🥀

“I know you’re not good at listening, sweetheart, but I didn’t call you one-“

“It was implied.”

Dean rolls his eyes, giving Sam a you see what I gotta deal with expression, like he’s not the one making the whole fucking issue.

“I’m not staying in the car.” You repeat, louder than before, and Dean chuckles dryly.

“Yeah. You are.”

“I’m not-“

“You are-“

“You lock me in here, I’ll start screaming-“

He gives you an unimpressed look. “I’ll gag you.”

You grin at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Kinky.”

Dean jaw clenches. You beam. Somewhere in the background, Sam sighs.

“Guys…”

“You’re staying here.” Dean snaps. “That’s that.”

“You’re not the boss of me, Winchester-“

“The hell I’m not-“

“You don’t offer me health insurance-“

“None of us get health insurance, sweetheart, that’s why I’m telling you to stay in the car-“

“Guys.” Sam sighs, looking between you with the same, exhausted expression as usual. “We only have until the sunrise, and it’s already 4am. Can you please do this after?”

You don’t look away from Dean. He doesn’t look away from you. You raise your brows mockingly.

“He’s talking to you, Dean. Can you do this after?”

Dean narrows his eyes, and he opens his mouth to bark something at you that you probably would’ve deflected now—using taunting words and matching his harsh tone—then cried about later. In the safety of your bedroom, where Dean can’t see you. The only place that you can go to let everything out. It’s safe in your room. Dean never even knocks on your door, always sending Sam in his stead. But you don’t go to his room either. It’s an unspoken rule that you’ve never had steady enough feet on the ground to bother breaking. You’re pretty sure that if Sam doesn’t kill you both over this, he’s going to strangle you later for making him a messenger pigeon.

But you need that solace. That quiet, where Dean can’t shake your world with sneers and glowers. It hits something raw in you, a wound that you’ve never bothered to stich up or cauterize because you love the bleeding too much. It pours all over your hands when you hug your stomach, out of your mouth like bile when you try to defend yourself—to make him stop just seeing you as some stupid, naive civilian girl he needs to heard around—and out of your eyes when you cry over all of it.

The things that do make you that naïve civilian girl. The things that make you barely any better than a teenager with a crush, wandering around after the boy you like and pulling at his sleeve for just an ounce of attention.

No one can blame you for falling for the hero who saved your life and swept you off your feet. Offered you a new life, taught you how to shoot a gun with his arms around your body—you can still feel him sometimes, when you rub your shoulders—and told you that he’ d always keep you safe.

Dean had been straight out of a romance book. You’d let yourself get starry eyed, you’d daydreamed that he lingered around you out of affection rather than obligation. You’d been an idiot, and you’d gotten comfortable, and when Sam said you had a knack for the lore and were more than welcome to stay, you’d said yes without a thought.

You’d thought Dean would’ve been happy.

But you’d told him, and he’d looked like he was going to put his fist through a wall.

Everything had shifted, like a picture into the negative. Dean stopped seeking you out for anything, stopped training you, almost stopped looking at you all together. In the first months, he’d walked out of a room the moment you entered. At one point, you’d overheard him having a very loud fight with Sam about letting you stick around. 

He hadn’t been speaking to Sam either. They’d gotten over it, because they always seemed to. Your second foolish fantasy was that Dean would get over whatever you’d done to him—you’re still not all that sure—and decide that he actually did like you. That he’d remember how good things had been at the start, and if you proved yourself to him, everything would go back to normal.

But it’s been a year.

And normal is this now.

Dean hates you. He must hate you. There’s no other reason he’d argue with Sam about bringing you on hunts, even when they need the extra hands or your research. And even when Sam wins the fight—which is always, you think he might have a cheat code that makes Dean always agree with him, and you’d very much like access to it please—Dean still acts like you don’t exist. Or worse, like you do, and it’s the bane of his entire life. For the whole fifteen hour drive, and you get handed snacks without eye contact and checked on like you’re a dog he’s making sure didn’t piss all over his precious car.

For the entire hunt, you’ve been able to feel his attention burning through you. Whenever you’d look over, he would’ve already looked away, but you could feel it. And you’re the one who tracked the nest and identified the mutation in these vamps that made them daywalkers, but when you’d looked to Dean with a hopeful smile for approval, he’d looked away again.

You might’ve sat in the bathtub with the water burning yours shoulders and useless tears sliding down your cheeks after. Clawing at your face like you could remove the pain, remove all the love you felt for him with all the brutal precision of a hungry animal. But if you did, it’s none of his fucking business.

And you might not want to join in on the actual hunt—that sounds gross, and bloody, and kind of scary—but Dean doesn’t get to win. You can handle it, and if you can’t he’s there.

It makes you feel safer than it should. Dean always makes you feel safer, and you hate him for it.

The thing about loving him is that it’s not so much a choice as something that slammed into you like a comet. Dean left a massive depression in something so vital you think it might be your soul, and now it blooms all the time. Alone and in the dark, finding sunshine in every piece of him that’s worthy of such a feral, unyielding devotion.

It’s most of him. He’s still that hero who saved you, and your body knows it better than your head sometimes. He opens doors for you even when he keeps his gaze fixed firmly over your head. He makes you coffee in the mornings before stalking out of the room like you make the whole place reek.

He’s going to keep you safe, even if he bitches about it and shouts at you the whole time.

And it’s so easy to love him for all of that. In the end, most of your desperation isn’t really to stop loving him.

It’s to scream loud enough that he stops pretending he can’t hear it. That he saves you again, even if it’s from yourself.

You win the argument about going into the house. For all his postering and deep, commanding grunts and threats, Dean’s not actually that good at telling you know. You’ve told Sam it’s because you have the numbers against him. Sam always gives you a strange look and says uh huh, like you’re supposed to know what that means.

“You stick with me.” Dean snaps, pulling out his dainty little baby gun and passing it into your hands. “You wanna speak, think five times, then don’t say it. These things are noise-sensitive, they hear you breathe, they rip you up.”

“I know.” You grumble. “I discovered them.”

Dean sighs heavily, just loud enough for you to know he heard you. “I don’t want you out of my sight.” He mutters, and you give him a flat look.

“So you’re planning to look at me today?”

He shoots you a glare, saying your name in a low warning, and you roll your eyes.

“Never mind.” You mutter under your breath, like a petulant child. “Guess it’s easier to look at ugly things when they’re in the dark.”

That makes him flinch back, like you punched him in the gut. He’s going to say something again, and you really don’t want to hear it.

You stalk over to Sam, leaving Dean gaping and rigid at Baby’s truck. Sam looks between you, but doesn’t bother to ask what you’re fighting about. He rarely does, and it’s always followed by an annoyed now, like it’s somehow your fault Dean thinks everything you do is a sin. What are you two doing now. Why are you mad at him now. Why is Dean being an idiot now.

He’s always an idiot. A handsome, insufferable idiot you want to sucker punch, then make out with until you can’t breathe. If you tried to hit him, maybe he’d catch your wrist and pin you to something. His massive body crowded over yours, his face inches away, lips brushing as he shouted at you, then gave up when you moaned—he’d be too close, his crotch pressing you down, you’d probably moan—and started touching and kissing you until your legs gave out and you were putty in his hands and he worshipped you with the same soft attention he used to offer-

“Stop flirting and fall in.” Dean snaps at you and Sam, standing in complete silence.

Sam rolls his eyes, and hisses something to Dean when they walk past each other that makes Dean look murderous. You flush—thankfully hidden in the dark—and grip your baby-gun tight as you follow.

“Stay with me-“

“I know.” You snap, not looking him in the eyes. “I’m not an idiot.”

Dean grunts, and you can’t tell if it’s an agreement or dismissal. You’re not sure which would be worse.

The moment you’re in the nest, you remember why you don’t usually do this. Why you actually prefer waiting at the motel for them to come back, or just staying in the car with an anxiously bouncing knee. You always ask to go with them because you hate the dread. Hate watching them—both of them, because you might not be in love with Sam but he’s sort of your only friend anymore—walk out the door for what always might be the last time. They never think it will be.

You do. Every time, Dean pulls out of the parking lot with your heart in his dumb, big hands, and you know it could stop beating any second. That you won’t even know until you get a phone call, and a part of you withers that’s never going to be reborn.

So you ask to go with them. To help. Do first aide, be extra hands, anything so you don’t just have to wonder if they’re okay.

But then you actually get here, and you hate it.

It’s scary. Scary and quiet and loud all at once. You have to physically yank yourself back from grabbing Dean’s forearm and clinging to him. He radiates heat, and this barn is so fucking cold, and you’d like to go back to the car now, thank you very much-

Everything happens so fast. It always does, on a hunt.

You find the vamps. Sam offs one, Dean gets another two, and your fingers tremble but you manage to kick a third back into Dean’s machete. He gives you an approving look, and you feel like you’ve grown wings.

Then another on comes out of nowhere. Slams into Dean and starts driving him backwards.

You scream, and shoot. It won’t kill them, but it’ll distract.

And it does.

The vamp stumbles when you hit his calf, dropping Dean to the floor. It turns on you with glinting eyes, and lunges.

You’re thrown to the ground with teeth gnashing near your throat. There’s a roar in the background, and you feel a rush of pain through your stomach as the vamp hits you. Heat burns over your neck, and your arms are starting to get weak, and-

 All the noise stops. The body over you slumps.

You open your eyes to find Dean standing over you, just like that first time he saved you.

Only now, he looks like he wants to cut off your head next.

He’s staring at you a strangely furious and pallid expression all at once. There’s something glinting in his eyes that you can’t place. His breath is heavy through his nose, and he’s not even blinking as he scans over you.

His eyes widen, when he sees the blood blooming through your shirt. He drops his machete, bends down, and scoops you up into his arms.

The rest of the night is a little hazy.

Dean carries you to the Impala. He smells good, like leather and pine trees and something a little spicy. He looks really good, too. Covered in blood and grease and so angry he’s almost feral. His hands are warm, and make you feel fuzzy when they brush over your stomach, checking the wound.

The whole thing feels like a dream. Especially after he coaxed some painkillers down your throat, and the world all becomes just color and Dean’s undivided attention, pressing over you.

He doesn’t speak to you the whole time. He’s humming something, fingers brushing over your bare skin, and the feel oddly light. Almost shaky.  

You breathe out his name. You don’t know why. Through the drugs, it’s sort of the only word you know.

His hands still for a heartbeat, then grab you a little tighter.

Before you pass out, your vision swimming and thoughts covered in a fog, you could swear you see him bow his head against your chest. He holds your hips tight, lips brushing against your exposed stomach.

Your weak fingers reach up, brushing through his hair. A deep sound rumbles from his chest, and it’s soothing.

The world goes peacefully dark, and Dean stays wrapped around you all the way into your dreams.

He hasn’t spoken to you.

It’s been three weeks, and Dean hasn’t said a single word.

It’s worse than before. Worse than it’s even been. Even those first months after you moved in permanently, he’d at least acknowledge your existence. It had been via avoiding you like the plague and snipping and glaring, but at least you’d known he could still see you. That he still thought of you.

Now, he’s treating you like a ghost.

The first week you’d expected. The drive back from the hunt had been tense, everyone dead silent. Rest stops happened when Dean decided they would. Sam never once asked him to turn down the music. You turned your face into the window and hid behind your jacket, hoping to hide the shame burning through you.

Dean had been right. You couldn’t handle that hunt.

But he hadn’t even rubbed it in your face. Hadn’t done an I told you so.

When you got back to the bunker, he’d shoved the door open and marched inside without looking back. Sam had rubbed a hand over his face, given you an apologetic look in the mirror, and you’d just shaken your head.

“He’ll get over it-“

“It’s fine, Sam.” You’d muttered. “I’m fine.”

You were not fine.

You hadn’t even been able to sit up without Sam’s help. He’d half carried you out of the car, a hiss of pain escaping your with every movement, and when you’d finally gotten on your feet you’d looked up to find Dean standing in the doorway.

His hands had been fisted at his sides. He’d been staring at you like he wanted to say something, jaw clenched so tight you could see a vein.

You hadn’t quipped. Hadn’t pushed. You’d just watched him, praying he’d do anything but just stand there. Part of you had wanted him to yell. To let out all the anger you could see simmering behind his gaze, so you could all move on.

But Dean had turned, and stalked back into the bunker.

The ignoring had begun. And you didn’t think you could last a day of it, let alone almost a month.

When you’re in the same room, he pretends you’re not even there. If you’re talking to Sam, he cuts you off like he didn’t hear. If you pass each other in the hall, he looks firmly ahead and bumps your shoulder. If you’re blocking him from getting something in the kitchen, he just reaches over you like you’re part of the room.

His chest presses against your back, and your breath hitches. You bow your head, fighting the instinct to moan and push back into him. He’s so warm, a secure and unwavering pillar of resolve that you want to worship at the feet of forever. He’s sturdy, he’s safe, his muscles flex around you and his breath is warm on your neck and he’s acting like you don’t even exist.

It’s cold when he pulls away.

You retreat to your room, and lie on the floor until you’re out of tears.

Part of you wonders if Dean even knows what he’s doing to you. He can’t. He thinks you hate him with all the fever and loathing he hates you. There’s no possible way for him to understand that every second he ignores you, something in you cowers and whines. That you’ve been passing the door to his room just to try and run into him, even though that breaks the unspoken rule of never invading such a sacred space. That this is killing you more than the injury did, because at least that was allowed to heal.

Dean fixed you, there.

Here, he’s just clawing you wider and wider, until there’s a gaping pit in the cavity of your chest, and you’re about to fall through.

He’d been going out drinking every night. He comes back reeking of liquor and perfume, but he comes back. Every single night, he’s back around 1am.

You know, because you stay up waiting.

Dean always walks past your room, when he gets home. His shadow lingers under your doorway, and sometimes you swear you hear a thud against your door. As if he’s knocking, or just leaning there.

Breaking the rule himself.

It’s the only way you still know you’re not a ghost. That he still knows you exist.

But that’s it.

Otherwise, you’re nothing to him at all.

You can’t take it anymore. Sam says you haven’t been eating as much, but you barely even noticed. You’re too tired, from losing sleep. And everything tastes like ash, anyway.

Sam also says that Dean’s being a dick, but he’ll get over it. They went on a hunt a few days ago—they’re talking again, although from what you’ve seen it’s clipped, and they’re both still pretty pissed—and Sam told you he’d try to talk some sense into Dean and his silent treatment. You have no faith it will work. Sometimes living in the bunker feels like a pissing contest of who can be the most stubborn, if every contestant had an infinite bladder and thought they’d die if they lost.

You’ve been checking your phone for updates every ten minutes. You’re getting itchy and restless, and you can hardly breathe. What if this is it, and foul voice reminds you. What if he dies, and he dies angry at you, and you can’t even remember the last thing he said to you because it was a month ago.

The seams in you are coming apart. Sam sends you a brief text, saying the hunt is over and they’ll be back tonight. You don’t bother to ask how the talk went. If Sam even went through with it, you already know the answer.

But you can’t. You can’t keep living like this. That voice is only going to get louder, and you’re only going to waste away, and Dean won’t even notice with how determined he is to make you nothing at all.

You’ve been crying too much. Your eyes are red when you look in the mirror, and your lips are swollen.

Maybe you shouldn’t stay here. Maybe Dean’s right, and you never belonged here at all.

He once acted like you did. And you still don’t know what made him change his mind.

And you don’t want to leave. This is home. Dean is home, because despite everything you still think of him, and you feel safe.

You know that’s why it hurts so much. You’re not weak. You can stand to be ignored, and you’ve certainly had louder and more violent and cruel fights with people you’d actually been dating. But Dean being so mad feels like your heart is trying to eat itself. And you can’t take it.

It takes all night, but that’s the perfect amount of time. You go out to the grocery store and get everything you need, then haul up in the kitchen and bake like your life depends on it. A fairly big fraction of it does.

You think about writing I’m sorry or You were right on the pie with whipped cream. That feels like a little too much. Hopefully, that part will speak for itself.

When they get home, it’s with a slam of a door. There’s no shouting, but you have a feeling it’s because the fight already passed. You watch Sam give you a tight smile before slumping off to his room, and you know he tried. You appreciate it. But only you can fix this now.

“Dean.” You force your voice to be steady. It doesn’t work that well. “Dean.”

He looks up at you with a heavy, tired glare. He doesn’t speak, but he looks at you, and it makes you sit a little taller. You can do this.

“I’m sorry.” You push the pie forward, and he blinks.

“You’re sorry.” He echoes, like he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’re sorry?”

You nod, chewing your lip nervously. “Yeah. For- For the hunt. And anything else I did to you.”

“Anything else you did.”

“Um- mhm.”

Dean stares at you, and you push the pie again. Look down to it, then back to him, swallowing the nerves in your throat.

“I- I made you pie.”

“Yeah. I can see that.”

“Oh- Okay.”

The silence is suffocating. Your face is starting to burn, and you’ve never cried in front of him before, but the tears are insistent. The ache of loneliness, of just missing him, it’s insistent. Like a hurricane, devastating and impossible to ignore. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold them back, and that usually works.

It’s useless now. The first tears burn on your cheeks, and you wipe them away with trembling, frantic hands.

Dean rasps your name, taking a lurching step forward. As if someone shoved him, his hand reaching out before he yanks it back.

You swallow, and find a painful, barbed lump in your throat. You shake your head, and look to the side.

Dean repeats your name, his voice thick and strained.

You realize this is the first time he’s said it in a month.

A damn breaks in your chest. Something snaps near your ribs, and a pathetic, choked sob rips from your throat. You can’t stay here.

“I- I’m sorry.” You shoot to your feet, pushing the pie roughly forward. “It’s- It’s cherry.”

“Sweetheart-“

“The pie.” You clarify, staring at Dean’s knees.

“Yeah, I know-“

He takes a step forward. You take a step back, and he freezes. 

When you look up, he’s watching you like you’d just smacked him in the face. You swallow, lip wobbling as you keep losing the battle against your own tears.

“I- I’m sorry.” You choke out, wrapping your arms around your stomach. 

Dean works his jaw, shaking his head. “You said that already-“

“I- I know. I’m sorry-“

“Stop saying sorry!”

He takes a larger, firmer step forward. His voice echoes off the walls, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it stings.

Dean rubs his face, lowering back down to rough, low words as he says your name. “Just- Fuck- I don’t want a sorry.”

“I-“ You cut yourself off, shrinking further into your body.

He doesn’t want an apology. He doesn’t want you.

“I’ll go.” You whisper, looking down to his shoes.

Dean makes a choked sound. “You’ll- What-“

“I’m going to go.” You can’t be here right now. Can’t break down when you’re really not sure if he’ll pick you back up. “I- I’m-“

You swallow another apology, and duck past him. Dean shouts after you, so you walk faster. Almost running to the safety of your room, to the one place he won’t follow. Where you can fall apart alone, and wrap yourself in blankets you pretend are his arms, because you’re the exact, pathetic, stupid girl he thinks you are. You’re crying so hard you can’t breathe, and you hate him, and you hate yourself more for knowing you’ll still love him once the tears dry out.

There’s a knock on the door. The fight must have been that loud.

“Go away, Sam.” Your voice is muffled through the sheets.

Dean’s is muffled through the door. “Not Sam, sweetheart.”

You sit up, still holding your blanket to your face. As if he might somehow see you. There’s a long silence—he’s not supposed to be here, why is he here—and Dean coughs.

“It’s, uh- It’s Dean-“

“I know.”

“Oh. Okay.” He pauses, then, “Are you gonna open the door?”

You shake your head, then remember he can’t see you. “No.”

Dean grunts your name, and you raise your voice a little.

“Leave me alone-“

“No. We gotta- There’s stuff I have to- Fuck.” There’s a thump on the door. You think he’s leaning against it. “You’re crying, alright? Just let me in so I can fix it-“

“I’m fine.” You snip, and he laughs dryly.

“I can hear you. I know you’re still upset, and-“

“Why do you care?”

Dean goes silent, and you glare at where you think he’s standing.

“Why do you care, Dean. You never cared before-“

“That’s not true.” He snaps, and you roll your eyes.

“Don’t lie-“

“I’m not lyin’, I just-“ He cuts himself off. “Just open the door, alright-“

“Not until you tell me why you give a shit-“

“I just do, alright?”

“No, you don’t-“

“Stop- Stop saying that.” He’s not shouting, but you can hear him fighting against the urge. “Stop telling me what I care about, you don’t get to decide that-“

“I’m not deciding.” You push the words out, even as they burn on your tongue. “You just don’t get to act like you care about me when you wish I didn’t exist.”

The silence falls again. It’s thicker than before. So heavy it pulls your heart down to your stomach. You’re so sure he’s going to walk away, just leave you there to finally, fully break. 

Instead, when he speaks, his voice is rough.

“Don’t say that.” He grunts. “I’ve never wished that. Not once.”

Your heart flutters. You want to smack it, remind it that it’s only hurting because of him. “Whatever.”

The door shakes again, as Dean’s shadow shifts.

Despite yourself, you lean closer.

“Open the door.” He says your name again, the tone a command.

You raise your chin. “No.”

“Come on, just open it-“

“Go away, Dean-“

“No.” It’s shockingly firm. You sit up in surprise. “No, I’m not- I’m not just gonna leave and let you go, no. That’s not fuckin’ happening, sweetheart, just- Open the door-“

His voice is getting louder, every word sounding more and more strangled. You shift to your knees, saying his name softly through your tears, but he doesn’t seem to hear.

“You can’t leave me, alright? You win, you fuckin’ win, I’m the idiot. You can stay and run me into shape, whatever the hell you want, just- just open the door, please-“

You’ve never heard him like this before. Rambling like a broken record. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was crying.

“I’m sorry for being a dumbass.” He’s not pushing the door anymore, but his voice is muffled and loud all at once. He’s leaning against it. “Sorry for being a dick, sorry for- For whatever the hell you’re cursing my name with, I know I deserve it, I was a douchebag and if you wanna hate me you got every right, but-“ His voice breaks. “Don’t leave me. Fuck- Please don’t leave me, please-“

You slide off the bed, gliding across the room like you’re in a trance, and open the door.

Dean stumbles forward, catching himself against the doorframe. He’s only inches away, and you can read it all over his face. How much he means every strangled word.

His hair is disheveled, his eyes red as he scans over your open, sad features, his jaw clenched so tight you think he might break his teeth. His arm flexes over your head, hand fisting and unfisting at his side. There’s a stain of a tear on his cheek, gleaming in his stubble like he’d half wiped it away.

He watches you like he’s a dog, bracing to be kicked.

You hold his gaze, letting your voice stay small. You have a feeling he’d cling to every word if you only breathed it out.

“You’re sorry.”

He nods. You swallow.

“Why-“

“All of it.” Dean mutters. His eyes are locked onto yours. It’s almost too much, making you feel molten when you need to be unmovable.

You look down to your fingers. “What you said?”

“And did. And-“

“Being a douchebag.”

He chuckles, but it’s more of a rasp. “Yeah.”

“For how long?” You look at him under your lashes, and maybe it’s a bit of a test, but you need to be sure he understands. The sheer magnitude of how this—all of this—has hurt you.

“The whole year.” He says immediately. “From when Sammy told me you were staying to- Shit, five freakin’ seconds ago. I’m sorry.”

You hear it again, even if he doesn’t say it.

Don’t go.

“You didn’t want me to stay here.” You say lightly.

Dean shakes his head. “That’s not true-“

“You told Sam he never should’ve asked me.” With all the bravery in your body, you meet his gaze. “You said you wanted me far away from here.”

Shame almost pours from Dean’s expression. He bows his head, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller. “I- Uh- I didn’t know you heard that-“

“You’re both very loud.”

“Ah.” He pauses, shifting on his feet. His handsome features twist into a tight frown. “But- That’s not what I said.”

“Yes, it is-“

“I said you should be far away from here.” He mutters. “Not that I wanted you there.”

“That’s the same thing-“

“No, it’s not.” Dean gives you a firm look, his voice dropping impossibly lower. “What I want and what’s right?” He chuckles dryly. “Ain’t ever really the same thing.”

For a long moment, you just watch each other. And he means it. Every inch of you knows that, right into your bones. But you’re still fragile from a year of him acting like you were nothing. And you want that to be enough, you want that so desperately. To just give Dean all of you to freely break, and trust that he won’t. But-

“What about me.”

Dean blinks. “What?”

“Am I right?” You raise your chin, crossing your arms over your chest. Dean’s frown deepens.

“Are you-“

“You’re sorry. You said you don’t me to leave.”

“I don’t.”

“So I was right.” You challenge. “I was right to stay.”

Dean swallows. You don’t waver.

“Do you care, Dean. If you don’t want me to leave then you have to tell me why you’d even fucking care-“

“I care.” He grunts, pressing further over you. “I care more than you can imagine.”

You snort. “I don’t know about that-“

“I can’t imagine it, sweetheart.” Dean reaches down slowly, cupping your jaw. You freeze. “Sometimes I- I can’t even work it out in my head. Can’t measure it, can’t justify it, can barely even understand how it’s possible.” His thumb drags over your cheek. “How much I fuckin’ love you.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Love is different than care.” You whisper, and Dean’s lips twitch.

“Yeah. But not by that much.”

You stare at him. He stares back, and when you don’t move away he drops his brow. Presses it against yours, his voice lowering gently.

“You don’t gotta forgive me. Just-“

“I love you, too.” You blurt, and Dean’s eyes shoot open. “And I’m not leaving.”

Dean swallows. Searches your gaze, like he’s trying to find the a tell that you’re lying. “You don’t have to-“

“Shut up.”

You grab his neck, and drag him down. You’re tired of talking. Of fighting and crying and being so far away. Even an inch feels like too much right now.

Dean must feel the same way.

When you pull him into a kiss, he’s rigid for a second. The brief, electric brush of your lips. Your noses bump, and your nails dig into his neck. He grunts, his hand on your doorway sliding down. You flush and try to pull away, but he’s not having it.

Dean melts over you so fast your brain can’t keep up.

He grabs your hip, blunt nails digging into your shirt, and tugs your head gently back as his lips work over yours. It’s so sudden you don’t immediately kiss him back, just grabbing the collar of his shirt for balance. Dean grunts, the hand on your hip sliding around your lower back. Grounding you against him as he almost bends you backwards, never once breaking the kiss.

His lips are softer than you dreamt of. Plush and a little chapped, but still so soft. He moves them slowly but insistently over yours, tasting and letting his tongue brush slightly. When you shiver and try to rise up a little higher, he meets you immediately. He kisses like he already somehow knows exactly how you like it. Easy but a little messy. Close, so close he’s almost eating your face while you try and claw closer. He tastes like salt from the tears, but under that is a little bit of cherry. 

“You-“ You speak between kisses, dizzy from desire. “You ate the pie-“

“Tasted it.” He grunts, walking you back into your room. “Checkin’ it wasn’t poison.”

You lean back, glaring up at him. “I would not poison you-“

“I know.” He grins, kissing your pouted lips. “But I woulda deserved it if you did.”

You want to argue with that, too, but Dean’s faster. He kicks the door closed behind him, grabs your waist, and picks you up with barely a grunt. Your arms fly around his neck as you yelp in surprise, but the sound quickly falls into a loud, long moan when he pins you against the door.

His kisses are turning more frantic. Hungry and bruising, but still restrained. His hands stay politely on your clothing, his lips pressed over yours with only small grazes of his tongue.

You open your mouth in a long, shaky moan. Dean takes the permission, grabbing your jaw and tipping it a little further back. His tongue brushes over your teeth, and you wrap an arm around his neck. His chest is pressed right against yours, and it’s secure and sweet and hot. You’ve never been this hot just from a few kisses.

Passionate, messy kisses. With Dean. His broad fingers on your soft skin, and his solid body right against yours. You comb your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and he groans. The noise vibrates through you, and you shudder with that burning, needy heat.

Dean notices. Of course he does. He’s Dean.

“Do you want-“

“Yes.” You moan against his lip, trying to spread your legs. “God, Dean- Fuck-“

He sucks on your lower lip before releasing it with a wet pop. Licks over the hurt before travelling down. Over your cheeks, then your jaw, repeating the same motion. Your arms wrap tight around him, your hips bucking mindlessly up.

“Oh- Dean-“ Your nails scratch his neck, and he hums. “You- You can’t just- Holy shit-“

He shoves his knee right between your thighs, the sudden pressure a curse and a relief. Your hips roll like they have a mind of their own, and head dropping against Dean’s shoulder as you cry his name. He moans, his hand on your waist tugging at your shirt.

You grab it and move it under the fabric, moaning at the feeling of his rough callouses, his warm palms, how possessive just a light touch can be. His fingers splay, the tips pressing into your skin, and you’re fully humping him now. He hisses when your knee bumps into his hard crotch, and you giggle, dragging a hand down his spine.

Dean pulls back, watching you ride his thigh with hooded eyes and a lazy grin. “Something funny, pretty girl?”

You giggle again, pressing purposefully against the bulge in his jeans. He groans, pressing his brow to the top of your chest.

“Shit- You’re tryin’ to fucking kill me-“

“Nuh uh.” You breathe out, not caring how convincing it is. You can feel the pressure building in your core, but it’s not quite enough. You need him to give you more. “De- Dean-“

You grab his wrist again, trying to pull it to your ass, but he resists. He yanks his hand from your grip, sliding it up your ribs slowly. His thumb brushes under your breast, and you bow into the touch with another loud moan.

“Jesus.” He mutters. “You look fuckin’ gorgeous like this, sweetheart. Think putting you on my cock might turn me into a religious man.”

You grab his shirt, yanking desperately, and he clicks his tongue. His voice is deep and taunting, and he leans forward so his lips brush yours with every word.

“Easy, baby girl.” He coos, his thumb grazing over the curve of your breast. “Thought about this for so long. Wanna take my time with you, show you that I mean what I’m saying. Love these pretty tits,” he palms it as he speaks, grinning as you moan like a shameless whore. “And this smart fucking mouth.” He nips your lower lip. “And your whole, sexy fuckin’ body. Love it almost as much as that impossible, pretty head you got. And I’m not wasting my shot on making you mine.”

You shake your head, the wet heat becoming almost unbearable. “Al- Oh-“

Dean’s mouth attacks your neck and shoulders, and you have to take a deep breath to remember how to speak.

“Already yours, Dean, always been yours, always- Fuuuuck-“

He grabs you hips and moves them so your clit is always dragging against him, the friction from his jeans and your panties making your head spin.

“I know.” He mutters, breath warm against your ear. “You think I didn’t know, princess? That I didn’t see every time you’d give me those Bambi eyes and beat my cock in the shower that night, thinkin’ about what  you’d let me do to you?”

You moan as shock and surprise burns on your cheeks, but it also floods south. Right to your core, making you squirm in his arms. Dean chuckles, watching you with a dangerous smirk.

“Thought it was just a crush, at first. Thought you’d get over it, move onto someone better-“

“No- No one better.” You breathe out despite yourself, and Dean’s eyes flash. “No one better, Dean, just you, just you-”

He grabs your jaw, kissing you long and rough. You whimper, pressing your tongue into his mouth. He pushes you further back against the door, kissing you with teeth and spit. You give in immediately, just trying to chase anything, anything he can give you at all.

“De- Dean-“

“Always someone better for you.” He growls against your lips, grabbing under your knee. He squeezes it tight before hiking it up, offering even more friction.

You moan, dropping your head back against the door. He’s almost fucking you through your clothing, his bugle pressed right against your throbbing pussy. Dean’s mostly just letting you grind down onto him, but every few moments he gives a shallow thrust of his hips, grinning when the pleasure shakes through your whole body.

“Look at you.” He coos, reaching up to smear some of his spit on your cheek. “You deserve the fuckin’ world, sweetheart. Deserve a guy with his shit all in order, someone half as sweet as you are-“

“You- You’re sweet-“ You gasp when he shoves his hips up, slamming right against your clit. “Holy shit- Dean-“

“I’m sweet.” He mocks, and it shouldn’t make you feel as needy and light as it does. “I treated you like shit, baby. Thought it would help you get over it, but look at you. You like this. Like bein’ my pretty fuckin’ slut.”

You let out a guttural, strangled noise of desire, and Dean taps his thumb against your lips. When you open them, he slides his thumb inside. You suck obediently, watching him under dazed eyes. His throat bobs, eyes blown out with lust.

“Good girl.” He mutters, lips twitching when you hum happily around him. “Oh, you like that, too. My good girl.”

He leans forward, whispering into your ear, and your eyes flutter hopelessly.

“You’re such a fuckin’ brat, sweetheart. You’d sass me and I’d think about kissing you nice and stupid, then giving you the whole fuckin’ world.”

You whine, and Dean pulls his thumb out to let you speak.

“Don’t- Don’t want the world.” You gasp. “Just want you, Dean, please-“

He hauls you off the bed, and your legs wrap around his middle. This time when he kisses you, he’s holding you over his body like you’re something for him to worship. He’s slow and sweet, just like you know he is. He tosses you down onto your bed before pulling off his shirt and prowling over your body. He pulls your pants down, kissing back up your ankle, your knee, your hipbone. He sucks your clit lightly through the fabric of your ruined panties, pinning your pelvis to the bed when your hips slam up.

You fist a hand in the sheets. “De- Dean-“

He hums, pressing you down harder. His tongue flicking, and you pant, desperately trying to wiggle out of his grip, to chase release.

Dean stops suddenly, chuckling when you whine like a spited child. Two fingers hook around the center of your panties, and he yanks away the ruins fabric like it was made of paper.

“So wet.” He mutters, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips. “You’re like a fuckin’ dream, baby, son of a bitch.”

He slaps your clit once, grinning when the reaction shakes through your whole body. You can almost see him making the metal note, before moving on. Dean grabs the hem of your shirt and tugs it over your head, kissing your tummy, your sides, the valley of your breasts and a tiny mark he’d left on your neck.

His lips meet yours, lazy and gentle. He palms at your exposed breasts, slowly kneeing your legs apart.

When he settles between them, he slows down even more, his breathing ragged and voice low and almost desperate.

“Say it again.” He mutters, and you hum.

“I want you.”

Dean kisses the corner of your mouth. “And- The other thing.”

“I love you.” You say, easy as breathing. “Love you, Dean.”

He grunts, planting a kiss on your nose. “Thank you, my love.”

You smile, letting your hands wander over the broad planes of his back. You’re still so close to the edge, tingly and aching, and maybe he’s just going to fuck you stupid like he promised right now-

Dean pulls away.

He sits up on his knees, one hand pressing you into the mattress. His thumb lingers just above your clit, capable of reaching it if he reaches. But instead he just watches you, shuffling out of his own pants and tossing them off to a corner of the room.

You swallow, salivating at the sight. He’s thick. Long and thick in every way you’d imagined. Broad and angry at the top, leaking with pre-cum that he swipes with his thumb. You’ve only see cocks like that made of silicone with a vibrator built in. You bought one once, feeling pretty brave. You’d given up very fast.

“De- Dean-“

“Yeah, baby?”

He squeezes your thigh, and you look up to him with wide eyes.  “I- I can’t take that.”

“Yeah, you can.”

“No, I-“

“Shh.” He coos, thumb grazing over your clit. You shudder, grabbing his wrist.

“Dean-“

“I’m gonna help, princess.” He says. “You’re gonna take it.”

He says it so certainly, you fucking believe him. He’s got a goddamn monster-porn cock, but his rich, deep tone has you convinced you can somehow fit it easy.

“Guess that’s why you’re so confident all the time, right?” You giggle nervously, and Dean raises his brows.

“Excuse me?”

“Just if- If I had- That-“

“You mean a big dick?” He drawls, and you flush.

“Um. Yeah.” You turn your face into the pillow, trying to hide. “Shut up.”

He laughs, guiding your face back up as he leans down. Dean kisses you slowly, and you hum dazedly into his lips. He starts to drag his thickness up and down your soaked cunt, and your mouth falls open in a loud moan.

“You’re so fuckin’ cute.” He mutters. “My girl.”

“Yours.” You echo, and he grins.

“Can we try something, baby? You trust me?”

“Mmmm,” you mumble, mostly thinking about the friction he’s giving, the pleasurable shock every time his dick bumps your clit. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You breathe, and Dean smirks.

“Good girl.”

Then he’s gone again. Your fluttering eyes shoot open, and you try to reach up but he slams you right back down. Pinning you to the mattress as he sits on his knees, watching you drink him in a slowly stroking his cock.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do.” He drawls, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “You’re gonna tell me exactly what you want me to do to you, then I’m gonna make you cum until you can’t even talk.”

 You gape at him. “Wha- What-“

“You’re so smart, princess.” He taps your clit, and your breath hitches. “Talk.”

“Dean, don’t tease-“

 “Not teasing. I’m dead fuckin’ serious.” He gives you a stern look. “You don’t tell me what you want, you don’t cum.”

You glare at him, and he just shrugs. He’s still pumping himself with thick, long strokes, and you’d kill him if you didn’t feel like a firework only he could set off.

“Touch me.” You grumble, and he gives you a flat, amused look.

 “How.”

“I- I don’t know- With your hands- Oh-“

Dean’s thumb starts to rub around your clit, and your let out a shaky breath. The gleam in his eyes tells you all you need to know. You listen, you get a reward.

“Touch me there.” You breathe, nervous and breathy. “Keep- Keep doing that, Dean- Ooh-“

He snorts as you hug yourself, pressing his thumb directly down and making you squeak.

“Fuck-“

“You’re bad at this.” He observes, and you reach up to whack his forearm.

“I’ve never done it before, dick-“

“So I’m givin’ you a new skill-“

“You’re making me insane.” You whine. “Just- Just fuck me, Dean, it shouldn’t be that hard!”

“Yeah?” He grins down at you, letting go of his dick to rub your thigh. “Big words from the girl who’s not gonna do any of the work.”

You stick out your tongue, and he laughs.

“I knew you liked being a little cockslut, dripping just thinkin’ about taking me, probably gonna call me daddy and beg-“

“Shut up-“ Face burning, you kick his chest, and Dean catches your ankle, kissing it before moving it back to the bed. 

“Well if it’s so easy, I should be guessing right-“

“I just want you to fuck me stupid, Dean!” You shout, the words desperately pouring out of you. “Just- Just take your hands and toss me around, use me and- and kiss me and touch me- Fuck-“

He’s rubbing your clit again, eyes almost black with desire. You push on, grabbing his arm to keep focus.

“Use- Use your fingers and make me cum on your hand.” You breathe out. “Then- Then flip me over and fuck me- Fuck me until I can’t talk, fuck me stupid, Dean, please-“

Your words fall off in a moan as Dean rubs faster, leaning down over your body.

“You want me to talk?” He rumbles, and you nod.

“Talk- Talk the whole time- Oh my god-“

“Tell you how good you’re doing for me?” He mutters, a finger teasing over your entrance. “How good your pussy feels, how crazy you make me, what a perfect fuckin’ girl you’re being when you take my cock-“

 “Yes.” You whine, pussy squeezing as he presses that finger slowly inside of you. “Yes, fuck, yes-“

“You want it rough?” He pumps slowly in and out, his thumb still working your clit. “Wanna feel me? Be fucked like you deserve?”

You nod, babbling agreements. He drags lightly against your g-spot and you let out a shuddering gasp, scratching at his shoulders. Dean groans, adding a second one, pushing them knuckle deep and scissoring the thick digits inside you.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ He’s kneading that gooey spot, and you’d already been wound so tight. “Dean, oh my god- Yes-“

“And where am I gonna cum, princess?” He coos in your ear, setting a shallow, deep pace with his fingers. They open you up and massage your pussy until it’s fluttering, until there’s a fuse burning your tummy that needs to be lit, that needs Dean to light it-

“Inside.” You breathe. You need more of him. All of him. “Want you to cum inside Dean, God, please-“

He moans—fully moans—and rubs your clit in furious, tight circles as he kisses you.

“Knew you could do it.” His thumb flicks as he presses your g-spot, and you whine. “Cum for me, baby girl, show me what you’ve got-“

Your release hits you with a scream of Dean’s name, making your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. Dean groans, twisting his hand so his palm is flat against your clit, rubbing and pressing down until you’re trembling and trying to shove him away.

“Look at you.” He says under his breath, like he’s admiring some sort of art. “Look at you, so goddamn sexy, making such a mess on my hand. Bet you’re gonna look even better, getting wrecked on my dick.”

“De- Dean-“

“I know.” He mutters, pulling his fingers fully out. “Soon. I’ll fill you up nice and pretty, fuck you ‘till you can’t think. It’s gonna feel so good, sweetheart. This tight fuckin’ pussy, strangling me while you beg.”

He lands a sharp hit on your pussy, and you barely get out a broken plea before he’s grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your stomach. You squeal, scrambling for a grip on the sheets as Dean drags your ass into the air.

“Such a mess.” He hits your pussy again, and you press your cheek into the mattress, panting as heat floods your body. “Greedy little pussy, don’t even gotta do much to get you ready for me. No,” he pushes his fingers back inside of you, the angle letting his knuckles massage your g-spot. “Basically fuckin’ begging for it, trying to fuck yourself on my fingers. Dirty girl.”

You hadn’t even realized you were doing that. Fucking back onto Dean’s hand, ass wiggling in the air as his free hand soothes down your spine. You’re shaking, but already ready for more, the sensitivity from the first orgasm building you back up.

“Deeean-“ You whine, spreading your knees wider. “More, need more, please-“

“Ah. Just feel this.” He yanks his fingers out, spanking your clit three sharp times before shoving his fingers back in. “You asked me to touch you, I’m touchin’. Touching you real good.”

He starts to knead your g-spot again, kissing slowly up and down your spine.

“Want you to come for me again, baby girl.” He mutters, lips wandering over the curve of your ass, then your thighs. “You’re gonna cum until you can’t stay up, then I’m gonna fuck you. Alright.”

You nod, but there isn’t something he could ask you that you’d say no to right now. “Oh- Okay.”

“Awesome.” Dean sucks on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, pushing you higher in the air. “Hold onto something.”

Your hands fist in the sheets, right before his sinful mouth latches onto your clit.

You almost scream. Dean starts to make out with the bundle of nerves like it can kiss him back, shifting below you until you’re almost sitting on his face. His fingers keep grinding down onto your g-spot as his tongue flicks back and forth, your button sucked between his soft lips, and you push your hands into the sheets, almost unable to take the pleasure.

“Dean- Dean- I- I’m gonna- Fuck-“

A sharp spank lands on your ass before grabbing a handful of the fat and shoving you fully down. You cum with a scream of Dean’s name, the pleasure rolling through your body like a wave.

But he doesn’t stop.

Dean keeps you trapped against his face, working you so hard you see starts, then other universe. His stubble burns against you and it’s perfect, his tongue moving so relentlessly—in tight little kitten licks, working you into a blind frenzy—and the feeling to overwhelming you can’t even remember how to close your mouth. Dean drags you on his face when you try to pull away, chuckling against your pussy, and the vibration is too much.

This time when you cum, you’re shaking and boneless. You think you might be about to cry, but maybe that’s just how hot this is.

He still isn’t stopping, and you might be in heaven. Blissful and dumb from pleasure, just a fuck doll in Dean’s big, careful hands.

You’re about to cum again, and you didn’t know you could do twice, let alone four times.

“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “Can’t- Can’t do it again-“

Dean grunts, lifting you over his head. “Yes, you can.”

He yanks his fingers out, rubbing your clit quickly before flipping you back over. You blink up at him, the coil in your stomach burning to snap. You’re so cockdrunk and dazed you almost don’t feel it at first.

Dean’s cock, slowly pushing into you.

When it hits you, he’s already got the thick head inside. You mewl, trying to cover your chest as he presses in deeper, but Dean grabs your wrists and pins them next to your head.

“Let me see you.” He mutters, sounding just as wrecked as you are. “Wanna watch you. So pretty, fucking crying for me.” He leans down, kissing your cheek, and you sob with delight. “Feels good, doesn’t it. So- Shit-“ You clench around him, and he hisses. “So fuckin’ good.”

“Good.” You repeat, just trying to stay conscious as Dean drags through your oversensitive, abused pussy. “So, so good, Dean, so fucking- Ooooh-“

He bottoms out, and you could swear you feel him up your spine and in your mouth. You’ve never been so full before, never had someone hit so many sensitive spots inside of you, and it lights you up like a summer sky.

Your eyes cross, as the almost peaceful orgasm blooms from your womb to your lips. You smile up at Dean, twisting to tangle your fingers together, and he swallows.

 There’s a soft shine in his eyes. Pure, utter affection as he watches you come undone around him. It even moves into his voice, all the teasing and dominant command coated in devotion.

“You’re so beautiful.” He murmurs, bowing over you until there’s no telling where you stop, and he ends. “Feel that, baby?” He gives a long, lazy roll of his hips, and you gasp. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s you, takin’ my cock. Just like I said you could.” He kisses you, repeating the motion. “Good girl.”

You pant, grabbing his bicep as he fucks slowly into you. He mutters low praise in your ear, bullying your pussy open with every thrust. You’d asked for it rush, but this is better. You feel priceless. You feel like Dean’s.

“Breathe.” He reminds you, and you take a stuttered gasp. “Good job, princess. Don’t want you passing out on me. Need to see those pretty eyes when I cum inside of you,”

You moan, body moving in a mindless rhythm with his, and Dean grins.

“Yeah, I’m gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Make this pussy mine, let it drip out, show everyone who fucks you so good.”

“You.” You whimper out. “You, Dean, ‘s you- Fuck-“

“Damn right it is.” He grunts, dropping his hips so he hits your g-spot even better. “You’re my girl, never gonna let you think anything else again.”

You nod, your breathing getting short and desperate. The room is filled with the wet sound of his dick sliding in and out of you. Your body is slick with heat and Dean’s kissing every inch of it he can reach. Grabbing and squeezing soft skin until you’re sure you’ll be covered in handprints and finger-shaped bruises in the morning, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Not as his cock drives deep into your with every, precise thrust.

Dean kisses you, dragging his tongue over your upper lip, and your pussy flutters.

Oh. God. “Dean, I- I think-“

“I know.” He grunts, like he’s just attuned to that. “You can do it, baby girl.”

“No- No-“

“Yes.” Dean kisses the tears, streaming down your cheeks from overstimulation. “Do it for me, come on. Just feel it, let it happen. Bet it’s good, isn’t it. Nice and sweet, right here.”

He presses down on your pelvis, right over where the fire is building. You sob with pleasure, and Dean grins.

“That’s right, there it is, come on-“

You cum like you were struck by lighting. Every muscle in your body seizes, the pressure where Dean’s pressing breaking like a damn. You gush and squeeze around his cock, arching off the bed like you’re trying to take flight, and Dean drops over you with a shameless moan.  

“Fuck- Fuck yeah-“ He presses his face into your neck as you milk his dick. “Holy- Christ-“

 Thick spurts of Dean’s release fill you up. They’re hot, and you hug Dean’s head, whimpering in his ear as you take them. He’s kissing your shoulder, but it’s unmeasured and desperate, and you’re sure you’re having the same control issue right now.

The feeling is so consuming you can’t think of anything but Dean. You’re saying his name like a prayer, as he ruts into you, sloppy and desperate. Neither of you really come back to earth, as your orgasms fade. Dean just slumps over you, cradling your body in his arms, and you smile at the ceiling, completely fucked out.

“Shit.” Dean rasps, and you giggle.

“Yeah.”

“You know you could squirt?”

You shake your head, and he grins against your neck.

“Awesome.”

 His cock twitches inside of you, and you hit his shoulders.

“Dean, oh my god-“

“Not now.” He groans, rolling onto his back and hauling you with him. “But later, right?” He gives you a hopeful, almost boyish look.

Like you might reject him while he’s still fucking inside of you.

“Cause I meant it.” He adds quickly. “Everything before, uh- This. Meant every word, promise, and- You can hit me or something, if that makes you feel better-“

You lean down, taking his sweet, dumb face between your hands and kissing him. Dean hums in surprise, but kisses you back immediately. One hand slides through your hair, the other up your spine, but he lets you lead. Looks up at you with a drunken smile when you pull away, like you’re some kind of god.

“I don’t want to hit you.” You say, tracing his tattoo.

He nods quickly. “Good. I mean- for me-“

“But you have to ask me out for real.” You give him a firm look. “And take me on a nice date.”

“I can do that.” He grins. “And then… You’re my…”

He trails off. Lets you fill in the space.

You think he got it right, just like that.

“Yeah,” you smile. “But you’re mine, too.”

And there’s nothing on Dean’s face that tells you he’s going to argue with that.

He’s drilling into you from behind, his paws bruising your hips and the tissue of your ass with how forceful he’s being as he controls your body. Your limbs are trembling wildly as you struggle to maintain your position on your hands and knees, eyes squeezed shut to cope with the assault on your pussy. 

The room is filled with the debauched music of his cock pummeling into you, the filthy, wet sound of him drawing out to be sucked right back in. It's combined with the occasional slap of his hand down on the fat of your ass, the consistent whines and whimpers you fail to curb, and the reverberation of you both panting like dogs. 

“B-Billy-” You gasp. 

“Don’ tell me you can’ take it,” He taunts, voice rough like gravel. His dark eyes are fixated on the rippling of your ass in his hands, the obscene sight of your inner thighs glistening. “S’exactly what you were whinin’ for, innit? Wanted all o’ daddy’s attention, and now you don’ even know wha’ to do with it.” 

He drapes himself over your back, and your eyes roll back into your skull at the heat of his sweaty chest against your skin. Still crudely thrusting into you, he reaches a hand to slide two fingers into your mouth, hooking them into your cheek to lift your head. He holds you like that and drives into you even harder, and you start to really cry. 

“Got nothin’ to say, love?” He mocks, shaking your head by the grip on your cheek. 

Saliva dribbles from your mouth, and you moan earnestly.  

He releases you and your head immediately drops between your shoulders. Butcher retaliates by wrapping one of his massive arms around your neck, using his colossal strength to lift you off your arms so you’re flush against his immense chest. You feel especially delicate with your little neck in between his rock of a biceps and his thick forearm, and as he tightens his grip minimally, your cries reach a new pitch. 

His lips are at your ear, his facial hair especially coarse against your soft, sweat kissed skin. “Daddy asked you a question, you naughty little girl. S’too much for a little bird like you? Or you like lettin’ daddy take what he wants? Don’ mind hurtin’ a little bit to make your daddy feel good, is that it?”

He loves pushing you farther and farther, until you’re reduced to this perverse state for his pleasure. Loves manhandling you, loves that he doesn’t even need to because you’ll do whatever he tells you. He loves the twist in his gut when he exerts his power over you, rendering you unable to speak, to form a single word except his name if your life depended on it, and then mocking you with it. Loves that you always let him take as much as he wants, which is always fucking everything.

You clutch at his forearm around your neck, doing your best to nod, aware that even when Butcher’s at his roughest, he never truly hurts you. At least no more than you’d enjoy. 

“Naughty kitty-” He groans in your ear, abdomen clenching at the frantic flutter of your cunt around him. “Jus’ needed daddy real close, just needed me to hold ya, is that it?” 

You’re not sure what’s causing your vision to turn spotty, the constriction of your airway or the fact that you’ve started cumming from how rigorously he’s abusing your cunt. When the mind altering pleasure starts to trickle away, you realize Butcher’s let up on your neck and has slowed his pace. 

“Mm, so good, daddy.” You moan in appreciation, nuzzling into his hairy forearm. Your cunt is so wet and sensitive that you wiggle in his arms as he keeps plunging in and out of you. 

“Not so fast, lovey,” He warns, pressing a quick kiss to the side of your head. “Daddy’s not done with you yet.” 

Even when you’re yelling at him, he likes having your attention. And being a loathsome dick is the only way he knows how to try to get it. It took him a long time to realize the reason you pissed him off so bad was because he was pissed he didn’t have you. The best way to get to you, he quickly learned, was to provoke your anger, which seemed to be his special talent. 

But he’s also mean to you because he gets off on you being mean back. 

He likes it when you’re pissed at him, enjoys that despite your prissy little displays of disgust and irritation, when he finally gets you alone with his hand in your pants, you’re always shamefully wet. That you might push, punch, and claw at him in the heat of whatever argument you’re having, but you always acquiesce when he decides to give you his cock. 

“Thought you said you hated me, dove, wha’s all this then?” He’s crowded into your space, chuckling with casual, arrogant amusement as his thick fingers brush over the damp spot on your panties. You’re gritting your teeth to fight the urge to push your hips down into his hand. You’d rather prolong your own suffering than give Butcher any kind of satisfaction, any indication that you want him half as badly as you actually do. 

“Shut up and-” 

“That’s your problem righ’ there,” He smirks and if you didn’t need him to touch you so badly, you’d consider punching him. “S’always the attitude with you, innit?” 

“Butcher-” 

He withdraws his hand, jutting his hips forward into you instead, so you can feel his erection, as if you had any doubt where this is headed. Brings his lips to your ear, the rough scrape of his facial hair on your soft skin scrambling your brain. 

“Lie all you bloody want, little girl.” He rasps as his massive hands carelessly tug your jeans down. “But this cunt of yours tells me everythin’ I needa know.” 

“You’re actually so fucking disgusting-” 

“Wha’s that say about you, then, letting a disgustin’ old man like me up in your guts?” He grunts, pushing himself inside of you, avidly taking in the way your face contorts at the intrusion. “There you go, isn’t tha’ wha’ you needed, you insufferable woman.” 

He likes watching you battle with yourself, torn between letting yourself feel good at his hands and keeping up this game, where you both act like you can’t stand each other. Even though you’ll run your mouth and act tough, the truth of the matter is you’ll let him do whatever he wants to you, which he fucking loves. Loves that you’ll let him fuck you at the worst times, rough and fast, leaving bloody scratch marks on his neck and chest when you try to hold on for the ride. Loves that you believe you’re too good for him, but will let him bend you in half and fuck you until you can’t form enough of a thought to wipe the drool from your lips. 

And when it’s over, you’ll go back to ignoring him, acting like he’s something despicable, like he’s beneath you, not worth a second look. And it’ll last for as long as it takes for him to decide that he wants you again. All it takes is a few choice words. 

After all, you’re easy to provoke. 

He’s allowed to appreciate whoever he wants. That’s not the problem. The problem is that it's happening in front of your face this time, and you dislike this pretty waitress a little extra. She’d been so focused on calling Dean sugar and sweetie that she’d brought you out the wrong eggs. You’d been surprised she remembered your order at all, with how little attention she paid you. 

You give Dean a sour smile. “Can you at least try to keep the drool to a minimum? I’m trying to eat.” Really, you’re just pushing the food around your plate. 

He watches you for a second, then he waves the tacky waitress back over, and you stop yourself from rolling your eyes. 

“What can I do for you, sugar?” She asks suggestively, only acknowledging Dean. 

“Sorry to bother you, sweetheart,” He apologizes with a charming grin. “My friend here ordered over-hard.” He gestures to the two eggs on your plate, which are very obviously undercooked. “Think you could run them back and get her new ones?”

“Of course,” The waitress smiles and then takes your plate without even looking at you. She seems delighted by Dean’s labeling of you as a friend. 

When she’s gone, Dean stares at you expectantly. You ignore him, so he says, “Y’know, it’s polite to thank someone when they do you a favor.” 

“How is wooing the waitress a favor for me?” 

“C’mon, we both know you won’t eat eggs like that. You don’t like when the yolk is runny.” He raises his eyebrows as if to say you know I’m right, why are you acting crazy. 

He is right. You think runny yolks are gross. In any other situation, you might even think the gesture was thoughtful, and that it showed that he paid more attention to you than you thought. But right now, you’re annoyed and dedicated to maintaining your attitude. So the most logical explanation for the whole thing is that Dean cared less about getting you what you could eat, anx more about about getting another view of the waitress walking away. 

“I’m not hungry, anyway.” You say. 

“You gotta eat. Y’need to keep your energy up after last night.” He winks at you like he’s sharing some inside joke, as if he’s totally oblivious to how exasperated you are. 

Him bringing that up irritates you even more, which you didn’t think would be possible. You look at your arrangement with Dean for what it is. You sleep together occasionally, partly because it's convenient and partly because he’s good at it. Scary good, sometimes. There’s no romance between you. The sex is hard and dirty. It’s not a situation you’re particularly proud of, especially when the nonchalant, non-committal nature of your relationship is thrown in your face, like it is right now. But the sex has proved too good to walk away from. The longer it's gone on, the more apathetic you’ve become to the arrangement, and Dean himself. You sometimes aren’t sure if you even like him. 

Sometimes, you wonder why you bother answering when he calls. The easy answer is that it’s safer for you as a lone female hunter to work with someone else watching your back, but you know that’s not the entire truth. There are a handful of other sole hunters and groups that you work with when you cross paths, but Dean is the only one you see so frequently. And the only one you sleep with. 

And you two certainly argue. A lot. It’s kind of your thing. Every so often, you team up to work cases, inevitably end up bickering, and then unavoidably end up fucking. The circle of life, as Dean would call it. He’s capable and reliable on a hunt, and you’d guess he felt the same about you, but once the job is done and all sexual frustrations are relieved, you don’t stick around. You don’t overstay your welcome or wait for Dean to ask you to leave. You find your next case and are gone by the next morning. He never asks you to stay. 

That’s how it works. Just a few days together and then you leave the man with the emotional capacity of a teaspoon in your rearview. 

Maybe the problem now is that you’d slept with him before finishing the case. So now there’s no avoiding him the morning after. Instead, there’s sitting at the dinghy town diner, forcing yourself to stomach breakfast while he openly lusts after another woman after being inside you not even twenty four hours ago. 

Not the best start to your day. 

“I could’ve handled it myself.” You snap. “I just didn’t want to get in the way of your eye fucking.” 

“How considerate of you.” He says flatly. “Really, what’s got you so pissed?” 

Literally everything you’re doing. But you say, “I’m not pissed.” 

“You sure? You’re looking at me like you wanna murder me.” 

You’re spared from having to answer when the waitress comes back, giving Dean big eyes as she sets the plate down in front of you. He smiles at her. 

He catches you glaring at him. “I’m just teasing you, sweetheart.” The corners of his lips twitch into a smirk. “Don’t you worry. You don’t have any competition.” 

You recoil. “That’s not- I’m not-” Stammering, you give him a look of disbelief. “I don’t care about competition. There is no competition, I mean.”

Dean smiles wider at your reaction. “Then what’s with the attitude?” 

You stare at him as he eats for a second, trying to formulate a thought that isn’t kick him hard in the shin under the table. “I always have an attitude.” 

“Ain’t that the damn truth.” He agrees around a mouthful. He swallows before continuing. “But you’re extra feisty today.” 

This time you give in to the urge to roll your eyes. You’re reaching your wits end and he’s smiling at you, acting like this is all a game for his entertainment. 

“I didn’t sleep well.” You say sharply. “I’m used to sleeping alone. You know, without someone taking up all the space in the bed.” You cross your arms over your chest. 

“I don’t think that’s it.” He muses, still smiling smugly. “Looked like you slept like a fuckin’ baby to me.” 

Your face heats up at that comment. You internally cringe as you're confronted with the thought of him perceiving you while you were asleep. It just feels like something too intimate for the insouciance between you. And even though Dean truly did take up the majority of the bed with his large frame, you’d slept well. You hadn’t even stirred when he got up to shower, so now you don’t have a good defense. 

“Whatever, Winchester.” 

“Y’sure you’re not jealous that I’m giving attention to-” 

“Now I’m pissed.” You interrupt. “Get a grip, Dean. I don’t care what you do or who you give your attention to, alright? Now can you hurry up and finish eating. I don’t want to stay in this town any longer than I have to.” 

Though your tone had been cutting, Dean appears unaffected, simply shrugging in response. “What’s the rush? Got your rocks off and now you’re ready to skip town. M’starting to think you might not enjoy my company.” 

“Well, don’t think too hard. Might hurt yourself.” 

“Cute.” He sneers. “But you seemed to enjoy my company last night, though.” He pretends to think. “In fact, you couldn’t get enough of my ‘company’ last night, if I’m remembering it right.” He leans across the table towards you and drops his voice, mirth glittering in his verdant eyes. “Hell, I’ll give you ‘company’ right now if it’ll fix that attitude-” 

The more primal part of your body stirs at his provocative tone and the deep timber of his voice, but your annoyance quickly beats that side of you back into submission. 

“At this rate, you’ll never have my company again.” You lean forward and taunt. You know it’s a total lie but it feels good to threaten him anyway. You’re also curious how he’ll react. You've tried to be done with him before, but for some reason, when he calls, you feel inclined to answer.

In his typical withdrawn nature, Dean deflects with a dismissive joke. “Oh, come on, woman, y’know it breaks my heart to argue with you like this.” 

“But you have such a talent for it,” You say with fake sympathy. 

“Fightin’ with you is just a hobby. My real talents lie elsewhere.” He counters with a smirk. 

You recognize the innuendo immediately. Dean practically defaults to making sexual insinuations, and does it frequently that it frankly annoys the hell out of you. It’s just a constant reminder that the only thing between you two is sex. Sex and hunting. And you know he’s more than capable of handling a spirit or two on his own, so that makes your true value to him more than clear. 

“Yeah, like driving me insane?” You mutter. 

“If I’m driving you insane, sweetheart, it’s only because you gave me the wheel.” He gives you a deliberate look with his eyebrows raised. A look that somehow says and we’ll keep riding until we crash. 

You roll your eyes and check the time. “Whatever that means. Hurry up. Library’s open.”  

A few minutes later, the same waitress brings over the check. Dean snatches it off the table quickly, but not before you see the phone number written in pink glitter ink at the top. The corner’s of his lips lift as his eyes sweep over the digits, and you’re not sure why that makes your stomach flip. 

You spend the next several hours at the library looking through old paper records. The research takes you both much longer without Sam but you’re thankful he’s not here. Though he’s easier to get along with than his brother, you don’t enjoy the looks he gives you and Dean when you fight, like he’s dealing with children. Like he knows something you both don't.

Eventually, you find the death certificate you were looking for. A hitchhiker had been struck and killed in a hit and run accident over thirty years ago, and now the spirit was apparently haunting the isolated stretch of road where he’d been hit, alongside the big cliffs on the east side of the town. The remains were buried by the family on the side of the road, at the site of the accident. 

You meet Dean outside in the parking lot outside the library. He’s busy looking at his phone, so he doesn’t see you coming at first. Despite yourself, you find yourself admiring him as you approach. God knows he might be annoying and callous at times, but he sure is good looking. Tall and broad as he leans against his car, and when he looks up and sees you coming, his smile is blinding. No wonder you keep coming back. How does a girl say no to someone like that? 

Dean slips his phone into the pocket of his jacket. “We ready to go?”

“Yeah.” You put the road map on the hood of the Impala and point out where you’ve circled the radius the burial site should be located in. “Bones should be somewhere in here.” 

He’s standing close to you and you can smell the rugged mix of leather and cedarwood that follows him around. It makes your head swim for half a second, so you focus your attention on the map. He glances at the map, but then you feel him staring at you. 

You flinch when he brushes hair away from your neck, stepping away from him immediately. “What are you doing?” Your heart races at your confusion from the intimate gesture. 

“You’re a jumpy thing, aren’t you?” He muses. “Just noticed you have a bruise on your neck.” 

Using the side mirror of the Impala, you examine your neck. There are three little bruises at the base of your throat, the exact size of Dean’s fingers you’re sure. He has a habit, which you enjoy but would never say it out loud, of holding you by the throat when he fucks you. 

“So?” You ask with regained composure. “S’from you. Now let’s go.” 

“From me?” He asks but you’re already getting into the passenger seat. He climbs into the car as well before glancing at the bruises again. “You mean from last night?” 

“Yeah,” You say impatiently. “Can you start driving now?” 

“In a second. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

You give him a bewildered look. “About what?”

Dean looks away and starts the car, drumming his fingers on the wheel. He seems unusually tense. “I must have fucking hurt you last night, then.” He finally says. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

You roll your eyes. “You didn’t hurt me. Seriously. I always have bruises after.” 

“What?” 

His scandalized expression makes you realize that he would have no idea about the bruises he leaves you with after you hook up because he never gets the chance to see you the next day. It irks you that he’s pretending to care about it, though. He’s not exactly the most gentle lover, so what did he expect? The bruises are always very minor, from getting caught up in the heat of the moment, and you’ve never held it against him. 

“It’s just a bruise, Dean.” You murmur. “I’ve had worse.” 

“Yeah but not from me.”

“It’s not a big deal. Now come on. There’s a three mile radius we’ll have to search. Better to get it done while there’s still daylight.” 

Dean starts the car but he’s uncharacteristically quiet for the majority of the ride. Usually, you’re wishing he would shut up or turn the music down, but the volume is set at a respectable level and he’s not even singing along. You’re not sure what his problem is, but it puts you on edge. Part of the reason your arrangement with him works so well for you both is that it’s simple. No nuances, no extra baggage or anything like that, but today, it doesn’t feel simple. But it’s not your problem because you don’t let it be. He can be quiet all he wants. You don’t have to wonder why. 

By the time he pulls off the road, there’s only a few hours until dusk. You grab the weapons and supplies you need from the trunk, which Dean offers to carry, and then start the tedious task of walking along the stretch of road, searching for any sign or marking of the grave site. After the first hour of walking and Dean’s phone constantly going off, you’re frustrated. 

“Who’s even texting you, anyway?” You snap. 

“Oh, that’s Sam.” He says, putting a hand on your shoulder as you step back from the side of the road the same moment a car goes speeding past. “Just checking in. You know how much of a tight ass he is.”

“Well, maybe you should answer, so he can stop checking in every five minutes.” You mutter, rolling your shoulder out of his grip. As far as you’re concerned, he’s only allowed to touch you in the bedroom. Any other time and anything else is off limits. 

Another hour passes. A fairly strong breeze blows over the cliffs, blowing the dust and debris on the road, making the grass you’re walking through sway around your ankles. Your mind starts to wander and lands on the ghost of the hitchhiker. You cruelly compare him to yourself. At least he had someone who cared about him enough to mourn his death and bury his body. That’s more than you have. The thought surprises you, but there’s no time to grapple with its implications because Dean calls your name. 

“Looks like a grave to me, what about you?” He asks. 

Hidden in a tangle of weeds and tall grass, there’s a malformed wooden cross, desiccated from time and the elements, and an inscribed stone. Despite your arguments, Dean insists upon doing all the digging himself, even when you complain that it’s going to take longer than if you helped. 

“Just be a doll and hold my jacket, will you?” He requests with an appealing smirk, holding it out for you to take. “Good girl,” He says when you do. 

You narrow your eyes at him but stay quiet. He begins to dig while you just watch. In no time, he’s covered in a layer of sweat, glistening in the low hanging sun. You look away occasionally to avoid getting caught, but you sneak appreciative glances at his body as he continues the hard labor. His biceps swell with each lift of the shovel, the muscles in his back flexing as well. 

“Rest in peace, you son of a bitch,” Dean mutters after salting the bones. He drops the match, and you’re just relieved you’ll get to skip town. 

It’s after dark by the time you make it back to the inn on the edge of town. It’s a rare occurrence that a hunt goes so well, and you want to keep that momentum going. You see your truck where you left it in the parking lot and linger only to give Dean a half hearted goodbye. He’s texting, probably messaging Sam back that the case has been closed, but shoves his phone away at the sound of your voice. 

“You’re headed out now?” He asks incredulously. 

“Yeah. I can stop if I need to sleep.” 

Really, three days with Dean has been more than enough for you. You feel thoroughly disoriented, like you’ve been adrift from yourself just by being near him. Driving through the night, alone with all the thoughts you’ve so savagely wrestled into tight little cages, doesn’t really appeal to you, but you know better than to linger where you’re not wanted. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Dean barks, jerking his head to gesture towards the inn. “I’ve got the room for another night, and I don’t wanna live with you falling asleep at the wheel on my conscience.” 

“I’m perfectly well rested-” 

“Thought this morning you said you didn’t sleep well?” He counters with raised eyebrows. 

You concede without much other convincing, mainly to avoid getting back into that whole argument again. If he wants to pretend he wants you to stay because he’s worried about you, that’s fine, but you know why he really wants you to stay. 

Not even an hour later, he’s coming on to you. The events of the day have soured you against him, but your body still wants him, still responds more willingly than your mind ever does. He’s pressing you up against the wall, with one hand tangled in the roots of your hair, the other pawing at your ass in your jeans, lifting your leg to hook it around his waist as his mouth ravishes yours. 

“This what you needed?” He pulls away a fraction to murmur, his wet lips brushing yours. He lets go of your hair to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Round two to get rid of all that attitude-” As if sensing that you’re going to say something snarky back, he rolls his hips against you, pressing the hard line of his erection against the seam of your jeans just right, so that you have to bite your lip to suppress a whine. “Such a bad girl all day, and now you’re playing nice ‘cause you want my cock.” His voice is making you wetter with how breathless, low and gravelly it is. 

He dives in for another filthy kiss, his taste completely overwhelming you. His hand engulfs the base of your throat and he uses his hold on you there to pry you away from the wall and toss you onto the bed. 

“Now you’ve got nothing to say?” He taunts, standing before you at the foot of the bed while you lay on your back, panting. 

Dean pulls his shirt off before reaching for his belt and you feel your pussy spasm with interest. “Come on, you know the drill. Take all that shit off.” He gestures to your clothes. 

A few moments later, he’s got you on your hands and knees, both of you entirely bare. He’d teased you with his fingers for what felt like forever, edging you until you left angry scratch marks down his chest. Stingy with getting you to your release as punishment for being mouthy all day. 

“Fuck-” He hissed, pulling his hand away from the puffy, wet mess of your pussy to glance down at the fresh red lines running from his pecs to his ribs. “Kitty’s got claws, huh?” He smirked. 

You hadn’t meant to hurt him, but the last time he’d stopped rubbing your clit right before you were going to come made you nearly deranged with desperation. 

Now he’s dragging his cock between your legs, coating himself in all of your sticky arousal, before you feel the burning intrusion of him plunging inside. If he notices the little black and blue imprints from his fingers dotting your hips and the plush flesh of your ass from the night before, he doesn’t say anything. 

He fucks you hard and fast, just the way you like, so that you can only focus on the sensations and not any of the shit flying around in your head. He fucks you like he hates you, and it brings tears to your eyes. Your jaw aches from clenching your teeth against the screams you hold back. You’re honestly surprised he has the stamina to fuck you so raw and aggressively, given he had exerted himself over digging up the bones not too long ago. 

Dean folds his body over yours, so his sweaty chest sticks to your back, grunting in your ear with every slam of his hips into you. His hand is around your neck again, squeezing you in a firm grip but without really restricting your airway much. You like the drunk, fuzzy feeling you get from it, and you like the way he’s just making you take it. 

“Such a fuckin’ bratty little thing,” Dean uses his grip on your throat to lift your head a bit, so he can murmur directly into your ear. “All fuckin’ day, until I give you what you’re too proud to ask for.” 

His dirty talk is constant but you miss about half of it. While during the day your mind runs things, right now, with him pounding into you like it's his job to bruise your cervix, your mind turns off, and you’re just your body. Your pussy is throbbing, muscles in your arms and thighs shaking from the effort of holding yourself up, even with his help. You let him make you feel good. And you do feel good, like you’re floating, like you’re not real. Times like this might actually be the only time you do feel good, so you surrender completely to the feeling. You’re not yourself when you let him fuck you. You’re someone different, someone better and worse at the same time. Or maybe, when he’s using you like this, when you let him use you like this, you’re nothing at all. 

He squeezes the flesh of your ass before slapping it hard, and you moan in response. He pulls at your hair, and you whine at the pinpricks of pain that you love, pussy clenching hard as you get dangerously close to coming. 

“What a fucking whore,” Dean pants in your ear. “Can feel the way your pussy loves that,” He slaps your ass again and laughs darkly. 

He makes you cum by sliding a hand between your legs and playing with your aching clit. You scream into the pillow, as if you're cumming against your will, and he doesn’t relent until you stop shuddering, stop tightening your pussy around him. He comes, still with his hand around your throat, like he owns you, like you’re a dog he has on a leash, and when you think about that in the shower later, it makes you feel sick. 

He lets you shower first, and then when you’re done, he goes. You never shower together. And you might sleep in the same bed afterwards, but it’s not like you cuddle. 

You sit on the edge of the bed, slowly coming back to yourself from the post orgasm haze. You listen to the muffled noise of Dean singing in the shower, staring at the steam that billows out from under the door. Your body is satisfied and fairly tired, but your mind is restless. You’re thinking maybe you should have left town tonight when Dean’s phone rings beside the bed. 

Expecting it to be Sam, you answer it. It’s just like Dean to focus on getting laid, before assuring his brother that he’d made it back unscathed. “Hey, Sam,” Your voice is a little hoarse. 

“Sam? What? No, this is Penny, from the diner. Who is this?” 

You blink. “You have the wrong number.” 

“No,” The insufferable waitress says in her snotty little voice. You can barely hear her over the blood rushing in your ears. “I’ve been talking to Dean with this number all day.” 

Your stomach drops to your feet. “Wrong number.” You repeat before hanging up. 

You know you probably shouldn’t but you open up the message threads on Dean’s phone. No recent messages from Sam. Just a shit ton from this same unknown number. There’s bile rising in your throat as you realize what it all means. That Dean had taken the number from the restaurant this morning, had reached out to the tacky ass waitress, and had continued to flirt with her via text all fucking day. While standing beside you. And when you’d asked about it? He lied to your face and said it was Sam. And to make the entire situation worse, he’d fucked you after it, too. He’d kept you both on retainer, two chicks on the line so if one fell through, he’d still be able to get his dick wet. 

Jesus, you’re such a fucking idiot. You let him do this to you, too. 

You read a few of the messages before you feel so sick you have to stop. But you see enough to realize they were making plans to meet up. Tentatively for tonight. He calls her baby and beautiful and other shit he never says to you. Instead, he calls you whore. 

Emotions boil under your skin, and you can’t make sense of any of them, until anger surfaces. You know there’s no real reason to be angry with him, other than the fact that he lied to you. You have no claim on him. He’s not yours. Not by a long shot. But you feel humiliated, insulted, and worst of all, fucking hurt. But that only lasts for a second before you smother it under more anger. 

Dean steps out of the bathroom with a towel hanging low on his hips, torso naked. Your nail marks on his chest stand out against his tanned skin. “Think I pulled something in my back towards the end there. Think you could-” 

“You were texting Sam today?” 

The nonchalant expression leaves his face at your tone. He stares at you for a second before heading over to the side of the bed, where his clothes are. “Uh-yeah-” 

“Really?” You press. 

“Can’t a man get dressed before he’s interrogated.” He half heartedly jokes, but then catches the hardness on your face and becomes sheepish. 

“Just answer me.” 

“Unless you wanna waterboard me, too. In that case, I can keep the towel-”

“Jesus christ, Dean!” You yell. “This isn’t a fucking joke!” 

He stares at you, maybe shocked that you raised your voice, or surprised he’s been caught. “Yeah, I’m not exactly laughing here, sweetheart-” 

“You asshole-” You round on him, shoving him as hard as you can but even then he only stumbles on step backward. “Keep lying to my face, Dean. Go ahead. I fucking know it wasn’t Sam. God, you must think I’m a fucking idiot.” 

“You know that’s not true-” He raises his voice slightly but it’s only to be heard over your own ranting. 

“Oh my god, you’re actually disgusting.” You shake your head at him. “You disgust me.” 

“I didn’t exactly do anything.” He frowns. “They’re just messages…and we’re not- uh, you and I don’t- You said it yourself. You don’t care who I-” 

“You lied to me, Dean.” You bellow. You’re vaguely aware of the dramatics of the scene you’re causing, and later you’ll probably be mortified by your behavior, but right now, you can’t control yourself. You’ve never been this fucking angry at him, never this disappointed. It just confirms what you knew all along; you’re entirely nothing to him. 

“You lied to me, and then you fucked me!” 

“I didn’t think you would care! She’s just-” 

“Then why the fuck did you lie about her!” You nearly scream, getting in his face. “You wanna fuck her, then do it! Don’t ask me to stay the fucking night with you, when you’re telling some other bitch you’re gonna see her tonight! God, are you really that stupid, Dean? You didn’t think I would care? No, you didn’t think about me at all, you piece of shit.” 

He gapes down at you and says your name pathetically. You just stare at him, chest heaving. Finally, he says, “You’re right.” 

“Fuck you.” You say, the anger leaving you fast. You have to get out of here. “I’m done. I’m so fucking done with you.” 

he’d stack his schedule so he could be free whenever it is your time wandering around the beach. on the outside, he looks focused, sharpening one of his knives or cleaning one of his arm rifles. but anyone who looks at him for more than 5 seconds knows that his eyes are moving relentlessly, not so casually inspecting around to trace any sign of you.

he’d so not so casually look up to see what you’re doing, do you need assistance, are you distressed? most of the time your face is neutral, unaware of being watched. but he comes over anyway, giving you a hand at any task you’re doing. “jake… no, i can do it,” that’s what you always say. but you ended up not doing anything because he decided that it was his task instead.

one time he catches you not eating. being so busy with your duty as a tskarem, you fell into a strained routine of being occupied with healing someone. no one noticed, you’re too grown to be constantly looked over by your family. but jake does.

of course, he notices how you barely touch your food, maybe one or two bits, before someone called you over, a child fell on his knees, they told you. when he approaches you the next day, telling you “you should eat, sweetheart,” you laugh it off, saying you never feel any fuller.

oh, bullshit, he thinks. so he took approximately 1 hour or more to curate a specific meal for you. he’d sliced up your favorite fish, placed the fruits you like, and complemented it with a sweet drink. he is proud of his work, a little messy but the effort has never been more prominent.

jake would feed each of those to you, resulting in a blush on your cheeks. “open up, baby,” as one ripe fruit is being held up on your lips. “so full!” you exclaimed with a pout after eating half of the plate. but jake tuts and puts up a stern look, “no. eat more.”

after knowing what kind of fish you like eating the most, he makes it a mission to hunt for you. the fishes he caught ended up being too abundant for one family only. that is exactly his plan.

he knows you would be around tuk today, teaching her and other kids about herbs in the metkayina clan. that is why jake bothered to grill a fish, slicing it up and make tuk carry it. “but, dad, i don’t really like this kind of fish…” she grimaced with a questioning look. jake just smirks and say, “well, that’s a’right. you can share it with your friends.” by friends, he only means you. that is how he makes sure you will not skip a meal again.

secretly, jake asks kiri to teach him how to braid. even though he says it is for tuk, kiri is observant. she sees how his attitude changes in the last few months, more smiles, fewer furrowed brows. she also notices the amount of time her dad spent with you on the beach. helping, he’d say. so kiri taught him and at the end of the week, he had mastered a style. he learned how to do it because sometimes you complain that your current hairstyle bores you but you don’t really have time to style it.

you both have a staring contest when you act out—not being in a very good mood and ended up lightly lashing at him. jake just leans back, arms crossed, and stares down at you with that scolding look, “you done, baby?” and you just went putty on his hands.

always, always teaching how to defend yourself, making his job to guide you holding a rifle and shoot at the right direction. it goes beyond physical as well, he also tells you how to raise your voice when someone puts you down. it gives him a sense of relief that you can look out for yourself if he is not around, which are rarely anyway.

when he is around in a public space, he’d scan the surroundings for any sign of danger. if someone makes you slightly uncomfortable, he’d approach you, joining the conversation, and letting you slip away from the unfortunate situation.

there’s a time when someone starts handing a drink at the communal feast. jake knows what kind of drink that is, the one that makes your head dizzy—drunk. he watches you gulp down one, two, three— before asking for more. he lets out a harsh breath when your walk starts wobbling.

it is not long until you stumble on your own steps. that is when jake stands up, placing his large palm on your back, guiding you through the crowds. no one notices when his fingers start drawing circles on your skin, he whispers, “let’s get outta here, baby.”

jake is a big spoon. his body engulfes yours whenever he sleeps. when you try to get up, he’d just hold you tighter, mumbling a protest in his sleep-dazed state. to the point you ended up groaning, “you’re so heavy, jake!”

he is a giver king. no matter how much he loves to feel your lips around his throbbing cock, he loves to spit and eat your slick pussy more. loves to drape himself over you and let you be a pillow princess.

jake talks you through it, every goddamn time. it does not matter what the mood is, he always sings you praises after guiding you. “that’s it, baby, put your leg over here.” and “keep doing that, sweetheart. oh, you’re so good.” and “biiig stretch, hmm, you can do it.”

he loves to see you on top because it shows how much he is guiding you. hands on the sides of your body, he is the one moving your hips, rolling them in circles. enjoys seeing you make up a shy grin when you managed a pace, not very realizing that it is all his doing.

having you as his mentor while mastering skimwing riding does nothing to dull his hunger for you. if anything, the night meetings have doubled, grown more reckless. he manhandles you into positions you didn’t even know existed, murmuring praise into your ear until your legs tremble. you’ve learned his favorite is having you ride him, watching his heavy shaft throb as you sink down whining, “o-oh so big, daddy,” tears pricking your eyes from the stretch alone.

at first, he lets you work for it. “c’mon, baby. biiig stretch,” he drawls lazily, arms folded behind his head while his eyes glint with desire. his toes curl in the sand when you finally take him all, plush ass meeting his thighs with a wet, obscene sound. “fuck,” he breathes, voice roughening. “such a good girl.”

you feel him everywhere, as if your bodies have fused into something singular. palms braced on his broad shoulders, you begin to drag yourself up and down on his cock, slow at first, savoring the ache. you bite your lip as you lift yourself until only the flushed tip remains inside, then sink back down, head rolling back, a high-pitched “a-ah…” spilling from your mouth.

you pick up the pace on your own, chasing the rush and your slick squelching shamelessly with every downward grind. once. twice. five times more, at least. you wonder dimly why he’s still just watching, sitting back. his cock twitches hard inside you, the sensation making your walls clench reflexively as you both moan, voices tangling together, “d-daddy…” the fullness has you whining as need roils hot and dizzy in your belly.

“what is it, baby?” jake finally grips your waist, thumbs circling slow and deliberate, sending sparks through your veins. he watches your eyes fog over, watches drool slip from your parted lips as your mouth hangs open, oh, you are gone. “hm? tell daddy, sweetheart.”

all that comes out of you is garbled sound, needy babbling as your hands clutch his toned biceps. jake tuts softly, shaking his head. “nah. use your words. you’re a big girl, right? took all of me without help.”

you shake your head, a small, desperate motion he catches instantly. he knows you too well now. still, he pushes, voice teasing in a cruelly gentle manner, “what is it? you need daddy’s help?”

your pupils blow wide, heat flushing across your cheeks as you nod frantically. his hoarse laugh vibrates against you, “c’mon. use your words.”

“need your help, please,” you gasp, humiliation long forgotten, “h-help, daddy.”

“good girl,” he murmurs, kissing you slow and deep before guiding your hips, rolling you into his thrusts as he bucks up to meet you, creating a trail of ‘ah–ah, uh–’ whimper from you. “best pussy ever. y’know that? love—”

the word nearly slips free. love you, that’s what he wanted to say. but he quickly shuts himself by placing his lips on yours open-mouthedly. jake does not have any courage to say it out loud, no matter how much he wants to. so he just hopes the word transcends from his throat to yours non-verbally. 

he does not know the exact time he became emotionally attached to you. at first, he’d think it was only some physical desire–to chase some kind of heat-to-heat relief. maybe, no, definitely, it changed when you started asking him questions. 

yes, the night often ends with him cumming deep inside of you, making you feel so full and lolling your head lazily to his shoulders. your own slick trails down onto his thighs and the sand beneath it. but other nights are spent merely lying on the ground, your head draping over his chest and his arms circling your back to your hips. you ask him things no one ever does. about earth. about who he was: “what was your home like, jake? what were you like?”

when most people are interested in his stories–seeking deep conversation–they often ask about his conquest of toruk or one of his fights with the RDA. but never about his past. earth. marine. human. he guesses it was because of the na’vi disdain of most human-like things. which he understands, after every cruel act they have done to the na’vi. so upon hearing your curiosity of him, a part of him that he tries to hide shamefully, he was surprised. it evoked emotions he does not even know exist. 

jake would tell you about his childhood, his parents, his military service, and tommy. hearing you spell ‘detroit, michigan’, his hometown, made him let out a genuine laugh from his stomach. then he realizes how long it has been since he was this vulnerable in front of another being: how unintended conversations help him make peace with part of himself he has avoided. making him acknowledge the miserable feeling young jake has to bear every day after the doctors told him “sorry son, we… we can’t help you with your spine.” 

he does not know why he never talks to anybody about his pain, he just decided to bury them deep enough. but you, damn you, you get your hands dirty and dig up the soil, again and again until you found the root, “well, i-i think you are a hero, jake. even before you’re… this,” this, a na’vi. before toruk makto. before olo’ekytan. before fatherhood.

his reply to your words was a head-pat and a soft chuckle. but he never stops thinking about it–about you. fear crawls underneath his skin then. he cannot stop thinking about it even when he has you on you back, moaning out wantonly as he pushes himself to the hilt of your core. he slides himself slowly while his hand fondles your breasts, pinching and circling the nubs. his thrusts are too slow, making you breathlessly keen out, “.. mhm, faster, please…” while looking directly into his eyes.

he abruptly broke the intense eye contact and buries his head on your neck. jake hides his face because he is secretly afraid you’d see the little scars over his features. how each of it resembles his aging years and the kills he had taken. the blood on his hands. he hopes to never find you seeing him in the way he sees himself. his lips found their way onto your shoulders, nipping and kissing the area while speeding up the pace of his hips. the forbidden words almost went out from the tip of his tongue again. 

it has been a day since the night meeting. tonight, a festive is held to celebrate some couple’s unification as mates. your dance has ended and you went somewhere with the other dancers, not before shooting him a shy wave and mouthing him a ‘hi, jake.’ his cheeks burn as he ducks his head, smirking despite himself.

when he looks up, his glare drifts to your parents. a boy around your age has approached them and handed over a thing, which tonowari accepted with a big smile. decorated with flowers and shells, jake is sitting too far to make out the whole image. but jake knows what it is: a courting gift. everyone in the clan already knows about tsireya and lo’ak close proximity, unbeknownst to their personal perceptions. it must be for you, then. 

his chest tightens, his breath hitching as jealousy ignites hot and sharp. the boy is young, lean, almost as tall as him. perfect. jake’s jaw clenches as his thoughts turn dark and ugly. he has seen the boy somewhere, probably one of the training warriors. his darkened eyes trail over to where you had disappeared before. 

after he sees ronal smiling slightly at the boy, he suddenly stands up and cast himself away from the feasting surroundings. he could feel his lungs losing their breath, suffocating his insides. the drink on his hand has long slipped out since he squeezed the container too hard.

fuck. what were you thinking, jake? 

what, that she would want to be with you?

when he reaches a silent cave, he could not help punching his fist against the hard wall, muttering ‘fuck’ when blood started to pour out from his knuckles. within the tight space, he could hear his ragged, uneven breathing. as he lay down on the sand to calm himself and close his eyes, he could not stop picturing you. your smiling figure when he told you his stories, your laughing frame when he tickled your sides, your confused look when he told you ‘you’re the prettiest thing i have ever seen’ in english. he knew you could not understand him and that brought him a bittersweet feeling.

he could dream about you all night—pretending he still had a whole life ahead with you, pretending the future was something reachable—if you did not call out his name.

“jake!”

your voice yanks him back from the half-formed fantasy. reality rushes in.

“jake, i have been searching for you.” when he opens his eyes, you are there, hovering above his reclined figure, shaking his shoulders lightly, concern etched into every line of your face, “why’re you here, jake?”

he drags himself upright into an awkward sitting position, knees creaking faintly as if rusted hinges protesting the movement, spine protesting under the accumulated weight of years and violence, “yeah,” he mutters, then louder, “got sleepy back there, sweetheart.” his calloused fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, a habit born from fatigue and age alike. jake hopes the answer will be enough—hopes it will smother the truth before it spills out of him.

but your eyes narrow and your mouth curves into a small frown, sleepy? you thought.

“you… don’t like my dances, jake?”

oh, fuck.

his palm comes up to cradle your face in urgent affection, thumb brushing your cheek as his focus drags unwillingly to your mouth, still pouting, “no, no, baby. that’s not—” his words collapse on themselves. jake exhales, frustrated, and guides you gently onto his lap, grounding himself in your weight, “that’s not what i meant, yawne.”

the look on your face twists into something wounded, almost betrayed, “so?”

he knows—god, he knows—how much you prepared for tonight. you talk about your practices constantly, weaving them into conversations like secrets you can’t quite keep. you never even let him sneak a preview; you wanted him to see it in real time, under the firelight.

great job, jake. real fucking smooth.

the expression you wear makes his chest ache, a bruising throb. it’s the look that awakens the part of him that wants to shield you from everything ugly in the world. and that includes himself.

“i love your dances, sweetheart,” he says quickly, sincerity pouring into every word. “never seen anyone move like that before. the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen in my life—y’know that?” the closeness lets him inhale your scent in, familiar herbs and fruits flooding his senses, “you could never make me sleepy. ever.”

your cheeks bloom, the color spreading down your chest as butterflies erupt low in your belly, “thank you, jake,” you say softly, shy smile tugging at your lips. then your gaze drops. that’s when you see it: his knuckles, split and swollen, smeared dark with drying blood.

as if he feels your stare burn into him, jake flexes his hand and shifts it out of sight. too late. you’re already leaning in and frowning, “j-jake… did something happen?”

he clears his throat in a sound that’s halfway to a cough, half an attempt to laugh it off. “nothing happened, babygirl.” the grin he gives you is crooked and you notice immediately that it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“jake,” your voice is urgent but careful, like a distant lullaby that still manages to undo him on the first note. one of the few things jake cannot do—no matter how hard he tries—is lie to you.

his tongue sweeps over his dry lips as his palm slides along your side, the touch meant more to steady himself than to soothe you, “just got upset and hit the wall,” he says quietly. “nothin’.”

“upset?” you tilt your head, ducking lower until you can look him straight in the eyes, “why?”

he knows he can’t say nothing again. so his face tightens, jaw locking as he braces himself. he steals a glance at you, searching for something. here goes the end of the tunnel, jake.

“you’re beautiful,” he blurts. “you— i mean, truly. the best thing that ever happened to me.” his voice fractures at the end, and he winces, “fuck. i— why’re you even here with me, huh?”

the words tumble out darker now, breathless and raw, “you deserve better, baby. got boys lining up to court you. you deserve a clean canvas. not one smeared with reds and blacks. not me.”

your mouth falls open, then closes again as you search for footing before answering, “what— what do you mean, jake? i like you.”

“what do you like about me?” even as he asks it, he knows it’s cruel. a selfish question designed to hurt before he can be hurt first. how could you possibly answer that? how could he burden you with his own wound?

your silence stretches, and jake groans low in his throat, scrubbing a hand down his face, “you should go, sweetheart. someone’s gonna look for y—”

“i like you, jake.” the air leaves his lungs all at once.

“i— i like you so much,” you continue, voice trembling but steady, “i like how you smile and laugh, and how you tell me stories.” your fingers lift, tracing the planes of his face, lingering over scars. his eyes flutter shut as he gives in to your touch, “i like how you protect the people you love. how you protect me. how you listen, and remember the little things about everyone. how you help without ever asking for anything back. how you make stupid jokes just to see me smile. i—”

you swallow hard. “i wish you could see yourself the way i see you, jake.” when he opens his eyes, the world blurs. he barely recognizes the wetness there until it spills.

“i,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his cheek, just above the cut, “love”—a kiss to the other cheek—“you.” your mouth finds his gently, “i don’t want a blank canvas.”

everything inside him gives way. his grip tightens on your waist as he chases after your mouth, desperate now, “i love you,” he mutters, voice breaking. “fuck. i love you.”

his forehead presses to yours, breaths syncing, the realization settling heavy and irreversible in his chest—that this is it, that he is ruined and redeemed all at once, the words spilling unchecked, “iloveyouiloveyouilove—”

you silence him with another kiss, slower this time as if sealing the confession into something physical, your thumb brushing his sharp jaw. when you pull back, there’s a glistening thread of saliva connecting you, “i want you. now, jake. please—”

another thing about jake is that he has never learned how to say no to you. “lay on the sand, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent now, “take those off.”

the ground is cool beneath your back as you strip without hesitation, letting your attires fall forgotten at your side. jake groans openly at the sight of you, slick and exposed under the dim glow, taking a moment longer than necessary, “christ.”

“christ?”

you barely get the question out before he’s over you, predatory and intent. one hand pins your waist, thumb circling your clit lazily, deliberately, while the other cups your breast with a familiarity that borders on worship. your pussy is his altar. he drags his tongue from your swollen button down to your clenching hole, savoring every juice. “she’s winkin’ at me, sweets,” he murmurs, “it’s real cute.”

“ah-ah…” he drinks you in, refuses to waste a single drop, lapping at your folds until your moans turn desperate and broken, letting the tension coil instead of rushing to release it. fuck. he could die happy like this: tongue buried while making you fall apart.

you need him inside you. now. “please— fuck me, please, daddy—”

“shh, daddy’s got you,” he coos, lifting himself just enough to slot between your legs. his cock hangs heavy, thick and flushed, restrained only by his own will. gripping the base, he drags the leaking tip through your folds, smearing pre over your swollen clit, teasing and drawing a whine from your throat.

then he pulls back completely into a seating position. you lift your head, confused and breathless, “w-wha—”

jake leans onto the solid wall, stroking himself slowly as his eyes rake over you, smirk sharp, “you said you love me, baby?” he hums. “show daddy how much you do, sweetheart.”

jake: jesus, whos crying so damn loud? author: uh me

jake waits for sometime, collecting his thoughts and keeping his emotions in check. he didn't mean to get angry with you. there were things on his mind and he realised very quickly that it wasn't right to take it out on you. this was his fault and he needed to take care of it.

and so the avatar comes up to the lab, sneaking past and entering your dorm room. crouching down and carefully moving his massive self through before locking the door behind him. his bioluminescent markings glow in the dark. trodding quietly to your covered figure. so small. so fragile he thinks.

"baby..." jake calls out, his knees sinking into the soft mattress. the bed dips with his weight. you make a soft noise. "hey baby...i'm sorry" laying behind you. firm chest pressed up against your back.

he's too big for the bed. you curl up into yourself as you feel his face hovering above you. even in the dark, you see him. gazing at you with nothing but pure undying love.

"babygirl..." dreads swaying. his hand gently holds your waist. covering the entirety of the skin. squeezing tentatively. "hm" you hum, still not giving into him. jake's tail wraps around your thigh, flicking up and down.

"...forgive me baby" voice barely audible. his lips press kisses to your cheek. you hide your face in the pillow but he gently pulls you back. laying his palm flat on your stomach. carressing the skin tenderly. apologetically.

"please?" fingers creeping towards the waistband of your pants. "...let me make it up to you..." nuzzling into your neck.

"please, baby?" he ask, pushing his hand lower when you silently raise your thigh briefly, giving him permission. you bite down on your lip as his digit ghosts over your cunt. teasing your entrance. kissing your earlobe when he feels you get wet. coating the tip of his finger with warm slick. he breathes out heavily.

"i'm sorry...fuck i'm so sorry baby" prodding at your swollen folds. spreading your wetness and slowly focusing all his attention to your clit. "gonna make you feel good.."

beginning to rub painfully slow circles over the aching bundle of nerves, chanting pitiful apologies. the avatar coos when you jerk in his hold. "..shouldn't have snapped at you. didn't mean to...i'm so stupid"

you whine softly, thighs closing around his wide wrist. sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. "...mean" and jake nods, curling his digit.

"i was mean. will never be mean to you again, baby" his eyes half lidded. moaning into your mouth when you turn your head, tugging at his scalp to pull him in for a wet open mouth kiss.

"so mean" you moan, struggling to stay still. clit throbbing with the way he plays with it so skillfully. the coil in your lower stomach tightening.

"i'm sorry babygirl...f-fuck you gonna cum yeah?" jake groans, breath hitching when you rock onto his fingers. chasing his sinful touch.

"...forgive you j-jake...please" you whisper and the avatar quickens his pace. nodding at your plea. he feels himself grow hard. your cunt fluttering. "cum for me, babygirl...yeah"  watching you unfold. cumming all over his fingers. revelling in the sounds you make.

he kisses you desperately. swallowing your noises. happiness washing over the avatar when you cling to him. tail keeping your thighs parted. helping you ride out your orgasm. you could definitely get used to apologies like this.

....

screaming without the s !

jake's still in his battle wristbands and belts. hair braided with extreme care, and natural forest accessories intertwined, interwoven with each strand of hair. jake looks more than sexy with his braids tied back in what you think resembles a half ponytail. his kuru draped over his shoulder. you don't know what feature to focus on, you're more turned on by the battle paint across his face and lithe body. armbands tight over his defined biceps. and quite honestly your gaze keeps coming back to his monster of a dick that is centimeters away from where your ovaries cry helplessly for him. cunt clenching around nothing as he deprives you of his fingers.

bringing those same slicked-up digits to the head of his cock. coating himself with it, his mouth opening to release a breathless groan. he says something. raising his face to look at you more sternly, when he realises how utterly fucked out you already are. "bring them up to your chest." and you whine involuntarily. heart racing at what he meant. the expression he stares at you with sends a hot wave of arousal down your spine.

"i won't ask again baby. legs up." his arm stroking his cock as he says more firmly. "now." hands trembling as you shyly lift your thighs up, not all the way but till your knees barely brush against your heaving chest. you're by no means flexible but you're surprised by how pliant you've become just from all his teasing.

jake looks even bigger from his angle. like a predator pinning down his prey. reminding you how insanely smaller you are compared to the na'vi. "eyes on me." forcing you to maintain eye contact as he presses his weeping tip over your clit. huffing enthusiastically when you thighs instinctively close.

"keep them open, baby." he reminds, dragging his tip lower till its prodding at your entrance. you're trying your best to keep your eyes open, catching how his abdomen flexes. a shallow thrust pushes an inch of him in. and you choke out a sob, the stretch has you aching. "breathe. slow breaths." jake's voice is shaky and he leans down. caging you in. his hands taking their place on the back of your knees. pushing them higher and you feel your breath catch in your chest. "look at me..." and his face is hovering over yours. so close that his breath is hot against your parted mouth. his cock bullying its way with each second that passes.

"you gonna take it like a good girl, yeah?" his fingers dig into the back of your thighs as you let out a shaky 'yes sir'. his dick throbbing at what you address him as. "ahhh fuck" he moans, fangs catching onto his bottom lip. gasping pathetically as he rocks his hips, stuffing you halfway. ripping a cry out of you when he bottoms out abruptly. tears roll down your cheeks and he whispers pitiful apologies. but you know he doesn't feel all that sorry. "shhhh its okay. took my cock so well, babygirl"

his lips pressing kisses on your cheeks. letting his hips impatiently grind into your greedy cunt. mind shutting off at how deep he is. you can feel him in your throat. "thats it, yeah thats it" grunting as he begins to thrust slowly, ramming into you with precision. your hands shakily coming up to grip at his braids. body going limp in his strong arms.

giving him the liberty to quite literally fold you in half. the new position has you feeling utterly spread open. being able to feel each and every vein of his cock. his lower abdomen flush against your clit, squelching lewdily with each strong move of his hips. "gonna fuck you so full of my cum" jake states with no doubt. his eyes locked onto yours.

"yeah?" his tone cocky.

"gonna let me breed you, huh babygirl?" he throws his head back, leaning behind to watch his length slide past your swollen lips, so much slick between the two of you. its filthy and it has him fucking you harder. "oh god. oh shit." he curses, letting out the prettiest noises.

his battle paint smudged across his arms and now staining your legs. "such a pretty pussy. so fucking wet" the na'vi curses, his head dropping back. jaw hung open obscenely as he drives his cock deeper with short quick thrusts. ears flattening. his braids swinging back and forth. beads softly clinking while a few feathers stick out.

heat licks at the pit of your stomach. orgasm building up, threatening to come undone. hardly getting the words out before your back arches. drawing an embarassingly loud moan out of you. seeing flashes of white with how hard it hits you. "yeah baby, cum all over me" chasing his own orgasm. thighs trembling as the overstimulation kicks in. and suddenly his length is glistening with your cum.

"little more sweetheart...almost there" jake reassures, his eyes going down to your lower stomach. a visible imprint. of him. the sight of his cock reappearing and disappearing with each thrust tips him off the edge. warmth floods through. pushing in all the way as he pumps you full of his cum. eyes rolling back at the sensation. theres so much and it drips past your folds.

"keep it all in. thats right baby, keep all my cum in that sweet cunt" out of breath, his cock pulsing as you milk him dry. breathing heavily into eachother's mouths before he kisses you. licking into your mouth passionately. "so good. so fucking good for me." he praises, carefully placing your thighs down. not planning on pulling out anytime soon. giving you a pitiful smile when you whine. muscles sore and quivering. "can't believe I fucked you in a mating press, babygirl..." his braids tickling your skin.

"i'm dead. you killed me. that thing between your legs is a weapon" you grumble, nevertheless running your fingers through the beads. he laughs and lowers his head to nuzzle against your bare chest. smudging his colours on you. the paint being a reminder of what the two of you had celebrated with. hissing as the thick blue-ish white slick pools on the ground.  "...my sweet girl".

....

grrrrrrrr

Neytiri went still. Hurt flickered across her features. "...Jake."

But pride locked her jaw. She wouldn't apologize, and he didn't expect her to. What would she apologize for? For being right? For knowing—long before he did—that he couldn't keep them safe?

He killed their baby boy. He did. Not her.

His eyes burned. He shook his head, blinking hard, and folded the mat against his arm. "Look, we're both—" The words seemed heavy. He swallowed. "We're both tired. Maybe sleeping apart'll do us good, yeah?"

He scratched behind his ear, a nervous habit from his first life. "I'll uh—I'll be over there."

And he walked off, and she watched.

.

.

.

The commune space was nicer than he'd expected—and emptier than he probably wanted. Because if there were bodies in the dark, or a distant snore, he could make up scenarios then, stories.

A husband exiled by his wife. Exhausted parents fleeing noisy children for one fucking night of peace. Maybe a couple who hide their love in this place of rest.

Small frictions to explain why he was here instead of home.

Jake shifted against his hammock. The entrance flapped open.

Then a figure stepped through, hammock bundled under one arm. You crossed to the hooks with practiced ease, smoothing the fabric flat. Bioluminescent freckles traced constellation-paths across your skin, mapping the shape of you in the dark.

You. Y/n.

He knew you from the periphery—always near Kiri, heads bent talking and giggling about god-knows-what. The two of you were a mystery to him, honestly. But why would a kid like you be sleeping here, in the communal space instead of home?

Jake sat up slowly. You startled, eyes flaring wide before finding his in the dark.

Confusion first. Then something gentler.

A smile.

"JakeSulli...?" Your gaze swept the empty hall. "What are you doing here?" You lowered yourself onto your hammock, right across from him.

Jake couldn’t quite manage a smile, not yet at least. He settled for a tug of his lips instead and hoped you didn’t find it impolite.

"Was gonna ask you the same thing." His eyes drifted past your shoulder to the scatter of belongings you'd brought: woven basket sagging with fruit, a bundle of shell ornaments wrapped in cloth. Personal items you’d bring when you weren’t planning on going back. "You get in a fight with your old man?"

You followed his look. Your ears flattened against your skull, He knew it immediately. He fucked up.

"I..." The pause stretched. "I don't have parents, JakeSulli. They died defending the tulkun. Hunters killed them both, long ago."

Shit.

Jake’s breath hissed between his teeth. "Agh—fuck. Sorry, kid. I didn't—" He bit the inside of his cheek. Can't do a damn thing right.

"You don't have to apologize." The sweetness in your voice nearly killed him. When was the last time someone spoke to him like that? Long, he thinks. Neytiri used to sound like that, before the sky-people came back and took everything. 

"Really," you continued, and your smile returned into something careful. "It happened a long time ago, I thought you knew?"

He shook his head, and his smile was sheepish. "I guess I should've, huh."His gaze drifted past you, towards the far ends where someone slept. "You hang out with Kiri so often…" The words trailed off. He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. "Makes me a bad best friend's dad."

You frowned then, just before you could stop it—childish for a girl who’s reached her second birth, you knew. But it came so naturally, just as your arms folded into each other. "We're fighting right now."

He laughed until his gaze drifted sideways and the sound died in his throat. “Fighting?” He exhaled through his nose. Kiri would kill me for prodding around her business. 

He shouldn’t ask. He asked anyway. 

“About what?”

You picked at the thread of your sleeping mat, nose scrunching. The gesture made you look younger than you were. "She's always with that pinkskin now.  I want to go to the reef—we can't. Why? Because he can't go." You rolled your lips thinly. "I've become second to her."

Something shifted in Jake's expression. Softened. A problem this simple—this normal—felt like a gift. He wished all his troubles could shrink to fit inside a young womans wounded pride.

Jake's mouth twitched. 

He wished—

No. Don't.

He rose carefully and crossed to where you sat.

Be a dad, Jake. You can do this. At least with this one you don't have any problems. He settled beside you on the mat, hesitating until you glanced up and shifted to make room. 

In the low light he could see the tattoo clearly now—the dark line that curved from your left brow along the edge of your jaw. And the other one too, sprawling across your shoulder, far too elaborate to have been completed in one sitting.

"I can't really speak for Kiri, you know how she is, hell you probably know her better than me." He paused. "But… she cares about you. Course’ she does." His hand hovered before settling on your shoulder—an awkward touch. "She just hasn't seen him for a long time, not since he was kidnapped."

Your frown deepened. For a moment he thought he'd mistepped—said exactly the wrong thing. But then you looked up at him, and your eyes were wide, the clearest green he'd ever seen. 

"Really…?" You sighed, gaze dropping to your lap. "Now I feel like a jerk."

"No reason to think that. Talk to her, Y/n. Kiri'll understand."

You nod. Silence settled between you—surpsingly not awkward.

"If you don't mind me asking…" You tilt your head, studying the older man through lowered lashes. "Why are you here?" Your teeth catch briefly on your lower lip.

His shoulders lock. For a moment you think he might deflect, but then his breath left him. A surrender. "Neytiri and I got into a fight. And like a coward, I ran away." The last word tasted bitter. Again.

He expects an uncomfortable frown, maybe a shy and pitiful apology, but instead you laugh. Warmth threads through it, and he knows then it's genuine. 

He blinked. “What?”

One shoulder lifts in a shrug. "I think it's funny you called yourself a coward." Your head tilted, considering him. "Most men run from their wives after an argument. I've slept here most days for years. Seen many men come after fights." Your tail taps a steady rhythm against the hammock's weave. "Even Olo'eyktan Tonowari has. So why wouldn’t you too, JakeSulli? There is no shame in it."

He scoffed, shook his head, then lets his own laugh come out. "Right. Makes sense, I guess." Some knot in his chest loosened, he smiled now, an actual one.

When he look back at you he noticed the slight wag of your tail, the attentive look you gave him, ears perked forward. All open and sweet. 

His eyes traced your tattoos again, then traced over your body—naturally.

The Metkayina women carried themselves differently than the ones of the Omatikaya—broader hips, fuller chests. Something closer to the girls he knew back on Earth.

And you're no different. Pretty in that soft way, such a sweet thing.

His smile faltered.

What are you doing, Jake? 

"Well, I should…" He jerked his chin toward his hammock, standing too quickly, movements suddenly awkward. I’m a fucking creep.

You glance at his vacant hammock and your ears dip. You felt the shift immediately. "Oh… okay." The word came out small.

His chest tightened. Now look at what you did. Fuck. Fuck. Something about that disappointment sunk into his chest. "Do you… uh—do you usually sleep here?"

A nod. "Usually. If not here, then by the rocks."

Jake gave a slow nod. His eyes drifted—hammock, then you, then hammock again. He should go. He really, really should.

But his hand found your shoulder instead. A single pat. His smile came crooked, almost apologetic. "You can talk to me. Whenever you want. If you want."

Just a grain of opportunity. Innocent.

The kind of thing a father might offer—though you clearly hadn't known much of that. Just an introduction to what that word could mean.

That's all.

Your tail moved first—that paddle-wide thing thumping soft against the netting. Then came the smile, small and shy, tucking itself into the corner of your mouth. "Ok."

Jake peeled himself away and returned to his hammock, sliding in and feeling it strain. “You’re larger than most, Jake.” Neytiri once giggled. “I had to reinforce the straps twice. Stop eating so much!”

His arm folded beneath his head, and for a while he studied the ceiling—woven twine packed tight enough to hold the rain. Then the strings. The knots. The way they swung, twisting audibly.

Then, inevitably, his gaze drifted back to you.

Your spine faced him, tail draped over the netting.

When Neteyam was still young—

No.

He was young. He died young.

Remember that, Jake?

Jake's throat tightened.

When Neteyam was a kid—because that distinction mattered—the boy's tail always hung beyond the net. Every night Jake would tuck it back in. Every morning it'd be dangling again, somehow through the gaps in the hammock or with a leg tossed overhead. The same sight: that small blue tail dangling into empty air.

The memory pulled something sharp through his chest. His hand went there. 

"You have a strong heart."

Neytiri again.

He shoved them down, burned them into the back of his skull where they couldn't reach him.

Yeah right.

.

.

.

When morning came, you were already gone.

Your belongings too—mat rolled, beads tucked away, the space where you'd slept scrubbed clean of any evidence you'd existed there at all.

Jake didn't want to name the feeling that came with noticing. Disappointment sat wrong in his mouth, tasted like something he had no right to. So he swallowed it. Shoved it down where it could rot with everything else he refused to look at.

He pushed himself upright.

“Dad. Dad. Dad.”

The voice hit him before he'd steadied himself. His head snapped toward the entrance—Tuk, bouncing on the balls of her feet, a plate balanced in both hands. Behind her trailed the reef girl she befriended, both of them giggling 

He couldn't remember her name for the life of him.

"Tuk?" Jake rubbed his face, managing a tired smile. "Whatcha doing here, baby girl?"

She clambered up beside him, small hands shoving the plate against his ribs. "Mom said to bring you a plate." Her finger jabbed at each item—fish, berries, some kind of root—Then, already turning: "I'm gonna play with Anuy now."

Anuy. Right. He could remember that.

"Hey, hey—wait up." His hand caught her tail mid-swish and tugged her back. Tuk's face crumpled into an exaggerated pout, shoulders drawing in.

"Whaaaaat."

"You aren't gonna say good morning?" He quirked a brow, let his smile soften. "What happened to my kisses, huh? You used to fight your momma just to get snuggle time."

She yanked her tail, but the shy smile won anyway. "I'm getting too old for that!" A glance at Anuy, who giggled. Her ears flattened.

Jake just grinned and pulled her in anyway, wrestling her close despite the squirming, and pressed exaggerated half-bites against her shoulder, her belly. Growling. "Then stop growing up! Come back! AGHHHH!"

Tuk shrieked with laughter, wriggling free like a fish. "Come on, Anuy!" She launched herself off the mat, Anuy's hand already caught in hers, their laughter spilling out in breathless squeals of monsters and run!

Jake let a few more chuckles die in his chest.

He stared after them.

Then down at the plate.

The food. Neytiri. 

His thumb traced the edge of a berry. Simple food. But Neytiri had still taken the time. Still thought of him enough to do this small thing and send their daughter along his way.

“JakeSulli, are you still there?”

You stepped through the entrance just as Tuk and Anuy squealed past your legs. "Oh—Tuk, Anuy!" you scolded.

You shook your head, smiling to yourself, and crossed the space. You held another plate. When you looked up and saw the one already balanced on his lap, you laughed—already knowing.

"An apology meal?" One brow arched as you crouched beside him. Gently, you added more to his plate: Nuts this time. Different cuts of glossy fish, darker meat. "You should eat more."

Jake looked at it. The extra portions. The care in how you'd arranged them.

His stomach sat heavy and uninterested. He needed to train. Needed to be stronger, faster, better than he was yesterday. He wouldn't eat until he'd earned it—until his body had done something to justify the fuel. Eating felt like indulgence, and indulgence shouldn’t be rew—

He sighed. 

You were looking. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

"Thanks." He grabbed a fistful of berries—small, sweet things that burst between his teeth. His gaze drifted. Caught on you.

You wore something different.

Nicer, of course it’d be. Night was for soft loincloths and simple garments. Morning was for flowers that twisted over your breasts, petals cupping the curves, tied at your back in a way that said swimming or ceremony or maybe just because I wanted to. The arrangement shifted when you moved.

He jerked his eyes away.

Jesus.

He caught the barest hint of violet nipple.

His tail gave a single flick.

He shoveled more berries into his mouth, barely tasting them, just filling the space where his brain should be working. Come on idiot, chew. Swallow. Chew. Don’t look.

He didn't even know why he was reacting like this. Hell, he hadn't felt this caught since the first week with Neytiri—back when every glimpse of her had made his brain short-circuit. He'd gotten used to it. The female form. Normalized it. Wouldn't even register Ronal's chest or Neytiri's or anyone else's for that matter.

So why—

His gaze drifted back.

Violet peak against red flower petals.

"Do you like it?"

He choked. Actually choked. Berry pulp lodged somewhere in his throat and he coughed, fist to his mouth, eyes watering.

"Ugh—-what?" Heat crawled up his neck.

You glanced down, fingers grazing the petals with absent fondness. "I finished it two nights ago. Kiri helped me twist the stems—her fingers are better for the small work." A small shrug, easy and unaware and innocent.

You wouldn't know. Couldn't know what his idiot brain was doing.

“Mhm,” He mumbled. “Looks really nice.”

You swayed on the balls of your feet, weight shifting to the outside in that restless way you had, and his eyes tracked the movement before he could stop them. "Well,” You hid the barest hint of a shy smile. “I should get going, JakeSulli. I have some chores." You whispered.

"It's just Jake."

The words came out too fast. His ears flattened before he forced them forward again, he made himself meet your eyes. "My name. Uh... the Sully part's my last name. Family name."

You paused.

Color crept up your neck, into your cheeks—mortification blooming soft and purple beneath your freckles. "Really...? Oh! I thought—"

"Everyone does." He offered a crooked grin, something easier now. "I've told them all, but I think they just like JakeSulli better." A chuckle escaped him, he pushed the meal to the side.

Your smile unfurled slow, curling away from embarrassment. Then you laughed—this bright, bubbling sound that made something heavy in his chest go loose.

He liked that sound. A lot.

So I can still make people happy, huh.

"Okay, Jake." You tested it, nose wrinkling slightly. "It does sound off."

He chuckled low. "Yeah?"

You gave a nod. Something in you shifted. Your thumbs traced the wide sweeps of your palms—nervous, maybe, or just something to do with your hands. You glanced up. "It's... it's a nice day, Jake."

Your eyes drifted back outside, shoulders shifting in a way that opened space beside you. An invitation.

And Jake knew what bait looked like.

He'd seen it a hundred times—back when he had working legs and a bar habit, when women would lean just so, their shoulders angled. Something about—”You ever gone up to the hotel with the flames? Real nice, Sully.” Or that time with Neytiri in the tree of voices, dressed—

Jake blinked.

He resisted a smile and tilted his head instead, considering the sky like it was the first time he'd noticed it. "Yeah. It is."

He glanced back just in time to catch the pout forming on your lips. You stepped closer, and he had to work to keep his expression neutral, to swallow the grin threatening to break through.

"A good day for chores," you tried again. "I mean."

"Yep." He looked away, whistling something tuneless. "I agree."

Your smile collapsed. The defeat was immediate, written in the slump of your shoulders, the way your tail stilled mid-sway. "Would you like to help me with my chores, Jake." Flatter now.

He grinned then, couldn't help it. "You know what? That sounds like a lovely idea."

Your eyes rolled so hard he thought they might stick. You turned on your heel, already moving toward the doorway, and for a moment Jake moved to follow—

Until his gaze dropped to the plate.

He'd eaten everything you'd offered. Finished a berry or two that Neytiri had set aside. The People did not waste. It was one of the first rules he'd learned, drilled into him until it became reflex. And here he was, leaving half-finished food like some—

He looked back at you.

I really shouldn't. The thought came quiet, reasonable. I should apologize to Neytiri. Not hide.

But that was easier said than done.

"Jake!"

You poked your head back through the doorway, frowning. Then your gaze followed his to the plate. Understanding flickered across your face. "Eat it later." You gestured, impatient, that bright smile returning. "Now come. Before the Olo'eyktan scolds me." A pause. Your voice softened into a tease. "You wouldn't want that, would you…?"

He smiled.

Yeah, later.

"Nope."

.

.

.

"Get the one that's yellowing!" you called up.

Turns out your chores were simple. For any forest na'vi worth their weight at least—this was child's work. Climb. Cut. Catch. Repeat until the bags grew heavy and your shoulders ached in that good, tired way.

For Jake, crouched on a branch forty feet up, this was a piece of cake.

"We'll have to climb the papa mantis tree," you said, already moving toward the tallest trunk. Your fingers traced the bark ridged like armor plates, feeling it. "The sweet shell fruit grows at the top. High up. Where the branches thin."

Jake shifted the woven bag higher on his shoulder. "Sounds easy enough."

You shot him a look, starting with his feet and dragging your gaze up to his face, took your time with it too. "This is difficult for my people, Jake." A smile tugged at your mouth. "Which is why you'll help me."

And that's exactly what he was doing.

Minutes later he stood balanced on a high branch, thighs braced, one hand gripping the trunk while the other wielded a pun stick—a long shaft, wicked blade lashed to the end. He angled it toward a cluster of fruit, skin the color of honey, and sliced clean through the stem.

The fruit dropped. "There."

You darted forward, bag wide open, and caught the fruit as it tumbled. It landed with a satisfying thump against the others already gathered. You glanced up, shielding your eyes from the sun bleeding through leaves. "Is that enough?"

He leaned back, surveying the bag from his branch, sweat beading along his temple. "Hard to say from up here."

You hummed, counting silently. "I think the Keyta'an family wanted four as well. They have a new baby—have you seen her? They named her Tuphrap." 

Your hands worked the bag, rearranging fruit so more would fit.

"She has the fattest cheeks. And could you believe it—Reyta's spirit sister gave birth to a beautiful calf the same day!" You looked up again, grinning. "It's a rare spiritual occurrence. The clan was so happy for them."

He grunted, reaching for another branch. "That right?" His face pinched as he stretched, blade finding itself on another stem.

"Yes! She’s so small too—I wanted…” 

He wasn't listening. Not really. But he wasn't not listening either. He welcomed the distraction from sky-people, from his sons, from whatever marriage pains were between him and Neytiri.

"When'd she give birth anyway?" He nudged his weight onto a thicker limb, bark groaning softly under him. "Look out, another incoming."

You shuffled, adjusting the bag just in time to catch the falling fruit. Glancing up, you shielded your eyes from the sun. "When your family left.”

The words came out softer than you meant. You cleared your throat, eyes tracking the bag's contents instead of his face. "She came around midday, if I remember."

"Hm."

Another cut. Another fruit dropped and you caught it, but barely—it grazed the bag's edge and you had to lunge. When you straightened, he was watching you.

"And you want kids?"

Your hands stilled on the bag. Above, he glanced down, mouth quirking. "C’mon, why so shy?"

You shrugged one shoulder, then the other. Your hands twisted around the bag's straps until your knuckles ached. "I do." Quieter. "I think they're cute. But I shouldn't have children until the sky-people are gone."

His smile died.

You watched it happen—watched something older and sadder take its place.

"Don't say that." His was something urgent. "Don't let them take that from you too. You deserve a family."

"The People are my family."

"That's…That’s different, kid." He shook his head, eyes locked on yours. "You know that."

You opened your mouth. Words gathered somewhere behind your teeth that didn't make it past your lips before—

"Agh shit!"

The branch snapped clean through. Jake dropped several feet, slamming flat against his back with a grunt that punched all the air from his lungs. "Jake!" You abandoned the bag mid-reach and scrambled to his side, knees hitting dirt.

He groaned—One hand pressed flat against his spine like he could hold the hurt there, keep it from spreading, eyes unfocused and swimming with pain. "God fucking dammit." His gaze tracked upward to the offending branch, then dropped to you.

You were crouched above him now, fingers touching over his face, his temples, the back of his skull—checking for blood that wasn’t there before checking the base of his queue.

"Do you need me to get Neytiri?" The words tumbled out too fast. "Ronal? Tsireya? Your queue, did you land on it too harshly?"

"Nah, I'm…" He groaned, rolling onto one elbow. "I'm okay." Slow, he pushed himself upright. Jesus, when would a fall like that knock me on my ass? Getting too old… 

You shifted back to give him room, but your eyes never left him—tracing the line of his shoulders, searching for some invisible fracture.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, voice small.

"For what?"

He dragged his palm across the back of his head,  fingers probing his scalp for wetness. Found none. His ears swiveled toward you, and his brow furrowed at the guilt pooling in your expression.

You bit your lower lip. "I distracted you. You would've noticed that branch was weak if I hadn't—" The rest dissolved into an exhale, frustration aimed inward.

His face softened. He just smiled, lopsided and warm and clapped a broad hand against your back. "You're okay, baby girl." It came out so naturally to him that when you paused, only then did he curse under his breath. “Sorry—”

"No." You cut him off, quiet. Your gaze dropped to your hands, fingers twisting together. "It's okay. I..." Heat crawled up your neck. "I liked it."

You dropped your gaze, focusing instead on his hand where it rested against the ground. Even with the webbing your stafe had granted you, his palm dwarfed yours. You lifted it carefully, turning it palm-up. Splinters bristled from the heel of his thumb, angry red lines scored the meat below his knuckles where bark had bit deep as he'd tried to catch himself.

"We should see the Tsahik," you said quietly, thumb brushing the edge of a wound, only to trace his pinkie.

Jake's finger lay flat against your palm—a pale blue, blunt thing, hard at the pads where calluses were formed from years of fight. You traced the joints, counting five instead of four, feeling the hard bones shift beneath thin skin.

"Why is this one smaller?" Your thumb pressed the tip of his pinkie.

He laughed, a little rough. "Wish I knew. Failed biology back in high school."

Your hairless brow arched. He caught the question and waved it off. "Not important."

A few more seconds of inspection, and: "You don't think it's gross?" He asked.

You shook your head slowly. "When I first saw it, I thought it was strange." A pause. Your thumb traced the crease where finger met palm. "But I think it's kind of nice."

Nice. The word sat funny in his chest.

"I hate them... I hate their pink little hands! I hate the insanity in their mind!"

Your fingertip drifted lower, following the crease of his palm. Blue lines threaded beneath the surface "Does it hurt when I do this?" You pressed deeper.

Jake swallowed. You watched his throat.

"Nah."

Jake found himself leaning without meaning to. 

"Look at me."

You did.

You didn't look surprised. Nervous, maybe. “Yes Jake?” Your pupils dilated just slightly, your breath catching somewhere between your ribs. But you kept your eyes on him, watched as he reached forward and took your chin between thumb and forefinger. He rubbed the skin there. Gentle. His head tilted, gaze dropping to your mouth.

"You had dirt," he grumbled.

He didn't know why he said it. Testing something, perhaps.  To see if there was anything there—anything real beneath the wanting—that settling need, the want to reach and grasp and hold. Did he feel it?

Yeah. He felt it.

You retreated first. Looked away but didn't wipe your chin, didn't scrub the touch from your skin. Slowly, you stood and gathered the bag at your feet, hands moving on instinct. "T-There's a few other chores I need to do." Your voice steadied on the second sentence. "If... if you want to help."

Another invitation.

He rose. Watched your tail curl inward, the paddle tip wagging—just a little, just enough.

By god, he felt something.

.

.

.

The next few weeks were… strange. That's what it was—strange in the way things are strange when you already know its odd. Jake felt it. Christ, he knew you felt it too. Some tension that had no name, or maybe it had too many, and naming it would make it real. Make it something he'd have to deal with.

So he didn't.

But it sat there anyway. Right in front of him, thick as smoke and as visible as the damn sun in front of him.

He'd catch himself watching the way your tail swept the sand when you walked, the small curve of your mouth when Neytiri's back was turned.

You'd pass him extra portions at meals, fingers lingering just a fraction too long against his palm. You'd trail after him through camp, curious and restless, asking what he was fixing, what he was thinking, why humans did this or that.

"What are you doing?" you'd ask, crouched beside him while he played with his guns or mended a net.

"Weapon maintenance."

"Why?"

"Because the guns get jammed.”

A pause. Your head tilted. "Can I try?"

Even Kiri—who usually lived in her own head—noticed enough to roll her eyes and make retching noises.

"Weirdo," she'd mutter, though her smile said she found the whole thing amusing.

You'd scoff, tail flicking. "Oh, shut it. I think it's weirder you're into Spider—"

"Shut up!" She'd shove you, squealing, and you'd both dissolve into giggles that carried across the marui’s.

You played at indifference. Rolled your eyes. Acted like this was all some accident of proximity, like Jake just happened to be where you were, like you just happened to find him interesting.

Jake didn't call you on it.

Because—and here was the thing he wouldn't admit, not out loud—he loved it.

Hated that he loved it, though, but there it was—a spark of something he hadn't felt in years. That giddy, stupid thrill of being wanted. Like he was twenty again. 

The kind that came before the comfort settled in, before you knew every expression your partner would make, every gift they'd give, every flaw they'd carry.

This was different. New and unpredictable.

Dangerous.

One afternoon you passed carrying a basket of clams for the elders—shells that would be cracked open for their soft meat that they could gum and suck out. You’d been wearing something with weighted beads at the ends of your leaf-skirt.

And Jake couldn't help himself. His hand shot out, fingers curling gently around the tip of your tail and tugged.

You yelped, spinning on him with wide eyes, then broke into laughter. Your hand came up, pressing flat against his stomach, and you patted him once.

"You are annoying," you hummed, voice soft and teasing.

And it was like that.

For weeks.

"Does it look nice, Jake?"

The top was vine-work, thin straps that cupped your breasts and spiraled outward in a pattern that imitated Kiri's necklace. Your loincloth hung low, shells clustered into a skirt that dipped at the hips, moved when you moved.

Kiri exhaled through her nose, arms folded. "She spent all of yesterday on that." The words came flat, but Jake caught the twitch at the corner of her mouth. "Come on, Y/n. It's very nice. We all know it."

"Yeah," Jake coughed into his fist. "Very nice."

You blushed, pleasure and embarrassment came together in a symphony. You caught Jake's eyes flicker, caught the way they snapped back up.

Your grin came easy. You tilted your head, pleased.

“Oh!" Your hands flew to your bag, rummaging through woven fibers and dried herbs until your fingers found it. "The flower!"

Golden petals unfolded in your palm, tendrils cascading like little tongues of sun. You held it up, almost shy now. "Can you help, Jake?”

Kiri's nose wrinkled. "I could do it, Y/n—and stop calling my dad Jake. Ugh, it makes me want to shrink back into myself."

Jake shot her a look, mouth tugging into something almost apologetic. "I said she could. You know I don't like being called JakeSulli. Makes me sound old and gruff." He was grabbing at some bomb-arrows, new ones for Neytiri… if she wanted them.

You stepped closer, flower outstretched, a smile tugging at your mouth. "An old and mighty warrior is the envy of all in our clan."

Something softened in his face. He smiled back—almost shy—and for a moment the war-chief disappeared, leaving only the man who'd once been a marine far from home.

Kiri groaned and grabbed Spider's wrist. "Come here, monkey boy." She dragged him toward the path, muttering something about propriety and how nobody listened to her anyway.

Spider stumbled after her, throwing you one last amused glance before they disappeared beyond the woven drape.

Their voices faded. 

Just the two of you now.

He could see it, even now—the way your attention fixed on him.

You stepped closer. "The flower, Jake?"

His name came different from your mouth now that Spider and Kiri were gone. Sweeter. Shaped the way a woman shapes things. The way women say a man's name when they mean something else entirely. He knew the difference

He patted his thigh. Just fixing it up for her, he reasoned with the part of himself that knew better. Nothing bad in that.

You sat without hesitation, back to him, and even then your ears swiveled to catch anything he might say. Every small shift of his weight registered in the tilt of your spine.

"You know," he began, feeling the warmth of your figure beneath his palm. He fought the urge to let his hand settle lower, fought the urge to flex the muscle there. "You could've had Kiri tie it instead."

He brushed your hair over your shoulder and wound it around your neck, fingers grazing your bare nape. You shuddered. His mouth curved before he could stop it.

"I prefer the way you tie it," you said simply.

He hummed low in his chest. "There." A pat to your thigh. You rose, that small sound of delight escaping you.

"How's the completed look?"

He clicked his tongue. Grinned, boyish and lopsided and far too warm for what this was. "Good, baby girl. Really good."

You offered your hand. He took it, holding your gaze as you twirled, showing off the flower woven through your hair, the beads catching firelight. He kept his grip steady and let his eyes track the line of you: throat, collarbone, the sway of your hips.

"Ma Jake."

Your hands stilled mid-gesture.

The movement to step back was instinct—prey recognizing a predator's silhouette. By the time she ducked through the entrance, you were already performing innocence: adjusting beads, smoothing fabric, eyes wide and empty of guilt.

Neytiri's head appeared through the entrance, and her eyes found you immediately. Found him and the space between you that wasn't quite innocent anymore.

Your head dipped, the picture of respect. Jake watched your ears—they didn't flatten, didn't betray a thing. 

"I was showing him my new outfit." Your hands traced the intricate beadwork across your ribs, drawing attention to the craftsmanship, the appropriate reason for being here. "Do you like it?"

The ease in your voice. The softness.

Jake's stomach dropped.

Dangerous, he thought. She's fucking dangerous.

But when had he ever had the good sense to run?

Neytiri's smile arrived late, stretched too tight across her teeth. "It is nice, Y/n." A pause. Her tail made a slow, snap. "But I must speak with my mate."

Mate. She said it like a line you'd already crossed.

You didn't flinch, didn't even falter. Just nodded and gathered your things with hands that didn't shake. "Of course," you whispered.

Neytiri watched you slip past, stone-faced, counting the seconds until your footsteps faded. Then she turned.

Slow.

"She comes here more often."

Her voice was gentle. That made it worse. Her shoulders were still tight beneath fresh bandages—Ronal's work, probably, wrapped after whatever bitter exchange they'd had over medicine or tradition or pride. The tension hadn't left her body.

"Yeah." Jake didn't look away. "She does. Kiri brings her over."

"More and more, it seems."

"They had a fight before."

"And you would know this?"

Jake's jaw locked. The muscle jumped beneath his skin. "What are you trying to say, Neytiri?"

Her tail snapped—once, hard enough that it cracked against the woven wall. The grief in her face was raw. She'd never learned to hide it, not from him. "You two seem close."

He scoffed and the sound surprised even him. He set down the bomb arrows with too much force, the components scattering. "Alright. You want to talk, let's talk." The hiss came from somewhere deep, somewhere he didn't recognize. "Say it."

Neytiri breathed, flinching from his response. Deep, shaking inhales that did nothing to steady her. Her lips pulled tight. "She likes you."

Jake's eye twitched. "She's a kid, Neytiri. It's innocent."

"She is a woman, Jake."

He stood then. Got right in her face, close enough to see the fractures in her composure, the way her pupils dilated. 

He thought of himself fifteen years ago—young, stupid, so fucking in love it hurt—and knew that version of him would've knocked his teeth out for this. Would've grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the ground for standing here, for letting things get this far, for speaking to Neytiri like she was the problem.

He thought of himself a year ago. Same result.

So much lost in so little time.

“Barely, Neytiri. Barely. Come on, do you really think she’s a threat to you? Our marriage?” His eyes went wet—performatiely, predictably wet—as if innocence was something he could emulate now. "What do you want me to do?" His voice dropped. "Tell her to stay away? Push Kiri further out because you're uncomfortable?"

Goddamn liar.

Goddamn dirtbag.

She was crying now. Her head shook, weak, defeated. "I don't know what to think." The sound that left her was pathetic. So small. "I feel you—" Her hands moved, grasping at air before she pressed a fist to her chest. She couldn't look at him. "Drifting. Away. To this place I cannot follow."

That landed.

He faltered. His eyes closed. Shit.

"Baby..." He reached for her, pulled her in. She let him. She always did. Her sobs came in soft, broken waves against his chest. "Oh, baby. It's nothing," he soothed, stroking her hair. "Can't have me throwing her out of our hut for some dumb crush, right?" A pause. His voice dropped to something coaxing. "Come on. You never eyed some hot older hunter when you were younger?"

That earned the faintest of a smile, then a wet, shaky chuckle. "...Yes."

"And weren't you just a girl during that?"

A slow nod against his chest. Her fingers curled into the fabric at his chest piece. She was just a girl when you two mated.

He kissed her cheeks. Then her forehead. Led her to the hammock with careful hands. "See? Just a dumb crush. I'm not into her. Not even a little."

Liar.

They slept in the same hammock that night. Actually cuddled after—his arm slung over her waist, her breath evening out against his collarbone. And for a short time, he convinced himself it was true. Excused his attraction as a lapse in judgment. Grief and anger warring with his morals.

But his hand tightened around her in the dark.

Liar.

It was such an easy excuse, until life hit again and he was back to square one with it.

Another fight.

He didn’t even remember what the argument was started by. It had to be something stupid, silly, because he couldn’t grasp at straws at why everything blew over.

Something about Spider—probably. The kid left his mask somewhere, or tracked mud, or laughed too loud. Something small. Something a kid does. And Neytiri had made that sound in her throat, the one that meant something without saying it aloud.

Demon blood makes him careless.

He was so fucking tired of that sound.

Neytiri was pacing, the kids were outside. And he was over it, slumped and exhausted.

"I'm going back to the commune." The words came out flat. He was already moving, hands gathering the hammock in jerky motions. Muscle memory from a hundred other times he'd done this exact thing.

Neytiri hissed—spraying saliva. Her good arm shoved him. "You run." Her voice cracked down the middle, splintering. "You run away again!"

He didn't look at her, just kept rolling.

"Just as you ran when the sky-people returned—" Her breath hitched. Outside, he heard the shuffle of small feet. Kiri's soft murmur to Tuk. Lo'ak's feet dragging across woven floor. Spider had already vanished. Smart kid. "—just as you ran to this place because you could not be Toruk Makto!"

The hammock dropped from Jake's hands.

He turned.

Slow.

Neytiri's eyes went wide. Her hands grasped her lips, just as they parted, some apology forming, but it was too late. The words were already out there—everything she felt alongside it.

Jake stared at her for a long time

I loved you.

He wanted to say. He wondered if she saw it, unspoken. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing.

I loved you and now I don’t think I can again.

But he didn't say it. Instead, something in his face went smooth. Apathetic. The kind of blank that came from too many firefights, too many bodies, too many times he'd had to shut it all down just to keep going.

He lifted both hands, palms out in surrender. "Alright." He couldn’t bare to look at her. "So I'm a coward. And you're unhappy."

That's right, Jake boy. You're getting it now. Always been slow—but you're getting it.

"No—ma Jake—" Her hand reached for him, fingers grasping. Desperate. Her face was breaking apart.

He shrugged her off.

He bent, picked up the hammock, slung it over his shoulder. Tuk's small hand caught at his wrist. "Daddy..."

He kept walking.

Kiri stood in the doorway, one hand pressed to the frame. Lo'ak beside her, jaw tight, tail lashing.

"Fuck," Lo'ak breathed.

"Mom..." Kiri turned back toward the hut.

Jake's feet was in a shamble.

Go to the outer communes, some rational part of him insisted. The ones far from center. Don't make that left turn.

He made that left turn.

Why are you going to her?

His jaw clenched.

Jake. You're making a mistake.

But hadn't Neytiri been a mistake too? He reasoned. That's what the People thought—what they'd whispered when they thought he couldn't hear. She was promised to another. Unhappy, yes, but promised. And he'd taken her anyway—Carved his name into her life with bloody hands and a bloody conscience. She'd been unhappy. He was unhappy now. Married now.

Was it different?

You were asleep when he arrived. You, along with several others scattered throughout the commune—bodies curled in hammocks, breath soft and even. More full than last time. That's what he'd wanted. What he'd asked for, and he got it. 

A place for the lost ones. The displaced.

He found hooks along the far wall and started working the strings. His hands fumbled. The knot wouldn't take. Too much tension, or not enough—he couldn't tell anymore. Couldn't think.

Strong heart.

You have a strong heart.

Jake.

Jake.

The cord slipped through his fingers and he dropped it, fists clenching until his nails bit crescents into his palms.

Breathe.

"Jake?"

Your voice came soft, full of sleep. He heard you shift, the rustle of fabric as you sat up and scanned the dim interior. Your frown deepened. 

"What are you…" Understanding flickered across your face, and you stopped. "...Do you need help?" A whisper now, careful.

He huffed—a sound caught between breath and sob—and felt the hot sting of tears gather at the corners of his eyes. And then the wetness came, hot and humiliating, tracking down his face before he could stop it. 

"I uh..." His throat closed around the rest.

He was unraveling here. In some commune in front of a girl old enough to be his daughter. He just wanted Neteyam back. He wanted to hug his son and tell him he’s sorry and tell Neytiri he was sorry too.

God—he wanted to go back to the forest and pretend for a moment he just landed on Pandora.

His shoulders shook in silent sobs, covering his face now. 

This embarrassment felt hotter than any shame he’d known.

I didn’t cry when Grace died. Or Trudy. Or Tsu’tey. I didn’t cry when Neteyam died, either. And I am crying here. I am crying here—

You rose then, bare feet silent on the woven floor, and reached for his hand. Your fingers curled around his.

"Come."

He followed. Stumbled, really.

You drew him toward your hammock, lower lip caught between your teeth. Those wide eyes watched him in the half-light. 

He hesitated at the edge, then lowered himself in. The hammock dipped and swayed under his weight. You settled beside him, body angling just slightly away—giving him space.

But Jake didn’t want space. He wanted the warmth of a body, the peace of innocence and the carelessness of youth.

He wanted you.

His hand lifted. No hesitation this time, though his vision blurred at the edges. You didn't pull away, that should’ve been his first warning. 

"I'm sorry," he said in english—the demon language. You wouldn't understand, and maybe that made it easier.

His palm found your jaw first, thumb tracing the hollow of your throat before sliding lower. Shoulder. Lower. Collarbone, then lower still. The notch between ribs. His other hand rose to mirror the first, both settling at your waist now, learning the dip and flare of your hips. "You're beautiful," he murmured. "A goddamn vision."

He wasn’t crying anymore, but his eyes had gone hazy and the tear tracks tacky.

He flickered his eyes back at you.

You hadn't moved. Eyes wide, lips parted until he saw the barest hint of pink. He caught the way your breathing had changed, shallow and quick, how you leaned in without meaning to. Your fingers twisted in the cloth at your hips, worrying the fabric.

"J-Jake," you managed, barely audible.

He stared a moment longer. I need this. Then drew you in and kissed you—slow, until he felt impatience at his own patience. "Shh," he whispered against your mouth.

Your eyes fluttered shut, tilting against him. You two were all whispers now, touching and feeling. “You are sad, Jake…”

"Yeah." He exhaled, and the sound was almost a laugh. "Yeah, I'm sad." He pressed another kiss to your temple, lips lingering there.

He should've let you go and stepped back, put distance between your body and his hands and the want that was coiling low in his gut like something needful. But he didn't. Instead, he drew you closer. One hand slid to the small of your back, fingers splaying wide. The other cupped the nape of your neck.

"Can't tell you," he said quietly. "Wouldn't understand."

"M'not dumb." You grumbled against his chest.

"Never said you were." His thumb traced small circles against your spine, and he watched your lashes casting shadows against your cheek. "You're too damn smart. That's the problem."

“Problem?” You kissed down his neck now, fingers finding his shoulders. 

You. Me. This. He thought it but didn't say it, not yet.

Instead, he leaned in, slowly. Giving you time to pull away, to hiss at him, to do any of the things you should've done. But you didn't. You stayed, frozen like prey caught in some thick black sap, and he felt the exact moment your breath stopped.

"This," he whispered against your mouth, barely touching. "This is the problem."

He kissed you again, this time to savor all that you were. Your lips were softer than he'd imagined, and he'd imagined them plenty.

Too much, maybe.

He felt you tense. Felt the small sound you made and swallowed it down as he angled his head and kissed you deeper.

Your hands fisted his loincloth, tugging. “Oh Jake…” You breathed against him when he pulled back for air. Your eyes were huge, pupils blown wide, swallowing the green.

"Shh." He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard. His hands had moved—one tangled in your hair, the other splayed across your ribs, thumb brushing just beneath the curve of your breast. "Don't talk. Don't... just don't."

"But—"

He kissed you again. Harder this time, less gentle, and the sound you made was different now. 

you were pulling him closer. Your hands had found the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair—his hair, not his queue, and thank Christ for that because if you touched his queue right now he'd be done for.

"Feel that?" he murmured against your jaw, your throat, the delicate arch of your collarbone. "Feel what you do to me?"

You glanced down at the bulge straining against leather and looked away just as quickly, ears flicking back into shyness.

You didn't answer. Couldn't, probably. Your head had tipped back, exposing the long line of your neck, and he took advantage—pressed his mouth there. Soft little suctions that came violet.

Just like her breasts…

He pulled back to see your face. Your eyes were glassy, unfocused. Your lips were kiss-swollen and your breath came in short, sharp gasps. You looked wrecked.

You looked young.

Realized it now, huh Jake? You little creep?

"Shit." He let go of you immediately, catching his breath. Oh god. His hands shook. "Shit, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—fuck."

You blinked, confusion replacing the haze. Your tail curled uncertainly. “Jake… please. Did I…?”

"It's not about what you did." The words came out harsher than he meant. "You don't understand what this means. What I almost—" He cut himself off. "I gotta go..."

He was already rising.

Then you gripped his wrist, hard. As if you had any strength to stop him. "No."

Jake stared. "No?"

“You can’t just… I…” You were flushed now, eyes wide like saucers, desperately clinging to him. “I… like you Jake.” You said softly. “You have…” You stopped yourself, looking around. Everyone was still sleeping. “You have her.” You whispered. “But…”

"You don't understand—"

You guided his hand back to your waist, placed it there deliberately. "I do. You feel lonely. I know you do. I feel the same way, every single day. Please..”

"Jesus Christ," he breathed.

You frowned, ears flicking back. "Do you not want me?"

"Want you?" He laughed, and it sounded broken even to his own ears. "I want you so much it's killing me."

"Then why...?" You tilted your head, a look of pain across your face.

He couldn't answer. Couldn't explain the guilt and the grief and the way you looked at him like he was something good when he knew—knew—he wasn't.

So instead, he kissed you again. "Gonna take care of you. Gonna make it good."

It'd been desperate from the start.

He shifted, already moving you beneath him, hands tugging at the ties of your loincloth. "Lift your hips," he grumbled against your mouth.

You obeyed. Of course you did. Hips rising, hands threading through his locks to find the leather tie binding them back. They spilled free, heavy and thick, and you kissed him—each small press of your lips—bridge of nose, slope of brow, hollow of cheek, that soft place where his ear met skull…everywhere your lips and tongue could reach.

He made a sweet sound between a grunt and a laugh from his chest.

"Ngh, fuck." The curse wasn’t really a curse. He grinned through each lazy kiss, pleased. "You're really affectionate, huh?" He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in. 

Neytiri was far from his mind now. Miles away, perhaps in another life entirely.

Your knuckles traced circles at his nape. "You came to me," the reminder soft yet pointed.

Look at her. He huffed. Getting confident.

His palm cracked against your ass—hard, and when your mouth opened to squeal, he clapped his other hand over it. "Shh, baby girl." he breathed against your temple, gaze sliding toward the sleeping forms scattered throughout the mauri. "Wake them and this ends."

Both of you froze. A body nearby shifted, grumbled something barely coherent, then turned their back toward you.

You glanced back at him.

Then you started sucking on his thumb.

He jolted, surprise flickering across his features before something darker replaced it. His grin widened as he finally unhooked the strap from your tail, pulling the loincloth away in a snapping motion. "Really...?" he breathed, voice dropping an octave.

You only continued the slow lap and swirl, eyes half-lidded in something that might've been innocence if not for the way you held his gaze. He tasted like salt and metal, and underneath it all that undefinable sweetness that belonged to him alone.

You hollowed your cheeks, drew him deeper, let your tongue curl around the base.

Dangerous, He thought. She's fucking dangerous.

"You're gonna kill me," he breathed.

“Then die,” you mumbled.

He looked down, thumb sliding free with a pop, and eased himself upright. Your legs were pressed together, tail curled tight as though you could hide behind it.

But he saw it anyway—that soft crease where your cunt parted.

A sound escaped him, low and appreciative.. He set his palm on your knee, coaxing your legs apart, and watched you open for him. His thumb found the slit, dragged down slow, testing the slick. "So damn wet for me, baby."

Your ears flattened. "Don't—don't say it like that."

"Like what?" His grin was wicked npw. "Like you've been dripping for me?" He punctuated each word with another slow drag of his thumb, just sliding through the slick coatness of your cunt.

"I've been thinking about this..." You admitted.

He glanced up, that smug smile threading through his expression. "Yeah?" He pressed his thumb just barely inside, felt you clench around the intrusion. "How long?"

"Since—" You bit your lip. "Since you touched me. The first time."

"The first time." He said it like he was considering the words. "When I was doing your chores, there baby girl?"

You nodded, face burning.

His eyebrows rose. "That long, huh?" The pleased rumble in his voice made your stomach clench. "And here I thought I was the only one losing my damn mind." He hummed. "So what'd you think about?" His thumb withdrew. One hand remained between your thighs now, rtracing maddening circles that went nowhere, did nothing. The other braced beside your ribs, caging you beneath him. "Tell me."

"Jake..."

"Come on." He kissed your knee, then higher to your inner thigh. "Wanna hear it."

You covered your face with your hands, tail lashing behind you. "Your hands," you mumbled. "And your mouth. I thought about—about this."

"This?" He nuzzled closer, breath hot against your cunt.

"Yes—"

Your hands moved to your top, tugging it off, and he could see the soft hills of your breasts, the way they rose and fell with each shaky inhale. Then your hips lifted, impatient and unsubtle. He chuckled. "Easy."

"You're slow…" you whisper-yelled, heat flooding your face.

He gave a soft, mocking pout. "I'm savoring you. You look..." His gaze dragged over your body with deliberate slowness. "Really damn good."

He rose once again, frustratingly claiming your mouth first. His thumb found the tender rim of your entrance, feeling without entering while his lips mapped the column of your throat. He kissed the slope of your breasts, nuzzled into the warmth there. "Smell like flowers…" he murmured against your skin. Something sweet and green. Yovo fruit, maybe. Or those night-blooming things that grew near the river.

"Thank you—" The word came out breathless.

He smiled against your breasts. "You're thanking me?"

"I don't…I don't know what to say—"

"Don't say anything." His free hand kneaded your other breast, thumb brushing the peak until you squirmed beneath him. He took the bud into his mouth, sucking gently, and your back arched clean off the ground.

A whimper escaped you. You bit your palm, trying to muffle it.

"How many times have you…" He trailed off, kissing down your stomach, tongue flicking over your navel before he nuzzled into the soft mound of your cunt.

"Oh, Jake…" You bit your palm, muffling the sound. "Um… a few… just a few. None like you…" The words tumbled out, half coherent.

He hummed, pleased, low in his throat. "That's good." He gave one long, slow lick, eyes closing as he tasted you. "Fuck…" You tasted as sweet as you looked.

Sweeter, even.

"Jake, please—" Your fingers found his hair, pulling and tugging until you heard the softest groan.

He grinned against you. "Please what, baby?" His thumb joined his tongue now, circling your clit with maddening lightness. "Use your words."

"I—" You couldn't. Could barely think. His mouth was right there, so close, and he was just—just teasing.

"Need me to make you come?" His voice was sap, dark and dripping. He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, suctioning until it left a mark. "That what you need?"

"Yes—"

"Then I better get to work."

He sealed his mouth over you.

Your hips bucked, but his palm pressed flat against your lower belly, holding you down, keeping you still while he worked you over with his tongue.

He licked into you, slow and thorough, like he had all the time in the world. Like this was his only job. His only purpose. He groaned against you, the sound muffled and obscene, and you realized—

He was enjoying this.

Not just tolerating it. Not just doing it to get you ready.

Enjoying it.

"Taste so damn good," he muttered against you, the words vibrating through your core. His thumb found your clit, circling, pressing, and your vision went white at the edges.

"Jake…oh—"

"That's it." He sucked your clit between his lips, tongue flicking over the swollen bud, and your thighs clamped around his head. He didn't stop. 

"I'm—I'm close—"

"Yeah?" He pulled back just enough to speak, and you wanted to scream at the loss. "You gonna come for me, sweetheart?"

“Mhm…” You frowned, nodding. 

He grinned. He had this look on his face, head tilted as if he was considering something. “Okay, yeah.”

He reached up, one hand cupping your jaw before sliding to cover your mouth. The pad of his thumb grazed your lower lip, tugging it just a bit. "You're gonna be making a lot of noises," he murmured. His eyes searched yours, something fond flickering there. "So here. Bite."

His palm pressed firmer against your mouth, and you felt the calluses, then the taste of salt on his skin. "Don't want you to hurt yourself, baby girl."

The endearment made your stomach flip.

You nodded. Just barely.

Jake latched onto your clit with a deliberate, sucking pressure that punched the air from your lungs. It was different than earlier, more controlled. Your thighs jerked, tried to close on instinct, but his hands were already there—rough palms sliding under your knees, hiking your legs over the broad span of his shoulders. He shuffled closer, groaning low in his throat, and the vibration traveled straight through your core.

Oh.

A whine tore from you, muffled against his palm. Your teeth found the soft part between thumb and forefinger—canines sinking into the meat of it, just shy of breaking skin. He didn't flinch. Didn't even pause. If anything, he pressed closer, tongue flattening against you in a long, torturous stripe.

"Jake—" His name came out garbled, desperate. You tried to look down, to see him, but your vision blurred with tears. Everything was too much. The heat of his mouth, the scratch of his jaw against your inner thigh, the way he looked at you.

"Shh…"

His free hand found your thigh, fingers digging in, holding you open. He tilted his head, adjusted the angle, and sucked again—harder this time. Then his tongue pushed inside.

"Ngh—shit…" He cursed.

You felt his jaw working, the strain of it. When he finally pulled back for air, his lips were slick and swollen. He replaced his mouth with a finger, one thick digit sliding in knuckle-deep, curling with a perscrion that spoke of years and experience..

A broken sound escaped around his palm.

Jake's eyes flicked up. Watched you.

Your head had fallen back, throat exposed, the line of it pale and trembling. Your breasts rose and fell in sharp gasps, stomach rolling in waves with every curl of his finger.

"What do you want, hm?" His thumb found your clit, circling with a teasing pressure. The contrast made you sob. "Tell me, sweetheart. Use your words."

He eased his hand away from your mouth, just enough for you to speak.

"Y-You…" It came out broken. "Want you, Jake—"

"Yeah?" A second finger joined the first, stretching you carefully. His pupils were blown wide, almost entirely black. "Want me where, baby? Here?" He curled both fingers, found that spot that made your body jolt. "Or somewhere else?"

"Yes—" You couldn't think. Could barely breathe. "Please, Jake, please—"

"Good girl."

He leaned in, pressed a kiss just above your clit, then sucked a bruising mark into the soft skin of your inner thigh. His fingers kept working, scissoring, preparing.

You were shaking now. Could feel your walls fluttering around his fingers, chasing something just out of reach.

"I think you're prepped and ready," he mumbled against your thigh. Gave one final kiss—right where he'd marked you—before withdrawing his fingers.

The emptiness made you whine. Your hips chased his hand without permission, seeking. "No… Jake, please—"

He released your face entirely now, that hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb—the clean one—brushed away the tear that had escaped. "It's okay, baby. Gonna feel worth it, I promise."

You had tears in your eyes, but you trusted him, always did.

His eyes never left yours as he reached for his loincloth, fingers working the knot with practiced ease. But your eyes—

Your eyes dropped.

You'd seen the bulge earlier. Felt it pressed against your hip as he ate you, but this—

Jake's cock was different from the ones you'd glimpsed on reef men during communal baths, different from the smooth turquoise youths you’ve fumbled with before.

His was large.

Thick and flushed a deeper blue-purple, uncut with veins that traced the shaft like rivers on a map. It looked angry. Heavy. The head was broad, already weeping, and below—his balls hung full and heavy, the skin darker, dusted with the same fine hair that traced his brow and jaw.

You reached without thinking.

Your fingers wrapped around him and gave an experimental squeeze.

"Fuck—" He choked on the word, hips jerking forward into your grip. A breathless laugh escaped him. "Why you do that, huh?"

But you weren't listening. You were too busy exploring. Your thumb traced a prominent vein, followed it down, then patted the base with an almost sweet curiosity. The hair there was coarser than you expected. Strange…so fascinating.

"It's fuzzy," you murmured, tilting your head. "I've never seen…"

The words trailed off because he'd started moving—his hand wrapping over yours, guiding you in a slow pump. You watched, transfixed, as the foreskin slid back to reveal the swollen head, then forward again. The motion was hypnotic.

Heat crept up his neck. His ears flicked back. "Kinda gross, right?"

There was something vulnerable in the question. Something almost boyish, despite the very grown man's cock pulsing in your joined grip.

You looked up and met his eyes.

"No," you said softly, as certaine as anything. "It's interesting. Everything about you is interesting, Jake."

He went completely still.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Then his cock twitched in your hand—hard enough that you felt it, and his breath punched out harsh and disbelieving.

"Right."

The word came out strangled.

Then he was moving. His hand left yours, both palms coming up to frame your face. He kissed you—deep and desperate and tasting of you—before pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

"You're gonna kill me," he breathed. "You know that? Gonna fuckin' kill me, and I'll die happy."

Jake braced himself above you, one arm holding his weight, the other tracing the edge of your hip with something close to reverence. His eyes tracked down to where you were already slick and waiting.

"Hey." His voice came soft, almost shy. "Look at me."

You did.

His hand wrapped around himself, and you watched—transfixed—as he positioned the broad head against your entrance. He just dragged himself through the slick that had gathered there and moved in slow circles, coating himself, letting the tip catch your clit with each roll of his hips.

"Just coating it, baby," he murmured, though his voice had gone rough at the edges. "Gotta make sure you're ready."

Your brows drew together, flushed. "That's... that's fine."

He felt so warm.

The heat of him radiated through your thighs, your belly, everywhere his skin pressed yours. You watched the way his stomach—soft, the human part of him—pressed against yours with each grind. His jaw ticked, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. You could see the effort it took—the restraint. Every part of him wanted to surge forward, to bury himself deep, but he waited.

Just for you, because he loves you.

"Going in now, okay?" His gaze flicked up, locking with yours. "Breathe for me."

Before you could answer, he leaned down and kissed you. Lips pressed firm, no tongue, just the taste of him and the promise of more.

And then you felt it.

You felt him.

The tip stretched you—your lips split around him. You could hear it, the wet sound of your body splitting, could hear your own breath catch and still before you remembered to relax.

"Ngh..."

"Shhhh..." His mouth moved to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your jaw. "I know, sweetheart."

He groaned, low and guttural, and the sound vibrated through your chest.

His hips gave an aborted thrust, and suddenly his arms were around you, locking you against him. Your head tucked beneath his chin, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. You were drowning in his scent. 

"That's it, baby. That's it."

He sank deeper.

Inch by inch, your body made room. The stretch burned, but it was the good kind—the kind that made your toes curl and your nails bite into his shoulders. He was everywhere—filling you so completely that you couldn't tell where you ended and he began. His balls pressed flush against you, the tip of him kissing something deep and sacred inside. You both stilled.

Full.

So full you could barely breathe.

"Oh my god," Jake breathed.

Both of you looked down at the same time, and your eyes snagged on the bulge pressing against your stomach. Him. You could see him inside you, the shape of his cock bulging your belly.

"Look at that." His voice was hushed, disbelieving. His hand moved without thinking, palm pressing gently against it, and you felt it. The pressure from both sides, inside and out, and your eyes rolled back. "Pretty fucking cute."

You opened your mouth to respond—

He thrusted.

The first punched the air from your lungs. The second made you see stars. By the third, you were clawing at his back, nails dragging red lines down his shoulders. His hips pistoned into yours, the rhythm building, and he swallowed your cries with his body. His grunts were muffled against your hair, your shoulder, anywhere he could press his mouth. You bit into his neck, tasting him.

"Jake..."

"I'm here. I'm here."

Your nails found his back, dragging down, leaving marks he'd wear tomorrow. Your eyes hazed over. Oh, great mother..."

Jake's hand found your chin, wrenching your face toward his. He kissed you—messy, desperate, all tongue and teeth. "Dirty girl," he grunted, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "Marking me up?"

His other hand slipped between your bodies, fingers circling your clit in time with each brutal thrust.

And oh.

Oh.

The dual sensation was too much. The thick slide of him inside, the rough pad of his thumb outside, the heat and weight and fullness of it all. Something big and meaty and warm, filling you so nice and sweet you thought you might break apart.

"I'm really close, Jake—"

"Me too..." He cursed under his breath, something garbled and human. His hands gripped your hips, lifting, angling you so your back arched off the woven mat. Your breasts bounced with each impact, and his gaze locked there, hungry. "Fuck, look at you..."

He hissed between his teeth, spreading your thighs wider, opening you completely.

"Knew what you wanted, huh?" His voice dropped into something darker, meaner. "Such a fucking tease."

His hands found your throat.

Your eyes widened.

"You guys can breathe a long time, yeah?" His thumbs pressed against your pulse, feeling the frantic flutter there. "Wanna see how much."

You should've been afraid… You quickly realized you weren't.

You smiled. Drool gathered at the corner of your mouth.

He squeezed.

"Ngh—"

Your voice cut off. Breath left you in a rush, and the world narrowed to the pressure at your throat, the relentless drive of his hips, the way your body clenched around him in protest and pleasure. You tried to slow your heart—tried to relax the way you'd been taught—but you couldn't.

His fingers squeezed tighter.

Your hands flew to his, and for a moment he hesitated. His eyes widened, grip loosening. Too much?

But then you were squeezing his hands against your throat. Pressing them harder. Tighter, your eyes said.

And there it was.

That high.

Your voice left you. Your breath left you. Yet you were floating, weightless, caught in total ecstasy. You came—unable to scream, unable to do anything but tremble and milk him with rhythmic, desperate pulses.

"Fuck—fuck—"

Jake sucked in his teeth, hips stuttering through a few last pumps before he released your throat.

Air rushed back in a single, gasping sob.

Then Jake smiled—boyish and a little sheepish—and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Your nose. Your lips.

"You okay?"

You nodded, dazed. Your hand lifted, trembling, to touch his face.

"Yeah," you whispered. "Yeah, I'm okay."

He kissed your palm. Then your wrist. Then he pulled out slowly, carefully, and gathered you against his chest.

Warm.

He was always so warm.

"You're a lot less innocent than I thought."

He blurted, although you did not hear the accusation, nor would you ever feel it—his hands were gentle where they cradled your hips, thumbs tracing idle patterns against sweat-slick skin. 

You couldn't answer. Couldn't do anything but pull air into your lungs in these shallow, desperate sips. Your skin buzzed everywhere he'd touched, everywhere he'd been, and the purple blooming across your throat would be proof of it in the morning.

Your fingers found him instead of words. Just a fumble of fingers. 

Jake came to you willingly. He always did with you, didn't he? Folded himself around you like he was trying to press into your bones, arms circling, nose buried in your hair. His cock softened, and you felt the slow, warm slip of his cum beginning its lazy descent down your thighs.

You should've been mortified. Should've squirmed away, cleaned yourself, done something other than lie there feeling it settle.

But you didn't.

Instead, your palm drifted down between your bodies, fingers splaying over the slight swell of your stomach.

"You're going to give me my own family, Jake."

It slipped out so soft you weren't sure he'd heard. You had almost hoped he hadn’t.

But he did, and Jake went still.

You felt it—the exact moment his every muscle locked. You'd said something wrong. Of course you had. Stupid, stupid—

His hand covered yours.

He pressed it firmer against your belly where his cum sat heavy and warm inside you, where your skin had gone taut and tender. Just below your naval, there a visible swell of what might already be taking.

"I’m sorry I know—" you started, some apology forming.

"Yeah," he breathed. Then again, stronger: "Yeah."

You twisted just enough to see his face and expected that look he got sometimes, the one that said he was remembering he didn't belong here, that he had Neytiri, children he already bore, a life he’d already built with promises he’s already made.

But he was smiling.

"You deserve a family too," he whispered, and your chest did something complicated and painful. His hand slid up your side, traced your ribs, mapped the terrain of you like he was memorizing it. "More than anyone I know."

He didn't care.

For once in his miserable, guilty, blood-soaked life, Jake Sully didn't care about the fallout.

Your breath hitched. "Don't say that."

"Why not?" He shifted, pulling you with him until you were sprawled across his chest, all that dark blue skin and scarred muscle beneath you. The blanket came next, draped over both of you in lingering heat. "It's true." God help him, he meant it.

You buried your face against his collarbone. "You don't... you don't have to say things like that just because we—"

"I'm not."

The certainty in it made you lift your head.

Jake caught your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. "I mean it," he said again. "You deserve everything. A family, a home, someone who—" He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "Someone who stays."

Oh.

"...Thank you, Jake."

The words felt absurdly small for what was crushing your ribs, flooding your throat. But they were all you had.

He blinked at you. Something confused flickering across his face. "For what?"

What reason did you have to thank him?

He'd corrupted you—at least, he was pretty sure he had. Taken something pure and good and dragged it down into the mud with him, same way he corrupted everything he touched. Pandora. The People. The forest. His own damn soul.

"For everything." And it was as simple as that. He understood you.

With your weight settled trustingly atop him and your hand still resting over that slight swell in your belly—

He didn't care. That's what he gave you. Carelessness.

Right now he was satisfied and happy. He was warm, he felt young, and he was looking forward to a future.

Just like back then.

I love you. He thought.