward Eros before you fall to the floor, knees smashing against bronze. “Fuck!”

You remember when you were younger, around seven or eight, and you used to throw yourself to the floor. Letting your knees give up, at any given moment, giggling all the way through. The thud of bone against tile, the slight ache, the bruising. You did it, over and over again, until your skin turned all shades of purple. And then you’d run and proudly show your mother how pretty the marks bloomed. 

Disgusting, from the very start.

“Fuck!” You repeat, but this time it’s in the shape of a long, lewd moan. Sam and Dean freeze. You curl further into yourself, panting like a thirsty dog. “Stop, stop, please! It feels—” 

Your words are so breathy that you’re not sure anyone can understand you. Your eyes are glassy as you crawl back from the amused god, the world turning technicolor as the pressure builds. Your back hits something, a wall or pedestal or table, and you pull your knees up to your chest.

“I’m gonna—ah.” You bite down on your tongue to try and swallow any more humiliating noises, screwing your eyes shut. Your head drops back, slamming against whatever’s behind you. The dull, less sparkly pain is enough to return some clarity to you. “It hurts, please. Please, stop.”

“You think it hurts now?” Eros kneels by your side, and you’re able to half-open your eyes. Slowly, the wave retreats, like it’s melting back into the ocean. Not a release, but a promise. Your body ends up achy with the frustration of dropping so suddenly, boneless and exhausted. “The flashes only get stronger and more frequent, child. And you just wait until you’re in your fifth orgasm.”

“You son of a bitch!” Dean charges for Eros, but the god dodges him with the swiftness of a small and lean body against Dean’s broad shoulders and heavy feet. “Take that shit off of her, or I’ll cut your fucking dick off.”

Eros giggles, pinning Dean in place with glowing pink eyes. Once again, the god invades his personal space, and the sight of them so close—Dean’s muddy jacket against the pristine white of Eros’ shirt—makes you buzz all over. 

“That’ll just hurt you more than me, handsome.” The god winks, salacious. “Oh, in another life, in another life.”

It’s a furious, voyeuristic kind of prickle. Jealousy mixed with allure. 

The stupid cuff is making you horny for shit you’ve never found hot before. 

“How about I make you boys a deal?” Only then you notice Sam standing right beside you, teeth bared like a guard dog. You’ll have to buy him a new book as soon as this is all over, maybe one of those protein bars he likes so much. “You help her survive this, I move back to rural France and let your little town free. How does that sound?”

“Survive this? So it is gonna kill her.” You don’t think you’ve heard Sam this furious before. 

Did the cuff affect your perception of reality? Or does the fairy dust glow affect others? Because the Winchesters would never be this concerned about you otherwise. Why are they so angry? 

They probably don’t want to deal with this when the apocalypse is around the corner. Once again, you’re dead weight on their already sinking ship.

“No, but it’s gonna get… nasty.” Eros cracks up like he just made the most hilarious joke.

A pause, the tide starts to go out. And then, “How do we help?”

Another wicked giggle, a migraine lingers in the back of your skull. 

“You’ll figure it out, eventually. At least I hope so.” The god is still glued to Dean’s chest, and he runs a sharp nail down the slope of his jaw. “You’re either gonna stop fearing Mommy, or you’re gonna despise her. Either way, I’m in for a fabulous show.”

With that, he vanishes in a cloud of glitter and peaches. 

Sam and Dean start to talk, but your bones are lead and your head is pounding. Everything’s sore, like you just ran a marathon or got your guts rearranged, so it’s easy to let your eyes flutter close when the needles on your skin melt down to a faint gooseflesh. 

“...we gonna do?”

“...ake her back…somewhere safe, so she…”

“...don’t know w…”

“...research in the car. Come on.”

Reality fades in and out, your mind a sluggish mess of tangled bodies and gory memories. 

Aphrodite and Ares. Love and war. Beauty and violence—Eros’ whole deal. 

“I’m gonna pick you up, okay?” Sam’s voice has gotten closer. At your lack of response, he repeats your name. “We need to get to the car, and you can’t walk, so I’ll carry you. Okay?”

You hum absentmindedly, a small part of you still present enough to feel hurt over the fact that Dean won’t carry you. 

It makes sense, you wouldn’t want to touch something as gross as you either.

Before your mind can slip again, arms slide under your knees and back. A second later, you’re airborne.

You gasp, holding onto Sam’s shoulders tightly. The sudden movement wakes you up completely, and you’re able to take in the brothers’ impassive expressions as they stomp out of the warehouse, leaving behind perfect marble and immaculate crystal. It’s a relief to see it all get smaller the farther you get. 

Dean’s shoulders are taut, his face hidden by the way he walks slightly ahead of you and Sam, but you’ve learned to recognize when he’s upset like a sixth sense. You must make a noise of some kind, because Sam is shushing you under his breath and murmuring gentle reassurances just for you. 

“We’re gonna find out how to get the cuff off. You’re fine, we won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re safe with us.”

“I know.” Sam relaxes a little at that, his touch on you growing more confident and less vacillating. And maybe—just maybe—you were wrong, and he actually cares. It would be nice to have a friend, you hang onto the idea. “I trust you.”

He gives you one of those beams that bring out his dimples, fringe falling onto his eyes as a gust of fresh air hits your face. The smell of soil and grass is comforting, no more roses or cream. You’re safe. 

For now, that evil part of your brain reminds you.

Shut the fuck up.

Of course, peace doesn’t last long. The path down the field to the road out of town is long, cobblestone surrounded by yellow grass, and it all starts again soon enough.

The bronze heats up, your skin grows sensitive, a weight on your chest grows. Your tongue feels too slick against your teeth, your thighs are pressed too close together, the necklace around your throat is pushing deliciously against your windpipe. The ocean roars, preparing.

“Sam.” 

Your voice is low and whiny. You’ve never sounded like that before. You squirm and Sam’s arms around you tighten, probably to stop you from moving so he doesn’t drop you. But his fingernails dig into the meat of your legs, and his chest is lean and warm against your side, and you can’t do this right now. 

Sam has never been more than a possible friend, a little brother that you love wholeheartedly. But your body is on fire and the pain feels good and he smells too much like Dean—

“Sammy,” you repeat. The nickname makes both brothers stop marching. “Sammy, I need—I need you to stop touching me. Right now.”

“What?” Sam sounds confused, but you can’t make out anything aside from the white fog clouding the edges of your vision. Sam’s hands spam, your back arches involuntarily, biting down on your cheek so hard you taste iron. It’s building. Up, up, up.

“Stop touching her.” Dean’s somber voice is faint through the rush of blood in your ears and the scream of your brain. “Sam, fucking let her go!”

“But—” 

Dean makes a guttural noise, it doesn’t help. “Stop touching her or I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

Just like that, you’re plummeting. 

The world spins, air roars all around you, there’s more screaming. Then, pain. 

Hard concrete under your hands and knees, stinging on your skin, warm crimson dripping. It should be awful, it should stop the heat between your thighs and uncoil your gut, but it only makes it worse.

Someone yells your name and you make a little agonizing noise, curling onto yourself on the dirty ground, arms wrapping around your middle like you can contain the blazing bomb ticking inside of you. The cuff rasps against the pavement, you want to cut off your arm.

“You told me to let her go!”

“I didn’t mean drop her, you fucking brute!”

The drag of tiny rocks against your flesh, the rush of adrenaline from falling, the metallic smell of blood—you gasp desperately. 

You’re sick. You’re so fucking sick, and now Sam and Dean can see it. The beast has been unleashed and you’re left begging it to please, don’t do it. You’re a monster that wants too much, that wants wrong. Perverted and broken and wrong.

You knew it. Apparently the gods did as well. 

Divinely, intrinsically sick.

Breath by breath, second by second, you claw your way back from the edge. The heat gets more bearable, the fuzz goes back under your skin, the fog dissipates. The space between your legs is still throbbing, dripping and scorching, but now you can shift your knees without feeling like you’re gonna fly off your body. 

Someone calls your name again, and you finally notice that you’re still lying on the pavement, rolled into a little ball. Slowly, you force yourself to seat up, heaving for air. 

The wave has passed. 

“I don’t think—” Your voice is hoarse, you hope you weren’t being too loud. “I don’t think you should touch me anymore.”

You feel like a kid again, tiny and weak on the floor while the two men stare down at you. You keep your eyes on your bloody hands, ashamed, just like you had when your mother had caught you looking at a Heath Ledger magazine cutout for too long. You can feel the judgement in her eyes, her ugly words of immorality, the shame. Shame, shame, shame. 

“Son of a—” Dean cuts himself off with a bark, your eyes gloss over, shrinking further into the curb. “Come on, sweetheart, get off the ground. Baby’s right there, you can do it.”

Your eyes flicker up to find the Impala, parked just a few feet to your right. You almost, almost made it. It only makes you feel worse. 

Taking a deep breath that makes the fabric of your sweater brush against your breasts—your stiff, oversensitive nipples feeling it even through the lace of your bra, fuck—you rise to your feet. The first step you take is shaky, and you stumble forward a little. 

Both brothers extend a hand, instinctively wanting to hold you up, but they stop themselves before they can graze your skin. It’s humiliating, being this fucking helpless. The spite helps you straighten up and make your way to the car. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, you’re okay.” Dean murmurs before closing your door, once you’re already laying down across the backseat. “You’re gonna be okay.”

You’re not sure if he’s trying to convince you or himself. Either way, you cling to the words and close your eyes. 

༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚

The car ride is hellish.

You’d decided to rent a small house instead of a hotel, expecting to work this case for a couple of days. It has two rooms and a small kitchen, secluded enough that no one would catch you working spells or burning bones. 

It’s a blessing. You can’t imagine having to deal with this in a motel room. At least here you can scream your head off if you want to and no one will call the police. 

But it’s also a curse, because it meant you were trapped in the Impala for a while, with the roaring of the engine making your bones vibrate and everything smelling like earth and gunpowder and DeanDeanDean.

“I can’t find anything on, uhm, aphrodisiacal jewelry.” Sam’d said about ten minutes into the drive, already having gone through at least five articles in his laptop with miraculous wifi. “I’ll have to take a closer look at the cuff later, okay?”

You gave him a noncommittal grunt, an attempt at agreement. 

You hadn’t talked since the last wave. Either from exhaustion or shame, not even you were sure. But all you’d been able to do was hug yourself like a baby, eyebrows drawn with the effort of fighting the beast, who’s slowly waking up again. 

Still, you felt Sam’s gaze on you, firm and unyielding. Without another choice, you blinked your eyes open.

How’re you doing? He asked you with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

How do you think? You glared, Sam chuckled. Fucking fantastic.

I don’t know who’s gonna suffer more: you, Dean, or me having to witness it all.

The heat all over your body was momentarily replaced by confusion. Dean?

“I fucking hate when you two do that.” Dean grumbled, hitting the breaks at a red light a little too hard. You almost fell down into the footwell. “Fucking demonic, like the creepy twins from The Shining.”

Dean. Sam rolled his eyes before retorting something to his brother out loud, his eyes leaving yours.

Dean.

Your stomach flipped. You closed your eyes and didn’t open them again until you reached the house.

༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚

You find it in yourself to be grateful that the tide only starts rising once you’re already out of the car. In the old colonial house everything smells like cockroaches and old lady, and Dean is far away from sight somewhere in the kitchen. It at least makes it easier to waddle into your room without collapsing.

Eros was right, it slowly starts getting worse. Your skin feels completely raw, like someone plucked all your feathers and left you to roast over a bonfire. You don’t understand how it is supposed to feel good. It’s just torture.

Your legs tremble as you crawl into bed, breath choppy and muscles on fire. Your clothes feel too coarse against your tender flesh, scratchy and heavy and wrong, so you rip them off with frenzied hands. 

It’s only once you slide your panties down your legs that you notice how ruined they are. The thin fabric completely soaked through, translucent and sticky with it, some even trickling down your thighs. 

The cold air of the room against your naked pussy feels like both a punishment and a relief. You break down in goosebumps, legs giving up as you fall face first on the mattress, completely bare except for Eros’ cuff and overpowered by the terrible ache seizing your body.

Suddenly, musk, coffee and motor oil hit your nose. With a strangled moan, you tilt back your head and find one of Dean’s shirts lying over your pillow, wrinkled and dirty and oh. 

He’d been late this morning, scrambling all over the house while you and Sam waited outside. This is his sleeping shirt, some old band merch that he barely washes. He probably just threw it over his shoulder when he came to check the salt lines in your window.

When you’re questioned in purgatory, once this stupid curse kills you, you’ll claim that you tried. You tried really, really hard to ignore the shirt. But the smell of Dean is so strong, the fabric so smooth unlike your clothes—and it might just be your overheated body, but it still feels warm and worn against your cheek.

The beast takes over once more, and you bury your face against the frayed neckline. 

Finally, you have your first orgasm. 

There’s barely any buildup, no warning or omen. One second you’re drowning in Dean’s shirt, the next one you’re drowning in pleasure. And oh, there it is. Pleasure at last.

All the pain transforms, shifts, blooms. Your hips jerk against the blankets, the fabric bunching up between your thighs and brushing over the puffy lips of your cunt, making you hiss at the overwhelming friction. Your hands fist the shirt, pulling it closer to your face, until you can taste it on your tongue and down your throat.

The wave becomes a tsunami, washing all over you and dragging away any resemblance of suffering. It’s all white-hot delight, long and infinite. You keep humping the mattress until your clit pangs with oversensitivity, and even then you can’t help but rut your hips in gentle circles as you make your way back from elysium. 

This time the fall isn’t as awful. The ocean settles, the wave retreats, and you’re left drained but blissed. The shirt is soaked with your spit and the blankets soaked with your arousal. The room smells like sweat and sex and madness. The beast is roaming free, your mind is empty of any shame, you’ve never felt more alive. 

Why have you been denying this to yourself for so long?

Someone calls your name from outside the door. You almost fly off the bed. “Can we come in?”

“No!” You yell before clearing your throat. “Wait—wait a second.”

“...We can come back later.”

“No, No.” 

You quickly bundle Dean’s shirt and the blankets up in a little ball, throwing them inside the closet before pulling on clean underwear and a big sweater, long enough to hit mid thigh. You chuck one of the extra comforters Dean had brought you last night “just in case you get cold,” onto the bed, being mindful to open a window before sliding under it.

“Come in, it’s okay.”

You brush your sweaty hair off your forehead as the door opens, finding some drool on your chin. You wipe it off before either Sam or Dean can see, still a little too high on the afterglow to care all that much.

The Winchesters stand very still by the door, an old book in Sam’s hands and some water bottles in Dean’s, both looking around the room like they're expecting to encounter a murder scene. They’re not too far off. 

“Hey, so—” Sam takes some steps closer to bed before he halts, finally glancing at you. Dean is still immobile on the doorway. “Oh. Oh, wow. Uhm—”

You frown, lucidity returning, worried that you’d missed some crucial evidence in the rush of it all. “What?”

Sam is speechless, gaping like the townies after you’d forced them to look at Eros’ warehouse. He blinks a few times before his eyes return to his book, rubbing a hand over his face. Dean makes a little noise in the back of his throat, like a gutted stag. 

The bliss starts to turn into tar.

“Nothing, just—wow.” Sam’s voice is high, because the kid is a great liar when it comes to the big stuff, but he can’t handle a white lie to save his life.

“What?” You repeat, harsher, squirming self-consciously. 

“Are you feeling better?” Dean interrupts roghly, pushing his brother aside to make his way toward the window. He looks mad, you can’t judge him. 

“Yeah. I mean, it’s still working.” You point to the arm cuff, scarlet prickling on your cheeks. “But the wave’s passed.”

“Another one?” You nod at Sam’s question. He scribbles something in the margin of his book. “That’s around five minutes earlier than the last one.”

“Great.” You huff, drawing your knees up to your chest under the thick comforter. “So Eros wasn’t bullshitting. They get more frequent and more intense the longer I wear it.”

“It was more intense?” Sam questions as if he’s conducting an experiment, you feel like you’re under his microscope. “How come?”

You splutter, the red of your cheeks worsening as you feel both brothers’ eyes on you. “I’m–I mean–I don’t–ugh.” You hide your face against your knees, your voice muffled. You wish you could just perish right now, but you also know that if you want Sam to find a cure, you need to tell him as much as you can. “It…toppled over. Like, all the way.”

“Huh?” One second, two more, and then: “Oh.”

Dean curses under his breath, sharp and angry. You lift your head just in time to watch him storm out of the room, your heart shattering all over the carpet as he slams the door behind him. 

Sam gives you his classic puppy-eyed look, it doesn’t make it better. You hate his pity, you hate that everyone knows how pathetically in love you are with Dean, you hate that they all feel sorry for you. You hate that Dean will never feel the same.

Sam whispers your name, you shake your head. 

“Just do whatever you need to do,” you murmur, sinking further into the bed. “Before I get sick again.” Because no matter how good it can feel, how high it can take you if you give into it, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s sick. 

Now you remember why you don’t let yourself have this, not in this way. Because it’s degenerate, nauseating and depraved. You shouldn’t desire like this,  for this. Blood shouldn’t taste good and sweat shouldn’t smell good and Dean shouldn’t feel good. 

He doesn’t deserve to be the victim of your obsession, not when it’s so clear it repulses him.

You allow Sam to take a closer look at the bracelet, answering all his questions with an emotionless tone and letting your mind wander far away, where neither pleasure nor pain exist and you’re free of this carnal torment.

By the time Sam shuffles out the door, you’re half asleep already. He doesn’t dare to touch you again, but you can feel him giving you one last comforting look before locking you up in your room, like the monster you were always destined to be.

Falling onto the waiting arms of Morpheus is easy when every bit of you is spent and fuzzy. The breeze comes through the window, soothing whispers of leaves and sunlight. But in the distance, you can faintly hear Eros’ cackles, haunting you.

༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚

You haven’t seen Dean in a day. 

The rest of yesterday was spent drifting in and out of sleep, your body so unaccustomed to this amount of exertion that it could barely handle being awake for more than a few hours. 

Hours that were spent with you rolling around bed, riding wave after wave. At first you only dared to hump your pillows, ignoring the call of Dean’s shirt from the closet, a siren song begging you to falter. 

It was enough, for a while. It felt safe, instinctual, less depraved.

But then, when your thighs were sore and trembling, threatening to give up under you, you started to use your fingers. Rubbing small circles over your clit, sliding lower until your folds parted, dipping into the warmth of your entrance. You’d scarcely ever done this, always so afraid that someone was watching, that someone would condemn you for it—you forgot how good it could be.

You had to bite down on the sheets as your digits rammed inside of you, curving up to press against that gummy spot just as your thumb found your clit. Your other hand fondled with your breasts, pulling on the perks of your nipples and making you throw your head back. 

Still not quite what the curse wanted, but it got the job done.

Not too soon after that, the fantasies started. 

Dean, always Dean. Over you and under you and next to you. Between your legs or draped over your back or shoving you to the floor. Burying his face in your pussy or pushing your head down on his cock. Calling you pretty as he kissed all over you, calling you dirty as his hand wrapped around your neck, calling you both as he came so deep inside of you, you could feel him in your throat. 

You’ve wondered if you started hallucinating at some point, because his voice in your ear was so clear and real. His name was always on your tongue, whispered or stifled or bloody, canines biting down on your arm deep enough to draw blood just to keep it down. 

Baths were hard to get through, especially when you had to take so many. Around every three hours, you were disgusting enough that you couldn’t stand not jumping in the shower, sticky with sweat and spit and arousal. But your skin was too raw for the decent water pressure of the house, the tiles were too cold, the water too hot, and you couldn’t stand looking at yourself in the mirror.

But then you’d discovered the handheld shower head. 

It’d been a miracle. Your cunt was starting to get too sore from the direct friction, your fingers were cramping and your insides were bruised—every orgasm brought tears to your eyes, and not the good kind. 

But the water was perfect, gentle enough not to hurt, intense enough to satiate the beast. 

After a two hour “shower,” you were able to sleep through the night.

Sam had checked on you periodically, always knocking loudly on the door before coming in, leaving water and food on your bedside table before updating you on his research. Sadly, he hasn’t found much. 

He still looks shocked every time he sees you, having to take a second before walking into the room. You don’t ask, he doesn’t explain. There’s a reason you’ve been avoiding mirrors—you don’t want to see what your disease has done to your body. 

You must look like an obscene mess. Or maybe Sam is just being a little Victorian-Man about it.

You’d ask Dean, but Dean hadn’t shown his face at all. Not to say goodnight, not to nag you about salt lines and devil’s traps, not to make sure you’re not dead.

You knew that once he saw just how rotten you are, you’d lose him. It still hurts like a rusty nail to the brain.

Sleep wasn’t perfect, still plagued with dreams of debauchery and perversion, but it was replenishing. 

After your first orgasm of the morning, you were able to take an actual shower, brush your teeth, and get dressed up in something other than oversized cotton shirts, ready to be reintroduced into society. 

You’d learned a lot more in your confinement other than how many ways you can make yourself cum. You’d learned that the period between waves only gets shorter after a set of three or four, and that you have about five minutes after it starts before it gets unbearable. You learned that ignoring it only makes it more painful and more abrasive, and that trying to stop it is useless.

You also learned that you weren’t made to stay in one place only.

You’re already going stir-crazy, after one day of being locked up. If the curse is going to kill you, you want to see the sunlight at least one last time.

“I’m going out.” You announce to Sam, rushing into the kitchen and grabbing the first piece of food you can find. “I’ll be back in exactly—” You glance down at your watch, where you’re timing your next wave. “Twenty-five minutes.”

“You’re what?”

You almost spit out the piece of bread you’d jammed into your mouth, not expecting Dean to still be here. His voice brings back memories of phantom praises and degradation and naughty orders. You have to physically shake them off before the tide rises early.

You turn around, finding Sam sitting on the dinner table, eyebags under his eyes and a million books surrounding him. Next to him, Dean is sipping on a cup of coffee, looking tired and upset, still in his pajamas and looking like he hasn’t left the house at all. 

They both flinch a little when you face them. Your cheeks redden with embarrassment, you don’t let it deter your initiative.

“There’s a corner store less than a mile down the road,” you explain, munching on the rest of the bread before moving to grab your jacket. “I’m just gonna go buy some ice cream and I’ll be back.”

“The fuck you are!”

That makes you pause, just a few feet away from the door. Dean gets mad at you, sometimes. He gets irritated or grumpy or annoyed, but he never talks like that to you. With that much fury, with that much scorn.

“Excuse me?”

Dean is by your side in a second, arms crossed, wearing a scowl so deep that his face might just be stuck that way forever. “Go back to your room.”

You raise an eyebrow, and Sam winces somewhere behind you. 

“Is that an order?” Dean only shrugs, because he never knows when to back down. You’re seething. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Because how dare he. Talking about fucking other girls and abandoning you when you’re like this and not wanting you. How dare he, break your heart into pieces so small, you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to put it back together. How dare he, fusing your souls together in an everlasting way, just to take them both with him. 

How fucking dare he.

“I’m the guy who has to deal with your mess while you’re in there—whatever.” If you were less furious, you’d notice the flush creeping down his neck. “So go back to your room, and let us work.”

“You have to deal with my mess?!” you shout. Dean recoils, it sobers you up. Your voice lowers to a still livid but collected tone. “You were the one who insisted on me wearing it in the first place!”

Something akin to guilt crosses his face before it goes back to disdain, and he grumbles something unintelligible that you don’t care to dissect. Time is running out, and you need to go.

“Why are you even here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be out getting passed around like a blunt?”

It’s depressing, the way your own words make you ache. And Dean has the audacity to look offended.

“That’s got nothing to do with this.”

“It does if you’re getting in my way!” Your clock beeps. Twenty minutes. “So why don’t you go find a bar or some glory hole, and leave me alone.”

“Because I’m stuck here, reading about fucking hellistic magic shit, for you.”

“Hellenistic.” Sam corrects unhelpfully, both of you ignore him.

“No one’s asking you to!” You run a hand through your hair, tugging on the roots harshly. Because you’re just so, so tired. You close your eyes, taking a few slow breaths. “Go! You’re free, Winchester. Leave! I’m not getting in the way of your fun, so don’t get in the way of mine.”

The kitchen is completely silent as you stay still, eyes screwed shut and lips trembling, and for a second you’re almost sure that the brothers left. But then, “Is that what this is about?”

You’ve never heard Dean like this, voice bitter and broken. Your eyes flutter open, meeting his, and he looks like you just shot his puppy. At your attention, his mask hardens like concrete. 

But his facade is faltering, and so is yours.

“You want to go find someone? Have some fun?”

Oh. 

You’ve thought about it—someone else’s hands on your burning flesh, their fingers and tongue and cock, helping you ride the tide until you’re all placid sweet water. You could find some poor bastard too desperate or too foolish to notice the rabid foam in the corner of your lips, someone willing to take mercy on you, someone who can give you what you need.

Nonono. That’s all your mind could chant. Wrong. Thisiswrongsowrong. 

You feel nauseous, ready to vomit all of your insides. No.

“Maybe,” you answer instead, because you’re half delirious from Eros’ magic and the cuff is warming up again. Dean grimaces, gaze dropping to the floor, and the bomb that explodes inside of you is pure wrath. “What, Winchester? Is it so fucking impossible to imagine anyone could want me? Do I disgust you so much that you can’t handle the idea of someone fucking me?”

Now Dean looks like he’s about to hurl. 

“Guys—”

“That’s not—ugh, you can be so…” Dean covers his mouth with a hand, like he’s physically trying to swallow back his words.

“No, no. Say it.” You step closer, even when the proximity is like sulfuric acid in your brain. He still won’t look at you, so you shove him back, craving a fight almost as much as you crave his love. He stumbles, just a few inches, because he just has to be built like a freaking wall of bricks. “Say it, Dean.”

To his credit, Dean holds himself together way more than you expected. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t throw shit around, doesn’t even try to push you back. He simply exhales, loud and forced, and lifts his face with calculated resolve. 

“You’re going back to your room, and we’re gonna keep researching. That’s the end of it.”

Dean’s tone is demanding, your watch beeps, your pussy throbs. 

It doesn’t help how infuriated you are. 

“You’re not my dad, Dean, you can't just tell me what to do!” You shove him again, harder, and the way his muscles don’t budge under your palm does nothing for the twist of your gut. 

“I’m not letting you go outside right now,” he spits out your name, his faux tranquility shattering. His next words are spoken through clenched teeth. “Not when—when you look like that.”

A gunshot. Right to the right of your heart, blood oozing and lungs punctured. Fatal. 

It’s not a surprise that Dean isn’t attracted to you. Being faced with the excruciating reality of it is still cataclysmic.

“Fuck you, Dean.” It comes out in a half-choked sob. You attempt to push him again but your touch is weak, a barely-there brush of your hand before you take a few clumsy steps back, tears burning on your eyes and needles prickling your skin. “Fuck you! I fucking hate you, I—”

You spin on your heels, ready to lurch for the door. It’s too late for the store, and there’s nowhere else to go in this deserted little town. The next wave is too soon and it’ll last too long and it’s too cold outside to take a walk—

Dean calls your name, a desperate plea you’ve heard so many times before in midnight fantasies, and then his hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you back from the doorway.

But you’re burnt-out and woozy, so the firm tug makes you lose your balance. Once again, Dean’s chest is there to catch you, huge arms around your body and immovable frame holding you up. His breath is on your neck, and he’s so warm and firm behind you and you can’t—

White. For a long moment, everything goes white. Your whole body feels like an exposed nerve, as if you’re made of pure lighting. It’s better than Dean’s shirt, It’s better than the showerhead. 

It’s Dean, finally.

You enter another dimension, where everything is syrupy and glorious. There’s the faraway but familiar sound of knees against tile, the faint crawl of sickness, someone shouting your name. But it’s all filtered by the colossal ecstasy that Dean’s touch brought you.

It feels like it lasts hours, maybe days. An infinite spiral of gut-wrenching climax, a rollercoaster speeding up until you touch the sky, clouds on your fingertips and dew between your legs. 

When you come back to yourself, you’re once again on the ground. Your knees are sore, your throat is dry, your underwear is soaked. Spasms still travel through your body as you try to catch your breath, gasping violently and pawing at the legs in front of you for support. 

Worn fabric against your palms, scratchy and warm like the hand that just catapulted you out of the stratosphere. 

“Dean.” This time you say it outloud. Dean makes a wounded noise, you can’t help but cling to his legs. Begging, praying for forgiveness. Like a sinner bleeding on an altar, like a sacrifice watching the executioner sharpen his knife. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry. Fuck, I’m—”

Tears, streaming down your face like a broken dam. Your words melt into a bundle of sobs and wails, your whole body shaking with the force of them. If Dean didn’t hate you before, he for sure hates you now. 

Now that you’ve dragged him into the mud with you, imposed your disease on him, forced him to be part of your depravity.

“Sweetheart…” Dean whispers, kneeling down and trying to reach for you. 

You slither back, kicking your legs and shaking your head so hard it makes you all dizzy. “No, No. Don’t touch me! I’m sick! I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sick and I’m sorry.”

With a click of his tongue, Dean fists your ankle, dragging you across the floor and right into his body with just a yank of his arm. A loud moan escapes your lips. 

His arms are like iron around you, caging you against his chest and not letting go, no matter how hard you trash around. 

“Shhh. Shhh, sweetheart. I got you, you need to calm down. I got you.”

You want to keep fighting, to kick him in the gut and punch him in the eye and protect him from yourself. But you’ve been locked inside your room for a whole day, dealing with the rabid beast inside you all by yourself, yearning for the tiniest bit of comfort.

Comfort like Dean’s bare arms against yours, like his voice—his real voice—murmuring sweet nothings in your ear, like the vivid smell of him instead of the washed off remains on old fabric. It’s impossible not to take. 

Because you’re selfish and ugly and starved.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. I’m sorry for clinging to you like this. I’m sorry for cumming just from your body pressed against mine. I’m sorry for wanting you. “I didn’t mean to, I swear.”

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” He sounds sad. Why does he sound fucking sad? “It’s the cuff, I know. I—I’m sorry.”

You can’t help but tug him closer, fingers gripping his shirt and digging onto his ribs, your nose buried on his sternum. Your legs are intertwined, his hands are rubbing up and down your back, he’s everywhere. 

“Why? I’m the one who’s fucked up.” You’re not even sure Dean can hear you, your voice so tiny and broken. A chair scraps against the floor somewhere behind you, you hide your face further into Dean’s chest. “Hell, you didn’t consent to that at all, I’m so sorry.”

A moment of silence. Sam, who you’d forgotten about entirely, clears his throat. “I’ll take the Impala and go get that ice cream. Text me when I can come back.”

Dean nods silently. You tilt your head back until you can see Sam over your shoulder, hazel eyes already searching for yours.

You’ll be okay?

Probably not. 

Sam chuckles, shaking his head. 

I’d beg to differ. A little sparkle in his irises tells you. Good luck.

With that, he leaves. You’re left staring at the door, wondering how this all would’ve gone if you had just left for good. This morning, yesterday, months ago. Maybe you should’ve never been here.

“You didn’t either.” You turn back to Dean, confused. He watches your face for a second before dropping his gaze to your hands on his shirt, a bitter laugh leaving his lips. “You didn’t consent to this, either.”

“What?”

“Sweetheart, I—goddamn it.” He huffs, one of his hands leaving your body to rub over his face, rough and angry. Without thinking, you pull it away from where his pretty skin was already turning red under the punishing touch. You hold his palm in yours, cradling it against your chest. “You’re cursed and in pain, and I’m just a selfish bastard taking advantage of it. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

You blink a few times, tears still wet on your cheeks and slick still sticky on your thighs, wondering if the last orgasm left you with severe brain damage. Because what the fuck is he talking about?

“Dean…” you murmur slowly, trying to search for his eyes. He avoids you like the plague. For some reason, it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. “All I’ve done is drag you and Sam into my—problem, over and over again. I’m the one infecting you with this, the one staining you. How on earth are you taking advantage of it?”

So many things flash on Dean’s face at the same time. Shame, loathing, mortification, resignation.

“You really have no idea what you do to me.” For the first time in ages, you feel cold. Frozen in time, only Dean’s words keeping you grounded. “I’ve got a handle on it most days, but when you’re right here, moaning so sweetly and writhing so prettily… shit, baby, even the strongest man would falter. And you have the audacity to look like that.”

It hits completely different now. 

“What are you saying, Dean?” You squeeze his hand, tight enough for his fingers to turn white. 

He utters your name, low and husky—an imprecation, a psalm. 

“You know damn well.”

“No,” you whisper, leaning closer to those beautiful green irises that’ve haunted you for so long. “I have no idea.”

“I want you, sweetheart.” He whispers back, almost inaudible. The beast starts to roar, maniacal. “I’ve been wanting you for years. I’m the one who’s truly sick.”

A million things pass through your mind. Why, how, when. If it wasn’t for the constant throbbing of your body, you’d pinch yourself to make sure it’s not just another vivid dream. 

“But you never look at me?”

“What?”

“You never look at me, Dean.” Your cheeks are stiff with dried tears, Dean’s hand cups one of them gently. You melt against the touch, shivering all over. “I’m always there, but you just see right through me.”

“Oh, baby.” Everything goes fuzzier every time he says it. Something in your face must show it, because Dean drops his hand and tries to pull back. You whimper, tugging harder on his shirt, practically crawling onto his lap. He groans. “You think I could look at you and still hold back? I had to look away. I ruin everything I touch, and I couldn’t risk—I couldn’t risk losing you. Not you.” He hesitates for a second before resting his forehead on yours. Your lips part at the contact. “Still, you are all I can see.”

With a desperate little whine, you dive down for Dean’s lips. 

But all your mouth finds is the stubbled skin of his cheek, his head jerked to the side and scrunched in agony. 

“Dean.” You mutter, because that’s all that's in your mind. “Dean, Dean, Dean.”

“Stop,” he pleads, but his hands latch onto your waist. You moan again, the prickling on your skin now a lot gentler, a lot less disgusting. Almost beautiful. “I can’t. It’s the cuff, baby. You don’t really want this.”

“I do. I want you, more than anything else.”

“Stop it. Now.”

You can’t.

“I’ve wanted you ever since I’ve known you, Dean.”

Your name, again, imploring.

“It’s not the stupid arm cuff, it’s not Eros’ magic, it’s not anything else. It’s just me. Me, wanting you so bad I can’t breathe when you’re not with me.” After so long holding back, it all spills out like a hurricane. “I’ve wanted you long before this, when Sammy lets me ride shotgun down the interstate and when I’m patching up your reckless wounds and when you put on that stupid little winning smile whenever things go your way.”

Dean tries to look away again, but you won’t let him anymore. You grab his face, nails digging into his jaw, pinning him under your gaze just like Eros did. 

“Look at me, Dean. Finally, really look at me.”

You’re not sure who leans in first, with the heat rising and clouding your mind, but suddenly Dean’s mouth is on you. 

It’s violent, teeth clashing and lips bruising. Dean’s tongue is so far down your throat it makes you gag a little. He tries to apologize, but you shut him up by grinding down against his crotch, a hard bulge already there to welcome you under thin fabric.

You’re basically eating each other, hands groping all they can find and hips rutting incessantly. Dean’s fingers tangle on your hair, pulling gently. You bite down on his tongue, sucking it into your mouth right after, and he tugs harder. 

“Fuck. Fuck, baby. I’m goin’ insane.” He grunts when you break the kiss, licking and nibbling down his throat, leaving angry red bruises everywhere you can. “You have no idea—lookin’ so gorgeous, like fuckin’ sex reincarnated. I’ve been losin’ my mind.”

He sounds deranged, it’s only gasoline to the wildfire inside of you. You snarl against his collarbone, scratching at his shirt like it personally offended you, lips collapsing with the high neckline. Dean chuckles, endeared.

“Calm down, baby girl.” He uses the hand on your hair to guide you away from where your teeth were abusing the space between his neck and shoulder. You pout at the loss, Dean licks it away. “You’re so desperate, darling.”

He yanks his shirt over his head, and you immediately get to work. Pushing him back until he’s lying down on the tiles, climbing over him until the outline of his cock is pressed right against your ass, gnawing on the hills of his pecs and down the ridges of his ribs.

“You have no idea, Winchester.” You make your way down his body, running your tongue through the faint trail of hair under his navel and chewing on his hip bone. Dean’s hips jerk up, your teeth sink into the flesh of his waist in reprimand. “I’ve been locked in that room for ages. I’m more than desperate.”

“It was less than a day.” Dean’s laughter is interrupted when you pull his pajama pants and underwear down his thighs with one swift movement. 

His cock springs up proudly against his stomach, flushed and shiny with precum already. He hisses as the cold air hits him, and your mouth waters so bad you have to swallow down a mouthful of it. 

“How are you pretty all over?” You whine, fisting the base of it furiously. He’s big, thick and veiny. Delicious. Dean cries out, but you ignore him. You want him to hurt a little. “Fucking unfair. Pretty eyes and pretty face and pretty cock. Maybe I do hate you.”

You pounce on him, taking him all the way down your throat in one go. Your gag reflex is completely gone, it has to be the arm cuff. The bronze burns against your skin, almost satisfied, and you hope Eros isn’t watching from somewhere.

But deep down, you don’t really care. He can enjoy the show.

All that matters is the veins of Dean’s dick pulsing on your tongue, his hand fisting your hair and his back arching off the floor. He keens, so loud you’re glad there aren’t any neighbors nearby, as you start bopping your head. Your throat contracts around his length, and the strain of his fingers on your locks have you humping his leg, dying for a little friction. 

“Shit, darlin’, warn a guy.” He pants, starting to thrust up into your mouth. You pin his hips down to the floor, letting the edge of your teeth brush right under the engorged head. Dean cries out the sweetest noise you’ve ever heard. “Yeah, fuck, taking me so deep. Sweet fuckin’ mouth, so warm and wet for me. You’re heaven, baby girl. Swallowing me down like an angel.”

You feel anything but angelical right now, sweat beading on your forehead as you pull back until just the tip is on your tongue, using your hand to stroke the rest of his shaft. Your tongue dips into his slit, savoring the bitter and musky taste of precum, the beast howling for more. 

“Shit, shit. Wait.” Dean tries to drag you up by the hair, but you claw at his hips and stay right where you belong, suckling on his cock while your other hand fondles his balls. “Stop, I’m gonna—Gonna cum, sweetheart. You need—”

You part your lips, letting him slide out your mouth but keeping him pressing against your face. You gaze up at him—green irises consumed by blown pupils, lips shiny and parted, hair mussed and wild. It’s better than the guy in Eros’ book, better than your wettest dreams. He’s perfect.

“I want you to cum.” You nuzzle your cheek against the sticky length of him, making him twitch, more precum spurting out. “I want to taste it, De.”

Dean whines, and it shoots through your bloodstream like heroin. You need more, now and tomorrow and forever.

“I’m not cursed like you, you little vixen. I can’t—” He shudders as you start to leave little kitten licks all over him, lowering your head until you can suck one of his balls into your mouth. “Motherfu—I can’t come twice so quickly, baby. And I wanna fuck you.”

A long, dragged moan vibrates in your chest at that, your hips rutting harder against his leg. You return to the head of his cock, leaving a saccharine open-mouthed kiss there. 

“It’s okay, I can wait.” You blink up at him in what you hope is an irresistible pout. It seems to work, because Dean’s fingers on your hair relent. You lick your teeth slowly. “Besides, I can think of about a million things to do in the meantime.”

“When did you—Ah!” The back of your throat must be bruised, aching as Dean bumps into it again, tender flesh holding the memory of his cock. The thought brings you closer to orgasm than you’d like to admit. “When did you get so filthy?”

Always. You want to say. I’ve always been like this. I’ve always been this perverse. 

Instead, you squeeze his balls in one hand and hollow your cheeks, tongue twirling around him before pushing against the pulsing vein on the underside. He growls hoarsely before going really still, spilling all over your mouth, head falling back on the floor with a thundering bang. 

The overly-familiar feeling of climax reaches you, wrapping around you like a soft blanket, no longer tearing you apart from the inside out. Your hips stutter against Dean’s thigh, moaning around his still quivering dick, swallowing down every bit of his sweet release. 

He’s coating your mouth and your throat and your insides. He’s all over you, on your lips and esophagus and guts. All yours. Only yours.

You straighten up, leaving one last smooch on Dean’s softening cock before climbing back on top of him. 

He looks almost dead. Breath ragged, eyes closed, skin glistening—absolutely drained. His hand slips from your hair, falling onto your thigh clumsily, neck and chest blooming with teeth marks and hickeys. You puff up with pride. 

“Come on.” You shake him slightly, hips already rutting in little circles against his stomach. The wave isn’t gone, but it’s not wrecking you either. You’re hot all over, still itchy and bothered, but you’re not hurting. Not anymore. You’re just eager. “Let’s get you hard again, I need you inside me. Now.”

Dean groans, curling into himself a little. “You’re a psycho, I should’ve known. You murdered me, you insatiable little thing.”

“You can thank Eros for that.” Anguish flashes on Dean’s face. You kiss him slowly, letting him taste himself on your tongue, licking behind his teeth until he’s a puddle under you. “Stop thinking so hard, we need all that blood downstairs."

“Jesus Christ.” His hands return to your body, kneading the fat of your ass and your upper thighs, making you roll your hips faster. Still, when his eyelashes flutter open, something troubled dances in his eyes. “You’re batshit crazy. I adore you.”

That makes you giggle, pecking his lips chastly as your body erupts in little satisfied goosebumps, heart swelling against your will. It’s just dirty talk, shit that he must say to every girl. It still makes you all soft inside. 

“Come on, big boy.” You smack his pec, watching it jiggle with glittering eyes. You lean down, taking a mouthful of it between your teeth. “Unless you don’t wanna fuck me?”

With an exasperated huff, Dean collects you in his arms and jumps to his feet. You yelp, legs wrapping around his waist, hands clutching his shoulders. 

“Dean! What are you—”

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’ll fuck you for the first time on the fucking floor.”

It’s not special, you have to remind yourself. You’re not special.

You end up in your room, your sheets crumpled and still holding the shape of you, the open window barely helping the smell of sweat and sex. 

“You really made a mess in here, huh?” Dean drops you on the mattress, draping himself over you immediately. “Left all alone, so fucking needy.”

“Yes,” you croak as Dean rips your clothes off, leaving you only in your underwear. “It was Hell, De. It hurt, so bad, and nothing I did was enough.”

“But you tried, hm?” He hovers over you, observing you carefully. Admiring, almost devoted. You repress the urge to hide. “Tried to take care of it? Give your body what it needs?”

You nod, a little fevered under Dean’s gaze. His hands start to roam all over, brushing your legs and squeezing your waist and cupping your tits over your bra. You arch against the touch, impatient. “Off. Dean, take it off.”

“Not until you tell me what you did,” he whispers in your ear, sucking the lobe between his lips. Your breath hitches, wondering if you could cum from his voice alone. Probably. Stupid Cupid magic. “Tell me, baby. How did you survive that awful day locked away.”

He’s being a condescending asshole. You want to kick him, you kiss him instead. 

All the shame suddenly vanishes, the beast gone missing inside of you, replaced by an irresistible hankering. Tomorrow you’ll vomit, and scrub your skin raw, and beg to be put down like a rabid animal. Today, you’re allowed to indulge. 

“I—I touched myself,” you mutter against his lips. Dean breaks the kiss and bites down on your neck, leaving little marks of his own. “I rode my pillow and fucked myself with my fingers, made myself cum over and over again until my legs stopped working. I played with my tits, like this.” You grab Dean's hands, guiding them under the cups of your bra. He squeezes, sucking harder on your jugular. “And I imagined it was—”

You cut yourself off, scared that such a confession will ruin everything, but Dean keeps making his way down your body. Kissing the valley of your breasts, finally taking off your bra, sucking each nipple into his mouth until they’re stiff and flushed, and then moving even lower, dipping his tongue on your navel. When he speaks, he sounds wrecked.

“What did you think about, baby girl? Come on, don’t get shy on me now.”

“You. I thought of you.” His spent dick makes a brave attempt at hardening again, twitching against your calf now that Dean’s head is between your legs. He licks a long strip up your slit over the translucent cotton of your panties, a reward. You keen, thighs hooking over his shoulders. “Ngh, Dean! I thought of your fingers inside me, of your tongue—” He laps at your cunt again, more profusely. You’re gushing, drenched panties and inner thighs. “Of your cock. Fuck, I wanted your cock so bad, De. C-came the hardest when I thought of you fucking me.”

“You’re so wet.” He sounds awed. Scarlet blooms across your cheeks, you try to push his head away. It's futile.

“It-it’s the cuff. I’m sorry—”

“You’re fuckin’ soaked, darling.” He doesn’t even seem to hear you, his voice dreamy like a kid in a candy store. “Drippin’ for me, such a good girl.” And then, shredding. Fabric tearing, cold air and hot breath. Dean just ripped your panties off. “Shit. Prettiest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever seen.”

That’s enough for the curse, apparently. Fireworks burst inside your ribcage, your thighs squash Dean’s head—who doesn’t complain in the slightliest—and you’re cumming again.

“Son of a bitch.” You’d laugh at Dean’s astonishment if you weren’t so busy fighting the tears that burn in the back of your eyes. “Another one, just from that? How many times can you come, baby girl?”

“I’m not—” Dean starts to mouth at the mess on your thighs, lapping up your slick and sweat, humming contently. “I’m not sure. I think I counted ten, last night. But I–I kinda passed out, so.”

“Mhm.” Dean grins up at you, foxy and glistening with your arousal. You want to devour him whole. “Well, let’s find out.”

“Huh?” You’re a little dumb with it already. Three orgasms at the hands of the man you love more than life isn’t for the weak. But then Dean blows air over your pussy lips, leaving a sweet little kiss on your clit. “More?”

“Oh, darling.” His grin turns dangerous, you find it in yourself to be a little afraid. “I’m not anywhere near done with you.”

With that, he plunges face first into your cunt, fully making out with it. And as he promises, he doesn’t stop for a while.

He makes you come on his tongue two more times before he lets you rest, pressing kisses all down your legs and over your bruised knees, leaving matching ones on your hips and up your sternum. He peppers little pecks across your shoulders, dips down until he can suck on your tits again, his fingers circling your entrance before entering you.

Another orgasm finds you with three of his digits massaging your insides and his mouth suckling on your breasts. It feels oddly romantic. Dean’s a little ditzy after, licking his fingers and babbling about how good you taste, slumping against you like a giant teddy bear, impossibly broad shoulders and tiny waist bearing down on you. 

His dick is already hard, weeping and still pretty, somehow looking even more inviting after a million climaxes. 

“Dean.” He only mumbles against your skin, cock snugly pressed between your asscheeks, your legs encircling his waist. You try to tug him back by the hair, make him face you, but he refuses. He sounds sulky, almost spoiled. Pussydrunk. “Baby, c’mon. Let me see you.”

When you finally get a glimpse of his face, it leaves you breathless. Puffy lips, drool on his chin, blush making his freckles pop up. His eyes are glassy, his pupils so huge that almost no green is visible, his hair spiky and all over his forehead.

You brush it back with a gentle hand, revering. Your pretty boy, who isn’t yours at all.

“Look at you.” Deciding that you’re going to hell anyway, so might as well, you lick a long strip up his face. From chin to temple, collecting sweet spit and salty sweat on your tongue. Dean honest to god whimpers, so you repeat the action on the other side. “Such a pretty thing.”

“Not pretty.” He goes for macho, it comes out huffy. 

“No? You’re a big bad hunter?” He nods, scowling, the haze behind his eyes slowly fading. “Well, I think you’re pretty.” You lick into his mouth, the taste of both of you long mixed between your tongues. “The prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up.” He sounds more present as he pushes you down onto the sheets, but the bridge of his nose flushes crimson and his eyes don’t quite meet yours. “You’re pretty.”

“Real mature, lover boy.” You poke his side, giggling against his teeth. “What’s next, you’re gonna accuse me with your mommy—?”

Suddenly, your legs are being pushed against your chest, bending you in half as Dean’s cock slides between the folds of your abused cunt, tip brushing your swollen clit, succulently painful. 

“I’m gonna cum inside you. That’s what’s next.” For a beat, everything is funeral-silent. Dean looks as shocked by the words as you, whatever daze had overcome him before completely gone. “I–I didn’t mean that. I’ll go get a condom, don’t worry—”

“No!” You claw at his shoulders when he tries to get up, yanking him down and making his dick catch on your entrance. You both moan, your legs already trembling. “I wanna feel you. Please, I need to feel you.”

“You sure?” His voice is tight, like he’s holding onto his last bit of resolution. You want him to let go.

“Yes, yes,” you say desperately, hips jerking under the unrelenting weight of Dean’s. “Please, I want you to mark me, inside and out. I want you to fill me up, baby, please.”

Dean lets out a broken noise, grabs your hips, and rams into you in one thrust. 

You’re so full, you feel like you’ll tear at the seams. It’s been years since you’ve had something other than fingers enter you, and Dean fits so right that you can’t fathom how you’ve lived this long without it.

“There you go, good girl.” His hands move to rest on each side of your head, bracing himself as he starts rolling his hips. His face is tucked against the side of your neck, and he almost sounds as destroyed as you. “Look at you, baby, taking my cock so well. Opening up for me, soaking wet, perfect sweet cunt. Just for me.”

Oh, he has no idea.

His whispers in your ear are so much better than anything your mind could’ve come up with. Dirty fucking mouth and sharp tongue, leaving you shaking in his arms. You tangle your body with his, arms around his shoulders and ankles crossed on his lower back, suddenly afraid that the gods will get jealous and try to take him from you.

They’ll have to rip him from your cold dead hands.

“Dean—” You gasp when he shifts, changing the angle and hitting depths you weren’t even aware existed. It’s like your body molds around him, making space for his huge cock, and you know you’ll hold the shape of him long after he’s gone. Maybe forever. “You’re–God—”

He pulls back until you can see his face, his hands circling your waist and pulling you down on his dick, the headboard banging against the wall with each rock of your bodies. He sucks on your upper lip, his voice a deep growl that rumbles through your whole body. 

“You like it, baby girl? Like it when I wreck your pretty pussy? Want me to fucking ruin it?”

“Yesyesyes.” You chant, going a little cross-eyed when he finally finds that gooey, needy spot inside of you. It’s so different from Eros’ magic, less glittery and more real. Carnal and brutal and real. “Feels so good, De. You’re so–you’re so fucking good. Need you to ruin me.”

Dean moans, guttural and a little demented.

“You’re gonna be the end of me.” His pace picks up, rabid. You clench around him, nails digging into his shoulders and tugging him down until his chest is glued to yours, needing every inch of him pressed against every inch of you. “So fucking tight, baby. Better than any other pussy I’ve ever fucked, fitting me like a glove, made for me.”

You throw your head back, tongue lolling out as Dean starts to gently pet at your clit, the bundle of nerves too sensitive for anything else. Still, it feels like you’re being engulfed by nectar. 

“I wanted to kill them.” You babble, your mind sluggish with Dean’s touch, the heat of him, the way you can feel precum leaking inside of you already. “All those other girls, all those ‘smokin’ singles.’ I wanted to murder them. I needed them dead, I needed you all to myself.”

Part of you knows you’ll regret all of that later, that evil side that never lets you have anything. But the way Dean’s cock twitches as he starts pounding harder against that sweet spot drives you to utterly ignore it.

“Fuck, why is that so hot.” He groans, hiking your legs higher up his body and enclosing you in his arms, his body covering yours completely. You can’t move an inch, absolutely at the mercy of his frantic thrusts and ponderous frame. “It’s only you now, baby. Just you.”

You know it’s not true. Not a single cell in your body even attempts to believe it—that you could be Dean’s best, Dean’s only one. It’s as delusional as the earth being flat or God being a mediocre fantasy author.

It doesn’t stop it from turning you all dopey. The room is filled with your obscene moans and the slap of skin against skin, your mouth parted wide open and eyes rolled back as Dean continues to murmur lewd nothings against your cheek.

“‘M gonna make you mine, pretty girl. Hell, look at that angel face, all fucked out, just for me.” He mirrors your previous actions, licking up the drool dribbling down your chin. “Stupid cuff, making you look like a fuckin’ goddess, all glowy and shit. And you don’t even know it. Goddamn doll face and dream body, even without the curse. Gonna fuckin’ fill you up, mark that perfect cunt all mine.”

It’s almost too good. Too much. The soft circles against your clit, the head of Dean’s cock slamming against your cervix, his warm mouth on your jaw, sucking more bruises that you’ll press down on later.

The cuff starts to smoke. You’d almost forgotten about it, until now. It feels like it’s charring your skin, burning so hot it almost goes back to cold. Dean gives you a specially deep thrust, your whole body seizing with it, and it all melts together in a rush of unbearable pleasure. 

You turn your head to the side, writhing under Dean’s unrelenting weight, but there’s nowhere to go. Your face ends up smushed against his bicep, flexed and chunky muscle against your lips, almost as big as your face. 

You bite down on it, hard. 

Metallic explodes in your mouth, thick and holy. Dean cries out, his hips stuttering. 

“You’re bleeding,” you mumble through a mouthful of flesh, deliriously. “Oh my god, you’re bleeding.”

You think you scream his name, you’re not really sure. Pleasure numbs your every other sense as your final orgasm hits, making all of the others seem like tiny ponds in comparison. This is a cyclone, and you’re in the eye of the storm. 

The next few moments are utter oblivion. Everything blurs together until you can’t tell them apart—Dean still grinding into you and the cuff on your arm and the mess of emotions buried so deep in your ribcage. 

For a second, they’re all one and the same.

You come back down like you’re resurfacing from a shipwreck, gasping as your vision clears, your mouth wrapping around words you can’t really make out. When the rush of blood and exhilaration start to fade, your own loopy voice reaches you.

“...love you, love you, love you, love you.” 

You’re repeating it over and over again, like a prayer. Through blood-stained lips and tar-coated teeth, like a violent wolf offering its neck to the hunter.

“What?” Dean’s stopped moving completely, his limbs rigid all around you. You whine at the interruption, grinding up against his—thankfully still hard—cock. Dean holds you down, both his hands cupping your face a little more forcefully than he intended, squeezing your cheeks until your lips are pursed and you have no choice but to look into his eyes. “What did you say?”

There’s no point in lying. You’ve shown all your cards, revealed every rotten and ugly bit of you, there was never a way back from here. 

“I love you, Dean. I really fucking lov—ah!”

He slams into you with refound vigor, dragging you up and down the bed until you're lightheaded, the whole world spinning as he whines like a puppy, cock twitching against your walls. 

“I love you too.” You’re sure you imagined it at first. But then he grabs a fistful of your hair, crashing his lips with yours hard enough to break them, spit and blood and desperation all mixing on your mouths. “I love you so much, holy shit. I’ve loved you forever, baby girl, I can’t believe—fuck.”

He’s feral, snaring and grunting and fucking crazy. 

It still takes you a bit to process the words, the way he’s moving like a madman, the pure devotion in his tone. He loves you. Dean Winchester freaking loves you.

It’s world-shattering, it’s epoch-making, it’s eye-opening.

You grab Dean by the shoulders and push him off of you, taking advantage of his wooziness to leave him flat on his back on the mattress. In less than a second you’re straddling his hips, staring down at his terrified wide eyes and holding his flushed, now almost purple dick in your fist.

“Repeat it.” 

Dean only blinks up at you, jaw dropped and hands hovering over your body like he doesn’t know what to do with them, astonished. You suck on your teeth slowly, savoring the ambrosia of his blood before a smirk takes over your face.

Slowly, your other hand makes its way up Dean’s chest, until it rests neatly against the base of his neck. With a shiver of raw excitement washing down your spine, you squeeze, hard enough to make him wheeze. 

“Repeat it, De. Say it again.”

His cock weeps, his eyes gloss over, his blush travels down to his freckled chest. 

“I love you, sweetheart.” 

You impale yourself all the way down his shaft. Dean keens shamelessly when he bottoms out, hips jerking up as his hands clench on your hips. You hope they leave even more marks, little half-moons and rouge fingerprints. 

You continue to hold his throat as you ride him, bouncing on his dick as your fingers spam just under his Adam’s apple—sometimes barely-there pressure, sometimes leaving him completely breathless. 

It’s like all the pain has transformed into empowerment, all the rot into gold and all the poison into amrita. You’re untouchable. You’re celestial. You’re Dean’s. 

“Again,” you order, a little too pleading to be demanding. But Dean only whimpers, erratically humping up into you as he worships you, tears clinging to his long eyelashes and hands trembling. “Look at you, just a little choking and you go all stupid with it. My pretty boy, big bad wolf melted into a dumb puppy.”

“What the fuck?” Dean rasps. You tsks softly, tightening your grip around his windpipe. 

“Say it again, baby. Be good for me, and you’ll get a reward.”

Dean stammers before croaking out: “I love you, more than you could ever imagine.”

Your chest heaves, something breaking and mending at the same time. Your free hand moves to Dean’s face, fingers slipping into his lax mouth, hooking over his lower teeth and tugging it open. 

“Good boy,” you whisper before spitting right into his tongue. Your digits slip out, pushing his jaw closed before slapping his cheek lightly. “Now swallow.”

With a wild moan, Dean obeys, his hips pistoning up into your throbbing cunt as he’s pushed over the edge. Warmth coats your pussy, painting your walls white and running down your legs, washing you clean and tainting you dirtier. It’s immaculate. 

You’re trying to catch your breath when you’re abruptly dragged down, tumbling against Dean’s chest as his dick softens inside of you and his arms hold you down, clinging to you like a comfort stuffed animal. 

You stay there for a couple of minutes, maybe years, maybe centuries. Your skin sticks together as you cool down, your mouth still tasting like his cum and blood, your fingers still loosely holding his neck. It’s truly out of your wildest dreams.

“What the fuck was that?” Dean eventually chokes out.

You giggle, nuzzling against his pecs. “That was me off the leash.”

“Holy shit.” His arms tighten around you, dick twitching against your swollen walls. “I might need to smite that leash, fuck that shit. That was—” He makes a little explosion sound. You laugh harder, languidly rising to peck his full lips.

“I love you, you fucking dork.”

Dean smiles, toothy and silly, kissing your forehead with so much adoration it makes you blush. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

You sigh, already expecting the post-wave exhaustion to come, but the tide is calm. Not retreating, not threatening. Just peaceful sweet water.

You slide off Dean, ignoring his little grumbling complaint. You hiss as he slips out, sore in the best way possible. Dean pounces on you, rolling onto his side so his gaze can rake down your body. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, you were perfect.” 

You look down on your own body—purple and maroon clouds all over, scraped knees and palms, tacky inner thighs. For the first time in your life, you think you’re perfect as well. 

Your eyes drift to the sheets under you, finding them wet, wetter than they should be. Clear and splashy and yours. 

“Did I—?”

“Yes. When you said you loved me, the first time.” Dean drapes an arm across your waist, the distance between you apparently hurting him as much as it does you. “It was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

“More than the singles you were going to comfort today?”

Dean huffs, leaning down to pepper kisses all over your face. “There’s no one else, darling, not anymore. Just you and me.”

You try to play grumpy, but it’s impossible with Dean’s soft lips all over your cheeks and nose and forehead. You end up giggling softly, pretending to fight him but basking in the attention.

“Besides, none of them compare to you.” He buries his face on your hair, breathing you in. You happily let him. “The spell, it gave you this—after-sex glow, all the time. You were freaking glittery, baby, like a goddamn pornstar.”

You chuckle, your fingers finding the mark of your teeth on his arm, tracing the little indents. You hope it scars, so everyone who ever looks at Dean knows he’s yours. Only yours. 

“So it was the cuff? What made you want this?”

“Nah, I’ve wanted you ever since I saw you that first day in Montana. I started loving you not too long after.” You can feel his grin against the top of your head. “Besides, you always look like a pornstar to me, no need for any damn magic bracelet.”

You snort, bumping his chin softly. “That’s not the compliment you think it is.”

But then, it dawns on you. 

“The cuff!”

You swiftly sit up, ignoring Dean’s little wounded whine. You stare down at your arm, the cuff still resting snuggly against your flesh. But the metal is freezing, and the fairy dust is faded and dull. 

With trembling fingers, you tug the thing down, just once. It slides right off, landing on the mattress with a little bounce. Relief floods you, strong enough to annihilate any hint of frustration. There’s no value in crying about it now, not when Dean presses up against your bare back and whispers against your neck. 

“See, I told you, you’d be okay. We survived another day.”

This time, when you lean back on him, there’s not an ounce of guilt or fear or disgust in you. The beast is gone, running free and wild, one with your soul. You might be sick, the punishing eyes of your mother forever engraved in your brain, but you’re not ashamed anymore. 

Not when Dean Winchester is just as sick as you.

You try to look for the cuff again, but it’s gone. In its place rests a French countryside postcard, a peach-scented pink mist evanescing around it. You pick it up, holding it so both Dean and you can read the sparkly gel pen scribbles.

“I know you might not believe me, but I’m truly glad that you two figured it out. Either outcome would’ve been entertaining, but you two gave me a real showdown. In repayment, I’ll make sure to leave you out of the way of my arrows for the rest of your mortal lives. I can’t promise anything for those pesky cherubs, though. Not my jurisdiction. 

As promised, your little old town has been freed. The villa where I am right now is at least four miles away from any civilization, so please don’t come bother me, or I might have to get mean again.

Unless you wanna play around, in which case my doors are always open. 

Enjoy the rest of the most important day of the year, and don’t forget to thank me in your prayers!”

“Fucking asshole.” Dean plucks out the postcard from your hands, ripping it in half. “Might have to go find him, blast his face off.”

“But then you’d have to get on a plane, pretty boy.”

Dean glares at you, and you just laugh softly before surging forward to hug him, both of you falling back onto the soiled blankets.

“Maybe if you’re with me, I can do it.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I could do anything with you by my side.”

Someone knocks on the door, loudly. 

“Guys!” Sam yells through the thick wood. “I’m back! It was getting late and this town is practically dead, so I couldn’t wait at the gas station any longer. Hope you—fixed things! I guess. I’ll go put my earbuds on, so don’t worry about me, just thought I’d let you know I’m here!”

Shuffling, prolonged and awkward. 

“There’s ice cream in the fridge, by the way. Anyway, Have fun! Or—whatever.”

Sam’s heavy steps disappear down the hallway. All it takes is one shared look for you and Dean to dissolve into laughter, limbs tangled together and souls comfortably merged into one, no longer teared apart. 

“Shower?” Dean hikes you up his body, sitting up on the edge of the bed. You give him a slow up-and-down look, licking your lips obscenely. “Don’t even think about it, Jesus Christ. What did I get myself into?”

You grin, because he doesn’t know half of it. The world is gonna wish you never lost your shame.

“Happy Valentine’s day, my love.”

“Happy Valentine’s, sweetheart.”

NOTES: okay, so. this is actually kind of special to me because tomorrow, feb 15, it'll be a year since i first started posting on this blog. And the first fic I posted was valentine's inspired (pls don't go look for it my writing was terrible) so i thought it was fitting to post a little tribute to the story that started it all.

it's been amazing to share my writing in here, and i couldn't be happier that i decided to take a chance after giving up on fanfiction so long ago. it's so heartwarming to see how much you've showered me and my silly stories with love, and i'll be forever grateful to all of you.

anyway, i don't wanna bore you out with my emo sobbing. happy valentine's day, i adore you, and see you again soon!

TAGS: @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @rafeskitty @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @that-stanford-girlie @immodestly-marina @angellust333 @cupidzbunny @scatorcciosbabe @angrydragon90 @urblondiebaby @fertilise-me @angelicjackles @fratbrochrisgf @deerplaygroundpoetsflowers13 @mfstargrll @stars4birdie @cccayliexx @madslxz @spaghettiwoes @crumpledroses @madyyyslovs @swanofjade @chromiumz @k4renp4ge <3

Dean was going to go insane.

He shouldn’t care. This shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter, in all logic. Everyone was a virgin once. Dean had been a virgin once, a long time ago. And it was nothing but—according to Sammy, and his lectures, which Dean was going to trust—a state of mind. A societal construct.  

So it didn’t matter. Dean loved Her the exact same as he had this morning. She was still Her, even if she was a virgin. It didn’t change anything.

It shouldn’t change anything. 

Dean’s smart brain knew, Her being a virgin meant nothing. 

But his smart brain wasn’t in the driver’s seat right now. His caveman brain was. 

And it was making a very good case that this was a very big deal.

He knew it wasn’t. If he was forcing his thoughts, cherry-picking which ones he was allowed to think, he could be super cool about this. So what. She was a virgin. Nobody had ever touched Her before. Every time Dean had thought She was looking at someone else across the bar, every time he swore he was smelling cologne on Her—every time an under-earned stab of jealousy had ripped his heart open—he’d just been making up ghosts to fight. 

There was no one else. Had never been anyone.

All of Dean’s dreams were still his. There wasn’t anyone in the world he had to loathe, just for having the sinful, evil thing that he desired. That Dean had to despise, because envy was a white-hot, obsessive disease that had rooted itself so deep into his every dream. 

He used to stand in the shower, the water cold enough to push down his hunger for Her, and glare at his feet. Remind himself that She wasn’t his. That he didn’t deserve Her, and it didn’t matter how well Dean would treat Her, it would be like trying to dress up a mangy, flea-ridden street mutt and match it with the pretty, groomed poodle. The one that was somehow worth more than designer clothing. The one that won shows, and all the other fancy dogs wanted, and

Dean wasn’t good at metaphors. She was more than just a show dog.

She was awesome. She was every good thing he’d ever known, and then just Her. 

So putting them together would be more like pairing the closest incarnation of a Life Goddess to the asshole who compared her to a dog. 

But Dean was a dog. And son of a bitch, he’d be a loyal one if she let him. 

And that’s where the reminders had fallen apart. He didn’t deserve to have Her. He couldn’t stop wanting Her. So he’d always devolve into curled fists on the wall, torturing himself with the idea of someone else having Her. The way She’d smile at them. How they’d rest a hand on Her lower back, and whisper in Her ear, and she’d giggle at all their jokes and kiss them. And Dean would stand off to the side—still Her shadow, always Her shadow—and remind himself that She was happy. At least She was fucking happy.

At least he wouldn’t have to see it, when this invisible douchebag tugged Her into their fancy bedroom, and she called his name. Dean would only torment himself with hearing it. The way Her siren voice called and begged and moaned with pleasure, and Dean would be in a hell he couldn’t escape. He couldn’t leave Her. Ever. 

But She wouldn’t be his. And for even desiring Her at all, that was the punishment he deserved. 

And he used to have a fantasy, when his brain moved too fast for him to stop it. 

Where he would be wallowing in the pain of it all, then She’d call Dean’s name. While that sleek-haired, fancy asshole fucked Her, she’d be thinking of Dean. And he’d hear. And burst into the room, sweeping Her into his arms. Carry Her somewhere private, where only he’d be able to see the way She fell apart for his touch. Her back would arch, and Her legs would spread, and she’d looked at Dean like he made her happy- 

He usually came into his hand, at that point in the fantasy. He’d grimace. Clean it off, and go back to bed. 

She’d be lying there, waiting for him. Shirt—Dean’s shirt, that She’d worn to bed—riding a little up Her thighs. 

He’d be lower than the lowest piece of shit in the mud. And because he was already damned, he’d crawl into bed at Her side, and try to pretend he hadn’t just been dreaming of fucking Her brains out. 

The time until he slept would be spent shadowboxing that imaginary dick She married. Listing out all the ways he would be better for Her. Everything he hated about this fake guy, right down to the fact that She wasn’t being fucked right. Dean could fuck Her right. He’d worship Her. 

If there was anything he knew he was good at, it was sex. Anything that people complimented him on, that made them think of him after the sun rose and the hangover set in. 

Dean wouldn’t have pulled punches. He would’ve made Her so addicted to his cock, She’d never want anyone else. Then he’d take Her, however she wanted to offer herself.

As long as he got to be close to Her. 

As long as She wanted him.

He’d fall asleep cursing all the fake men, who’d had Her first. 

And it turned out, he’d just been fighting his own damn brain. 

No one had Her first. 

This was a very big fucking deal. 

It wasn’t about purity. It wasn’t about owning Her, or her value, or any of that bullshit.

It was about how at first, he hadn’t been able to wrap his damn head around it. She was beautiful. So beautiful it made him feel stupid sometimes. So ethereal it should be a sin to look at Her too long. So tempting, Dean knew men and women would break themselves just to be close to Her. So bright it was blinding, and who wouldn’t want to bask in the Sun’s warmth? 

He knew people had. Dean had spent enough nights at the bar, watching Her scribble on a napkin with what Sammy called his whipped expression, only to look up and see them.

The wolves. The people who wanted Her. Wanted to touch Her. Have Her. 

He’d hated them. Been so sure that one day, they’d take Her away from him, and he’d just have to relearn how to breathe without Her.

So it hadn’t made sense. Everyone wanted Her. How the hell had nobody had Her. 

And then he thought about it. Sat with it in the car, his grip white-knuckled on the wheel. 

It hit him so fast. 

It made perfect damn sense. 

She didn’t trust easy. She flushed at every little suggestive joke he made. She was emotional, and constantly running, and Dean couldn’t imagine Her sweet, fluttery, gorgeous ass letting some stranger take Her home. See Her naked—She’d let Dean see her naked—and touch Her without a weapon in her hand. Just expect Her to let go. Make his Princess relax, when She’d once spent a whole evening color-coding his flannels and making sure all of his socks matched. 

“No one’s looking at them, y’know.” He’d told Her, and she’d frowned at him from the floor. 

“So?”

Dean’s lips had twitched. “So, you don’t need to sort them, sweetheart. If people are looking at my feet enough to clock I got mismatched socks, we got other problems.”

She’d barely smiled at his joke. Just looked between Dean and the socks, like something in Her pretty head wasn’t adding up. 

“But… they have to match, De.” She’d frowned back up at him. Dean had pushed down a fantasy about crashing over Her and kissing her into the floor. “I’ll know.”

Dean had sighed. “Alright, but- You gotta sit up here with me.”

He patted the couch next to him. She’d taken the deal. 

Dean had dedicated the rest of the night to distracting Her. Getting Her saited enough that, when the movie had finished and She still had pants to sort, he could coax Her to bed. 

It hadn’t even taken that long. Dean had gotten Her talking. She’d gotten so lost in thought, Her fingers stalled on the seams of his flannels. 

Her head had leaned on his shoulder. 

She’d fallen asleep before the third act. 

She’d trusted Dean. 

And that was why this was a big damn deal. 

If Dean got to take Her virginity, it would be because She trusted him. He’d labor for that trust until his hands cracked. He’d stay on his knees until She looked at him, and realized he couldn’t bring himself to hurt Her if he tried. 

That whatever was going on in that fast, brilliant head of Her’s—the one that somehow never picked up on the line of people wanting Her, who had apologized to Dean like virginity was somehow Her fault—Dean would take care of Her. Give Her whatever she wanted, needed, asked him for. 

He couldn’t offer Her much. He made money on scams and hustles. He was never going to get a loan for a mortgage, never be able to offer Her luxury that matched Her everything. 

But Dean could give Her this. 

He could give Her pleasure. He could give Her devotion. His hands, and lips, and time. She’d never have to worry about not having someone to come home to. Never need to get wasted at a bar, or force Herself into a relationship she didn’t want, or even just wind herself up with unneeded frustration from lack of attention. 

She didn’t like attention. Not from strangers. 

Dean wasn’t a stranger. 

He’d make sure She never knew what a bad lay was. That She felt just as good as She was. That, at least, She’d always have someone she trusted enough to let them have Her that vulnerable. 

Because he was pretty sure now. No one had ever had Her, because nobody was good enough to be trusted with that. She did things completely, or not at all. She probably thought sex was some big deal, rather than just sex. 

It would never be just sex with Her, though. 

And Dean could do completely. He could be Her’s, completely. 

If She thought he was worthy of that, who was Dean to argue. 

And if She looked at him one day, and offered him the chance to be the only. The first. The last. Her shadow and worshipper and lover until his heart gave out, and the cavity of his chest just echoed Her name forever, and a long while after that. 

Who the fuck would Dean be, to say no?

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

And he’d dreamed about it. He’d savored every small taste he’d been offered over the years, and he’d worshipped the little bits of Her that came off when they got enough heat and friction. He counted every kiss like a dragon hoarding treasure, he found himself in the shower with a bowed head and Her taste on his lips, he breathed out Her name to dark hotel rooms and bunched sheets in his arms to mimic Her soft body. Dean had an active imagination. He’d always been good at fantasy, especially for things he thought he was never going to be allowed to have.

Which is why part of him didn’t even know what the hell to do, now that daydreams were playing out in vivid color under him. He’d be worried it wasn’t real, if she wasn’t right there. Looking up at him with glossy, dark eyes and parted, swollen lips. Dean was staring at a star, and all it’s ethereal light bended with his smallest smile.

He had paradise. Sticking herself to his fingers and lingering with a sugared aftertaste in his mouth. And it wasn’t some spiraled path up into the clouds, and it wasn’t hidden under a mountain. It was lush, pliant and sweet life, glowing under his hands and malleable and Dean’s.

This moment was his. Their’s. The curtains were drawn and the door was locked and nothing was going to make him lose this again.

He wasn’t as good a man as he wanted to be, but he allowed himself some small, sacred sins without guilt. It wasn’t very progressive of him, to get a boner the more her innocence became clear. Sammy would yell at him about Her value being more than how many bodies She had stacked up, and Dean would snap that he knew that. He’d be the last person to judge how many dudes a chick had fallen into bed with. That was how he used to pull his own, long and pleasurable nights out of the bars and into his car.

But this wasn’t about just sex. His heart was dropping into his dick because Christ, she’d never done anything, and it made Her all breathless and flushed with Dean’s lightest touch. She was sensitive, more sensitive than anyone he’d ever fucked, and pride swelled up in his chest like a hot air ballon with Her every reaction. It was taking him higher and higher, making him more and more certain that he wouldn’t fuck this up. He couldn’t. The only option was to be the best—and maybe only, if he played his cards right—She’d ever had.

“I know what hand stuff is.” She said, all squirmy and cute beneath him. “And I know what mouth stuff is too, and- Other stuff-“

Dean smirked. “Other stuff?”

“Yeah, I know about ass stuff, and choking, and- and edging and spanking and dirty talk and-“ She swallowed, looking more and more like a cornered bunny with every word. “I’ve heard about doing it in public, and- I know about bondage, and- Kinks. I- I know a lot about sex, Dean.”

She pouted, wrapping Her arms around her stomach, and Dean didn’t think he’d ever been a real goner. Not like this. Not in a way that was making his hands curl into fists and his mind become so clouded he’d be worried he was on drugs if he didn’t already know what She did to him.

She knew a lot about sex. He almost snorted. She was listing off acts like they were just embarrassing items on a grocery list. Part of him—the feral, animalistic part that he’d never been able to trust around Her—wanted to just run through everything she’d said like a menu. He’d flip Her over and drag her hot little ass into the air, wrap his hand around that pretty throat and kiss Her stupid, sneer the mostly filthy things he could think of with Her hands pinned over her head and watch that perfect pussy get wetter and wetter with every teasing drawl. 

But look at Her. She couldn’t even deal with talking about it. If Dean didn’t handle Her like the delicate work of art She was, he was worried she’d just melt into something sparkly and lost under his hands.

He might like to try that to. Not on Her first time. He’d make this matter. He’d treat Her so well, she’d never imagine looking to anyone else.

“I’ve studied porn,” She babbled on, and Dean had never wanted to fuck someone stupid so bad. “And I’ve read like a lot of books-“

He kissed Her, mostly to save Her from herself. She’d studied. That was a pretty picture to add to his private, metal tape collection. He kept it locked in a seedy cabinet in his heart chamber, and pulled out ideas whenever he needed to get an urge dealt with, himself, in private.  Her, watching something graphic and sweaty on the computer, that adorable little furrow in Her brow and a thoughtful pout of Her lips. Dean bet She’d gotten hot and bothered from it, and hadn’t even known what to do. That she’d watch a thick, fat cock slide in and out of some pornstar’s pussy, and flushed so deeply she thought she had a fever.

He could picture Her, humping the sheets and whining. Unsatisfied, without Dean there to help. And he would’ve helped. He would’ve taken Her into his lap and sucked on Her neck, fingering her warm, wet cunt while Her eyes fluttered and she begged for his cock.

Dean could dream up a lot of these scenarios. He’d come up with more than he’d ever admit, over the years. The closer he got to fucking Her for real, the more he realized he hadn’t even gotten close to reality. They say don’t get your hopes too high. That great expectations lead to great downfalls.

There was no world, where the greatest poet would’ve been able to dream of how good She felt. Looked. Tasted. Was.

Everything about Her was perfect, like this. Dean really couldn’t understand, how someone could possibly writhe and giggle and flush and breathe like they were a walking spirit of everything pleasurable and good, all while being so doe eyed and sweet. Having Her was better than wanting her. Being in his dream, watching it not vanish and dissolve in the harsh light of reality, but only grow brighter.

He folded Her over, pressing Her knees to her chest and giving him access to a pussy that he’d go to war over. That was valued more than any diamond or silk, glistening with arousal, dripping over his fingers and puffy and rich. Dean shoved his face against Her, trying to drown in every drop of Her ocean he could get his tongue on, and She tasted better than anything he’d ever had. If he could live off of it—off of Her taste, the sweet moans and cries of his name, all of it—he’d never eat anything else again.

When he finished, it wasn’t because he was full. If anything, tasting Her had been like downing a bottle of cocaine-laced saltwater. He was hooked, he couldn’t imagine wanting anything else, and he left more starved than when he started. But he needed to be inside of Her. He was so hard it hurt, the tiniest bit of friction against Her thigh threatening to make him blow it.

He couldn’t stop himself from teasing Her, though. It was too easy. She worked Herself up, and it make the snap of the orgasm hit her harder. She’d buck off the mattress and cry out and look at Dean like she was lost at sea, and he was the only star to guide her home.

Never mind the sky, filled with shining light, all leading to somewhere.

She only wanted to follow Dean.

“Can we please have sex,” She breathed, and Dean kept finding out that he could love Her more.

That was his girl. Hard as rock candy, until he sucked on Her just right. She’d killed archangels and lived in Hell and put the fear of the universe in the devil himself. But right now, with all of that stripped away, with Her voice nervous but not afraid, She was just weird. Awkward and pretty and weird, like the most gorgeous shell at the beach, or a glittering, jewel-colored hummingbird Dean wanted to put in his hands and keep to himself. 

Yeah. They could have sex. As long as She’d let him give it to Her, she could have whatever the hell she wanted.

When Dean finally slid home, he didn’t know how he managed not to blow it in the first few seconds. She was tight and hot, She felt so fucking good, it almost made him black out. Her pussy might be a black hole. Now that Dean was in, there was no getting out.

And She had the nerve to ask if it was good for him. To look at him like She wasn’t sure if she was doing well, when Dean had never had anyone better. She sang like an angel when She came, clenching down on Dean’s cock and milking him into pathetic jerks of his hips and low groans. He panted, collapsing over Her and choking out her name. It wasn’t a prayer. A prayer would be for a man who wanted more than what they had.

Dean said Her name like an oath. A promise to keep Her. To keep this. Heaven was nothing, compared to crashing into Her like an asteroid. It obliterated him. He never wanted to be put back together, not without Her against him, curled and safe in his arms.

✦End note: i need him like. in a really concerning way✦

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

Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.

You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.

“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.

“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“

“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“

“Then go ask Lois!”

“Lois is in Gotham, I can’t ask Lois-“

“Then ask Clark, he’ll be happy to smell me-“

“I can’t ask Clark.” You’d whined. “Come on, please smell me-“

Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘

“It’s not a mating dance!”

“It seems like a mating dance-“

“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”

Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.

You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.

“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“

You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.

He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.

His eyes are black, and gleaming.

You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.

Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.

You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.

“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”

Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.

Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.

But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.

He looks dangerous.

And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.

But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.

“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”

Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“

Clark looks at you.

And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.

“You smell good.” He mutters.

He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.

“What the fuck is up with him?”

Nobody seems to be sure.

On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.

“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.

“There are no other words I could use, though-“

“Corrupt?”

“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”

You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.

“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.

“Dogshit.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“

“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“

“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.

“Yeah. Because I had a source.”

“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.

You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.

“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“

“Shut up, I’m excited-“

“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.

He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.

Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.

You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.

And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.

Today you keep it under control.

It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.

“It’s- Uh- Superman.”

You blink. “What?”

“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”

“I- You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“I can find someone else-“

“No, I- I’ve got it.”

He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.

You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.

But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.

You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”

He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.

Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.

He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.

He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.

And you have no idea what to do.

Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.

He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.

You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.

And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.

“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”

His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.

“Clark-“

“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”

You blink. “Back up?”

He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.

He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.

But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.

You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.

He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.

“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“

“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.

“You’re sick-“

“No. I’m not.”

“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”

He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.

“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”

That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.

His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.

And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.

It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.

The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.

But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.

“Clark- Please-“

He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.

“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”

You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.

And you look back. You can’t help it.

But all he does is stare at you.

So you walk away.

Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.

“Is he-“

“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”

You frown. “But-“

“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“

Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.

“Don’t go visit him.”

You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“

“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”

“But-“

“Don’t.”

“What if he needs something-“

“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”

“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”

Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Lois-“

“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”

She walks away without another word.

On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.

You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.

Don’t.

His door is right there.

Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.

Don’t.

You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.

But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.

You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.

Don’t.

But you want to.

Don’t.

He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-

Don’t.

Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.

And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.

He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.

You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.

Before Clark can open it, you walk away.

On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.

It’s a  distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-

You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.

This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.

It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.

He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.

He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.

Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.

You miss him.

Goddamnit.

Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.

You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.

He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this  sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.

You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.

You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.

Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.

But why is he home visiting you.

Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.

You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.

“Hello?”

Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t look well.

Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-

Like Clark.

Just like Clark.

And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s  worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.

Or something else.

Without the glasses, there’s something else.

He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.

He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.

“Clark?”

“I’m here for your interview-“

You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.

He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.

Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.

His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.

“Clark- Wait-“

Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.

At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.

You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.

He’s burning at 150 degrees.

He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.

The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.

You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.

Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.

That time it was definitely your name.

Superman moaned your name.

You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.

Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.

It does nothing for hearing him.

And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.

It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.

Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-

Oh.

That’s… Big.

You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.

The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.

You still haven’t really dealt with that.

Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.  

And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.

To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.

When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.

You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.

Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.

Dear lord.

Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.

You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.

Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.

He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.

You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.

Clark is Superman,

And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.

His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.

“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.

This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-

You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.

He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-

No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.

But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.

The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.

If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.

And you’re not that strong at all.

Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.

You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.

When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.

He’s naked.

Fully naked.

And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.

He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.

But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.

And his cock. 

You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.

Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.

“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“

“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”

He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of  release on his thigh. He’d been humping  the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-

“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”

“Clark-“

“Stop saying it like that.”

You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.

His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.

“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”

Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.

“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”

You laugh softly, despite everything.

Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.

“Don’t laugh either.”

“I- I’m sorry-“

“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“

He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.

“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”

“No- That- That’s weird-“

“Kal-El?”

“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.

“I need to be able to call you something.”

“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”

That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.

“No, not- Not like that-“

“Not like what-“

“It’s just, when you talk-“

“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.

It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.

“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.

“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”

“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“

“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”

He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”

“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“

“You said I shouldn’t talk.”

“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.

“You better fix the wall, Kent.”

“I will. ‘M sorry-“

“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”

You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.

“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”

 That’s not  promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.  

“You know kryptonite?”

You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”

“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“

“Clark.”

“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.

“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.

His cock twitches. You try not think about it.

“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“

“It what-“

“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”

He trails off, words hanging in the air.

Saw you.

You activated the red kryptonite in him.

There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.

“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.

Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.

“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.

“Please don’t make me say it.”

You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.

“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“

“Can’t you?”

Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.

And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.

“You- You can’t mean that-“

“Why not?”

You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.

“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.

“You don’t have to pity me-“

“It’s not pity.”

He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“

“Who says it’s not how I feel?”

You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.

“Uhh… Steve?”

You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”

Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.

You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.

“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.

You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”

His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.

“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”

“No, you-“

“Don’t tell me what I feel.”

He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.

“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”

He nods, tight and controlled.

You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.

Not with fear.

With excitement.

“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”

And Clark snaps.

He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.

Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.

If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.

But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.

He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.

There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as  he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.

You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.

You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.

He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.

“Clark-“

“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“

He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.

“Smell so good.” He almost  whines. “So good.”

You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.

Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.

It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.

“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“

“You- You can’t-“

“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“

“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.

You don’t mind at all.

“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“We talked about this-“

“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.

You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.

And you feel it.

The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.

Oh.

Right.

Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.

“I need to get you ready.”

You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“

Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”

“How do you know-“

“Nose.”

“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“

“Not enough.”

He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.

“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.

That’s his agreement hum.

Your jaw drops.

“Are you serious-“

“I can’t help it.”

“You- You could wear nose plugs-“

“No. Like it too much.”

Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.

“You- Can’t move-“

“You should move-“

“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”

You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.

“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”

Clark grunts. You smile at the air.

“You came in bed last night.”

He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”

“About who?”

You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”

And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.

“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”

“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.

“Yeah? Like what?”

Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.

“A brat.”

A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.

And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.

“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.

Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.

“You- You can’t just say that-“

“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”

Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.

“Can you please look at me-“

“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.

“Clark-“

“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.

You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.

“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”

“I- I need to get you-“

“I’m going to touch you, okay?”

His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.

Enough.

You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.

“Sorry-“

“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”

He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.

You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.

The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.

He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.

You add a second, and squeeze at the base.

Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.

“Be- Be careful.”

You pause. “Does it not feel-“

“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“

Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.

You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.

And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.

You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.

Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.

“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“

He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.

You want to taste him.

When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.

“What- What are you-“

You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.

The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.

There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.

You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.

“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“

You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.

It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.

“Are you-“

You moan, and Clark gives in.

He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.

“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“

Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.

“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“

You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.

And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-

Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.

He’s cumming.

And he’s not stopping.

Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.

Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.

“If you-“

“Do that inside me.”

You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.

“I- I mean- Clark-“

He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.

“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”

His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.

“Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”

Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.

“Oh- Oh god-“

“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”

You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.

“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”

He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.

“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.

You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.

He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.

“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“

You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.

Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.

Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.

You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.

You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.

There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.

It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.

“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”

His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.

“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.

Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.

“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”

Well. If he needs it.

It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.

“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“

“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”

It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.

You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.

“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.

He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.

“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”

And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.

“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“

“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.

Clark hears it.

“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”

You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.

Maybe Clark could let you live with him.

Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.

Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.

That’s a good plan. The best plan.

There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.

“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.

You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.

“Don’t do that.”

Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.