macey !

dean’s brain short-circuits the first time he sees the thin strip of lace peeking over the waistband of your low-rise jeans. doesn’t matter that you’re literally just grabbing a beer from the motel mini-fridge. he freezes mid-sentence. beer forgotten. jaw slack. “jesus fuckin’ christ sweetheart” is all he manages before he’s already crossing the room

he develops a very specific “thong check” ritual. you bend over to tie your boots? his hand ghosts down your spine and hooks the waistband just to feel the flossy string. you stretch in the morning? same thing. reaching for something on a high shelf? he’s right behind you “helping”, fingers dipping under denim to trace the string like he’s reading braille

he keeps the ones he likes best shoved in the inside pocket of his leather jacket like some kind of perverted talisman. black lace, red satin, that dark green one with the little rhinestone heart at the back—he calls it “lucky” and refuses to explain further

once he finds out you bought a new pair just because the sales girl said “these make your ass look insane”, he makes you model them. immediately. doesn’t even let you get fully out of the shopping bag. sits on the edge of the bed like it’s a goddamn throne, knees spread, beer in hand, eyes black with lust while you turn slowly and he growls “c’mere. wanna see how they sit when you’re on your knees”

he’s obsessed with the way the string disappears between your cheeks. will spread you open with both hands just to stare. mutters filthy little observations like “look at that… fuckin’ obscene how it just vanishes” while his thumbs pull the lace aside inch by inch

shower sex becomes 80% him refusing to let you take them off first. he just yanks the soaked fabric to the side, presses you against the tiles and fucks you with the thin strip still cutting across your hip. water makes the lace cling even more obscenely. he likes the way it leaves faint red lines on your skin after

he’s ruined more than one pair by coming on them instead of inside you. likes watching his come soak through the front while you’re still wearing them. makes you keep them on while he fingers you through the wet fabric afterward, whispering “gonna make you ruin every pair I buy ya, baby”

has a near-religious reaction every time you wear the really tiny ones—the kind that are basically just a scrap and two strings. he’ll drop to his knees without warning, nose pressed right against the lace, inhaling like he’s trying to memorize the scent. “smell so goddamn good right here” he mumbles into your cunt through the fabric before he starts licking stripes over it

after rougher nights he gets soft about it. will trace the indent marks the strings left on your hips with his tongue. kisses every inch of skin the thong touched like he’s apologizing to it. murmurs “you’re so fuckin’ perfect in these” against your lower stomach while he’s already half-hard again

keeps Polaroids of you in them tucked inside Baby’s glove compartment, he looks at them when you’re not around and gets instantly hard. every. single. time.