Sarah Grace

But instead?

You doubled back. Found him half-pinned behind a wrecked truck, shoulder torn open, bleeding all over the goddamn pavement—still barking into the wind like the fight wasn’t already over.

“I had it under control,” he snapped, the second you dragged him behind cover.

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Butcher lit you up over comms seconds later. Called you reckless. Called you emotional. Told you both to stand the fuck down and expect consequences. And then he sent your asses packing.

Not to the CIA-sanctioned safehouse with the rest of the team—oh, no. Not you and Ben.

You and Ben got exiled straight to goddamn purgatory. The place where he’s been staying. A piss-yellow motel built for boozers and hookers, tucked off the highway like even God was too embarrassed to look at it.

And now you’re standing in the middle of it—watching him pace like a caged animal. Like you’re his goddamn babysitter. For an OAP with a rage problem and a fucking hero complex.

Long, heavy strides across the busted motel carpet. Boots thudding like gunfire. Shoulders squared with leftover fight. Blood still crusted down one arm, though his injury is fully healed. Shirt torn. The whole place reeks—old smoke, cheap soap, motel mildew, and him.

“I told you not to fuckin’ follow me.”

His voice cuts through the silence—sharp, hot, aimed everywhere but at himself.

You don’t even look up. Still peeling out of your ruined clothes, fingers shaking, fury vibrating through every nerve ending.

“And I told you to shut the fuck up and bleed quieter.”

You rip your jacket off, toss it to the floor. Still soaked. Still stained. You’ll burn it later.

He scoffs. Keeps pacing. Doesn’t look at you.

“Christ on a cross. You’re real goddamn full of yourself, huh? What, you think you’re a hero now? Saving the big bad supe with your little fuckin’ pistol and your big brass balls?”

You roll your eyes.

“No. I think I’m the only one in this room with a functioning frontal lobe.”

That stops him.

Mid-stride, dead still, he turns. Slow. Shoulders roll back. Chest flares. Nostrils twitch.

“You disobeyed a direct order,” he snaps. “You think Butcher’s gonna let that shit slide?”

“I don’t give a fuck what Butcher lets slide.”

“Yeah? Well maybe you should. ‘Cause now we’re both benched thanks to your goddamn savior complex—”

“My savior complex?!” You laugh. Bitter. Blunt. “You were the one bleeding out like a bad punchline.”

“I was fine.”

“You were leaking like a fuckin’ steak, Ben!”

And now he’s moving again. Toward you. Slow. Deliberate. Heat coming off him like a goddamn furnace. Like radiation.

You don’t move. Chin up. Spine locked. Breath sharp.

“You just couldn’t help yourself, huh?” He growls, voice rough in your face now. “Had to come runnin’. All puffed up. Ready to play soldier.”

Your jaw ticks. “Someone had to. You clearly don’t know when to quit.”

His grin’s not a smile. It’s a snarl.

“And you clearly don’t know when to shut the fuck up.”

You look him over—slow, disdainful. The blood. The bruises. The righteous swagger of a washed-up legend still clinging to the fantasy that he belongs on a lunchbox.

“Jesus,” you mutter.

Then, he’s pacing again. Chest heaving. Jaw clenched so tight you can see it in the cords of his neck. That telltale glint in his eye—danger. That low, smoldering heat right under the skin. The kind that comes right before he blows.

And maybe… maybe you should shut up.

But you don’t. You’re leaning against the dresser. Arms crossed. Blood drying at your temple. And your mouth won’t stop.

“Jesus Christ, old man. You nearly blew us up back there—again.”

The words hit like a slap, even though you’re not the one raising your hand.

He stops. Turns. That’s all it takes. One look. And you feel it—crackling in the air between you. Not words. Not yet. Just the sound of his boots crossing the room.

And then—

He’s on you.

Your back slams into the dresser. One hand lands beside your head, the other wraps around your throat. Not choking—just pressing. Testing. A warning. His face is right there. Close. Eyes burning like a live fuse. Jaw tight. Breath heavy.

“Old man this, old man that… let’s see if you’re still talkin’ shit when I’ve got my hand around your fuckin’ throat.”

You open your mouth. Maybe to push back. Maybe to say his name, but he cuts you off with a low, dry laugh. Mean. Hungry.

“You like sayin’ that, don’t you? Makes you feel big. Smug little brat with a mouth on her. Think just ‘cause I’ve got a few decades on you, I won’t fuckin’ knock you out, you little pussy?”

His thumb traces your jaw—deceptively gentle. But his grip is tighter now. Tighter still. You’re breathing faster.

He notices. He always notices. “Say it again,” he growls. “Go on. Call me old man.”

And then, because you know it’ll snap the last thread of restraint, you whisper it. Low. Measured. Mocking.

“Old man.”

And just like that, the air changes. The silence sharpens. Thickens. Like static crawling over your skin. You don’t see his expression shift—but you feel it, deep in your gut, the moment restraint shatters and something far darker pushes through.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t snarl. Doesn’t warn.

He moves.

Grabs your wrists in a bruising grip and spins you around, the force of it dragging your bare heels across the floor. Your hands slap against the edge of the dresser as he bends you forward, shoving you down like he’s planting a flag. Like he’s staking claim.

The wood is cold beneath your palms. Rough. Scratched. You barely catch your breath before his body’s pressed against yours—chest to back, heat to heat, the weight of him crowding you completely.

Then—

You feel the toe of his boot nudge between your ankles—then kick. It’s not gentle. He doesn't ask. Your stance shifts abruptly, legs spreading wide as the heel of his boot drags yours outward with it. You grunt—more from shock than pain—as he forces you open, using nothing but his foot and the brute force of his body behind it.

Then the other. Another sharp press of leather to your ankle, a rough shove. You’re fully spread now, off-balance and exposed, your spine curved just enough to make every inch of you feel vulnerable. Unstable.

He did that. And he did it like it cost him nothing.

He huffs behind you. The sound is low, smug, breathless with the kind of fury that comes laced with hunger. His hands are back on you in an instant—at your hips this time, fingers digging in like he’s afraid you’ll bolt. Or maybe like he’s hoping you will, just so he gets to drag you back.

He leans in close. You can feel the roughness of his suit against your bare back. He still hasn’t undressed. “Let’s see how fuckin’ old you think I am,” he growls, voice wrecked and raw, hot at your ear. “When I split you open like this.”

You try to breathe—but it’s shallow, shaky, no use at all.

He presses forward just a little more, and suddenly you're hyperaware of everything—the creak of the dresser under your weight, the heat of the room around you, the way his belt buckle drags hard against the curve of your ass when he shifts his stance. The way you’re the only one not fully covered, bare foot and skin-tight underarmour, while he’s still dressed to kill—blood on his arms, boots tracking dirt, cock hard and caged behind unforgiving leather.

You open your mouth—maybe to say his name, maybe to stop this before it gets worse—but you already know it’s too late. There’s no stopping him now. And worse? There’s no part of you that wants to.

He doesn’t rush. That’s the worst part.

He’s got you bent over the dresser like it’s nothing—your cheek pressed to the cool, scarred wood, the grain rough against your skin. One arm pins your wrists behind your back with lazy strength, not tight enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that you don’t get to move unless he lets you. The other hand drags slowly down the length of your spine, knuckles grazing skin, barely touching.

A promise. Not a gift.

“You like mouthin’ off, huh?” He murmurs. “Big words for someone who’s about to beg.”

You twist beneath him, more out of principle than protest, shoulder grinding uselessly against his chest. The restraint only makes his grip adjust—firmer now, more deliberate.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snap, breath sharp, teeth clenched. “You gonna give me a lecture now, grandpa?”

That gets a sound out of him. Not a laugh. Not even close. It’s a low, breathy scoff, exhaled right against your ear. The kind of sound that doesn’t need words to finish the thought.

You’re fucked.

He leans down, mouth brushing the shell of your ear, lips barely there. A tease so light it makes your skin prickle. “Keep talkin’,” he murmurs. “I’ll make sure you can’t sit right for a week.”

And you can feel him then—no longer subtle, no longer hypothetical. Thick. Hard. Hot through the layers of fabric he’s deliberately not removing. He presses into you just enough to make the point, grinding once, slow and unhurried. Not chasing anything. Just letting you feel how much he’s holding back.

Teasing you with it.

You swallow. Force yourself to breathe.

“What’s the matter?” You mutter, voice strained despite yourself. “Need to catch your breath, old man?”

This time, he doesn’t answer.

Instead, his hand slips free from your wrists and slides down between your thighs. Slow. Shameless. Fingers dragging through fabric, right where you’re already warm from the tension—from him, from this, from the long minutes of being held right on the edge of something unbearable.

He doesn’t press. Doesn’t circle. Just rests there, heavy and knowing.

“Huh,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Would ya look at that.”

You say nothing. Refuse to give him the sound he’s fishing for. You stare down at the dresser, jaw tight, pride flaring even as your body betrays you.

He chuckles. Cruel. Satisfied.

“You’re real mouthy for someone so goddamn wet,” he says. “Bet you’d still be this soaked if I didn’t touch you at all. Just left you like this—pissed off and pathetic.”

He cuts himself off with a rough grunt and suddenly pulls you back against him, hard. One hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head up from the dresser so your neck arches, forcing you to feel every inch of him at your back.

“That it, sweetheart?” He growls, voice darker now. “Want your old man to ruin you?”

You grit your teeth. Refuse to answer. Just to be difficult. You twist your head enough to catch his eye over your shoulder—sharp, defiant, mean. Still fighting.

“You talk too much.”

Something flickers across his face. His brow twitches. His jaw locks.

Oh. You hit a nerve.

He releases your wrists abruptly. The absence of restraint is almost worse. He rips your pants down your thighs in one brutal motion and then—nothing. No touch. No follow-through. He steps back. Lets the silence stretch as he looks at you—half-naked, defiant, and shaking despite yourself. You can feel how exposed you are now, how visible every reaction has become.

“You’re right,” he says finally, voice low. Even. Controlled. “Talkin’s a waste.”

He steps forward again, presence swallowing the space.

“When I can just make you cry.”

You’re braced over the dresser, skin flushed, nerves screaming. Humiliated. Burning from the inside out. And still, he hasn’t touched you properly.

No fingers. No cock. Just his breath at your ear. His hands on your hips. And that voice—smooth as broken glass, twice as sharp.

He stays behind you. Doesn’t rush. Just stands there, eyes burning into your back like you’re no longer a person at all—just a shape, a problem to be taken apart piece by piece. Something mechanical. Something solvable. A puzzle he’s already worked through in his head, a prize he hasn’t yet decided you’ve earned the right to touch.

You can feel his attention like weight. Like gravity.

“Look at you,” he mutters, and there’s something almost like disappointment in it. “All this mouth. All this attitude. And for what?”

He steps closer—not enough to touch, just enough that his heat ghosts your skin.

“You think that makes you strong? You think I’m the old one?” A quiet, ugly laugh slips out of him under his breath. “Sweetheart… I’ve watched women like you beg. Tears in their eyes. Cum runnin’ down their legs. You ain’t special.”

The words sink in slow and deliberate, meant to bruise. And damn it—your body betrays you anyway. A twitch. A hitch of breath. The faintest shift of your hips before you can stop it.

He catches it instantly. Of course he does. “Ah,” he murmurs, satisfied now. “There she is. Gettin’ all shy on me?”

He leans in, mouth close to your neck, breath hot and deliberate as it brushes your skin.

“That what you need, baby? Want me to say it louder? You want the truth?”

Your hands curl tighter around the edge of the dresser, knuckles whitening. Your jaw locks so hard it aches, teeth grinding together as you stare down at the wood and refuse to give him anything.

He doesn’t need it.

“Here’s the truth,” he says, voice dropping low—cruel, intimate, almost reverent in its certainty. “You were made for this.”

His hand snakes between your thighs again—slow, unhurried. He doesn’t touch where you want him to. Doesn’t even pretend to. Instead, his palm slides up the inside of your thigh, fingers grazing skin, brushing just close enough to make your nerves scream.

Still fully clothed. Still holding back. Still unbearable.

“You walk around like you’re so fuckin’ untouchable,” he continues, fingers hovering, tormenting. “But all I see is a brat who’s just begging to be owned.”

His thumb finally drags closer—not pressing, not claiming—just enough to confirm what he already knows. He growls, low and rough, almost angry at the confirmation.

“Soaked. You don’t even fuckin’ deserve it.”

That does it. Something sharp snaps in your chest.

“Then don’t touch me, asshole.”

The words barely leave your mouth before everything detonates.

That’s it. The last thread. He grabs you hard and whirls you around in one brutal motion, your back slamming into the dresser as the air punches out of your lungs. He cages you in immediately, body crowding yours, forearms braced on either side of you.

This time, there’s no distance. His face is right there—eyes blown wide, brow raised, mouth set in something smug and furious and unmistakably turned the fuck on.

“You really don’t know when to shut the fuck up, do you?”

He grabs your chin and forces your mouth open with his thumb, pressing it past your lips like he owns the space. Like he owns you.

“That mouth on you’s gonna get you in trouble, baby.”

You glare up at him, breath ragged, lips stretched around his thumb—but you don’t suck. Don’t give him that satisfaction. Just breathe hard through your nose, defiant to the bitter end.

He notices. His mouth curves. “Cute,” he says flatly. “Still got fight in you.”

He pulls his thumb free slowly—deliberately—dragging it across your tongue as he does, watching your reaction like it’s a science experiment.

Then he slaps your cheek with it. Not hard. Just enough. Enough to make your jaw shift. Enough to leave heat blooming across your skin.

You blink. He smiles.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “I’ll fuck the fight outta you.”

Your cheek is still burning when his mouth crashes into yours.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a claim. Teeth. Tongue. Hands everywhere at once—overwhelming, possessive, final—like he’s done pretending this is anything other than inevitable.

He drags you away from the dresser like you’re nothing more than weight in his hands. Not careful. Not kind. Just grips and momentum—your feet barely keeping up as he hauls you across the room, fingers bruising into your skin. Your knees knock into the edge of the bed and before you can even register the impact, he shoves you down flat, crowding over you immediately.

One hand stays locked around your throat, thumb pressing just enough to remind you how easily he could take your breath away. The other works at your clothes—and his own—with impatient efficiency—yanking, tugging, baring you without ceremony.

“You fuckin’ asked for this,” he grits out, voice rough and low. “Wanted to be cute. Wanted to be clever. Wanted to call me old.”

The mattress dips beneath his weight as he settles between your legs, forcing them apart without a word. He’s already there—already lining himself up—his presence overwhelming, unavoidable.

“Well go on, baby,” he growls, breath hot against your mouth. “Let’s see what that mouth sounds like when it’s screamin’ my fuckin’ name.”

And then he’s in. All of him. One brutal thrust—no warning, no easing in, no patience at all. Just full. The force of it punches the air from your lungs, a sharp, helpless sound tearing out of you as your body struggles to catch up.

You gasp—almost choke on it—and when your eyes fly open, he’s grinning down at you like he just won a war.

“That’s it,” he snarls. “Bet you don’t feel so fuckin’ smart now, do you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He just starts moving. Rough. Fast. Unrelenting. Every thrust is deep and punishing, deliberate in the way it leaves no room to breathe, no space to think. The bed frame groans beneath the force of it, the headboard knocking against the wall in time with his pace.

His hand never leaves your throat. He squeezes just enough—enough to blur the edges of everything until there’s nothing but him. His weight. His rhythm. The way your body reacts despite itself.

“Takin’ it so well now,” he taunts, mouth close to your ear. “All that lip—gone. Where’d that smart mouth go, huh? Thought you had so much to say.”

Your fingernails dig into his arms, biting into muscle as your body rocks beneath him. You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t move without grinding helplessly against the exact place he keeps hitting again and again and again.

“Old man’s fuckin’ you stupid,” he growls, breath hot and damp against your skin. “You gonna admit it yet?”

You shake your head—not even on purpose. Your pride flickers weakly, stubborn even as your body starts to give out around it.

“Oh, really?”

His pace changes. Not slower in mercy—slower in cruelty. Each thrust turns deep and grinding, stretching the moment until it burns, until your body betrays you completely.

“Then why’re you clenching me like that, baby? Why’s your pussy sayin’ yes when your mouth won’t?”

A sound slips out of you—small, broken, humiliating.

He hears it. He laughs—low, dark, wrecked with satisfaction. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”

And then—

He lets go. Not of your throat. Of everything. The control snaps all at once, like a rope pulled too tight for too long. His rhythm turns feral—ragged, desperate, driven by need instead of dominance. He’s not trying to teach you anything anymore.

He’s trying to mark you. To brand himself into your body so deep you’ll feel him long after he’s gone.

You don’t remember when you started moaning. Don’t remember when your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. All you know is that he’s in you, on you, everywhere—filling every space you didn’t know could ache.

And when he says it—voice rough and real and mean—you finally believe him.

“You’re mine now.”

You don’t remember cumming. You just remember shaking—fingernails clawing at his shoulders, breath gone, bones turning to water beneath you.

And him? He doesn’t slow down. Not when you clench around him. Not when your legs tremble. Not even when your voice breaks around his name like it’s the only thing you know how to say. When he finally comes, it’s with a groan ripped straight from his chest—raw, almost painful. Like it costs him something to let go. Like he’s trying to leave himself inside you.

Now—

Now you’re sprawled on your back, muscles twitching, skin flushed and oversensitive, mouth open but empty of sound. Just panting. Just trying to exist again.

And he’s still inside you.

He hasn’t pulled out. Hasn’t moved. He’s just watching you. Propped up on one elbow, sweat slick on his chest, breath heavy. Bruises are already blooming along your hips where his hands held you too tight, fingers still resting there like he hasn’t quite decided to let you go.

There’s something in his eyes now. Not soft. Not gentle. Just… close.

Possessive in a way that makes your skin prickle. Focused. Intent. Dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with superpowers or collateral damage—the kind of danger that comes from attention that doesn’t know how to let go.

He studies you like that for a long moment, still inside you, still holding you open, watching the way your body tries to settle and fails.

“You good?” He mutters finally, voice hoarse, roughened by exertion. “Need me to call a fuckin’ medic?”

You manage to glare up at him. It’s weak. Half‑hearted. Your body doesn’t back it up at all.

It makes him smirk. “Didn’t think so.”

His hand comes up to your face then, slower than anything he’s done yet. He brushes sweat‑damp hair back from your forehead, fingers lingering at your cheekbone as if he’s memorising the shape of it. The touch isn’t gentle enough to be kind, but it’s not cruel either—somewhere in between, uncertain.

You can’t tell if it’s tenderness. Or curiosity. Like he’s trying to figure out how someone like you ends up under someone like him—how this became inevitable.

“Still think I’m old now?” He asks, one brow cocking.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your throat’s dry, your breath still stuttering, your body buzzing too loud for words.

And honestly? You think he likes that.

Because his hand doesn’t leave you. It slides down your side instead, palm heavy and hot, tracing the curve of your ribs, your waist, your hip—slow, claiming, deliberate. Like he’s reminding you exactly where you are.

And then you feel it. Him. Still inside you. Hardening again.

Your breath catches sharply, a sound you can’t stop. Your legs twitch on instinct, betraying you before your brain can catch up.

His smile widens. Not smug. Hungry. “Oh, baby…” he murmurs, mock‑sweet, almost fond. “You thought I was done?”

He rolls his hips once. Slow. Deep. Just enough to make your body jolt, nerves lighting up all over again, oversensitive and unprepared.

“Nah,” he continues quietly. “I’m not fuckin’ done ‘til you’re cryin’ for mercy.”

He leans down, mouth brushing your throat now, words rough and obsessive, breathed straight into your skin.

“And even then? Might not stop.”

He moves again—another roll of his hips, heavier this time. Not fast. Not urgent. A threat. A promise. Round two already unfolding whether you’re ready or not.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he growls, voice dropping low and dangerous. “Let’s see if you can fuckin’ keep up.”

You don’t even get a second to recover. One minute you’re sprawled across the bed, limbs heavy and useless, breath still coming in shallow, uneven pulls—your body trying to remember how to exist after being wrung out like that—

—and the next, his hands are under your thighs and around your waist, hauling you up against his chest like you weigh nothing at all. The sudden movement knocks a sound out of you. Half protest. Half whine. All instinct.

He snorts.

“Jesus, listen to you.”

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t pause. Just starts walking—bare feet on the motel floor, steps steady and unhurried—your body slung against him with practiced ease, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct before you can stop yourself.

You bury your face into his shoulder, cheeks burning, every nerve still lit and oversensitive, the world tilting just enough to make you cling.

“Put me down,” you mumble, voice wrecked and hoarse.

He laughs. Not sharp. Not cruel. Deep. Smug. Almost… fond.

“Where’d all that fuckin’ attitude go? Weren’t that long ago you were runnin’ your mouth like you owned the place.”

He adjusts his grip as he walks, hands firm on your ass, squeezing just enough to make you gasp and tighten against him reflexively.

“Now you’re all pouty,” he adds. “Cute.”

You scowl up at him, lower lip pushing out without permission, irritation and embarrassment tangling together.

And that—that—

It gets him. Not softly. Dangerously. He exhales through his nose, something dark and pleased flickering across his face as he reaches the bathroom door and shoulders it open.

“Oh, don’t do that,” he warns, already turning the shower on. “Don’t give me that face like you didn’t ask for every second of what you got.”

Steam blooms immediately—hot and heavy, fogging the mirror, filling the cramped room as he steps under the spray with you still in his arms. Water pounds against his shoulders, splashes down your back, heat blooming across your skin all at once. You hiss, body jolting.

He doesn’t move. “You’re fine,” he says easily. “Take it.”

You squirm. Whine again—small, helpless, involuntary.

And that does it.

He presses you back against the tile, crowding you in completely—broad shoulders boxing you in, solid and unyielding, water running down his body and trapping you there with him. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to look but at him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, breath catching. “You always this needy after, or am I special?”

You open your mouth to snap back—to say something sharp, something defiant—except nothing comes out but a breathy, broken sound.

His eyebrow lifts. Slow. Delighted.

“That’s what I thought.”

He cups your face then, thumb brushing over your bottom lip—still swollen, still pouty, still betraying you. The touch lingers longer than necessary, roughened fingers warm and sure.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice tangled up between cruel and affectionate. “All soft now. All worked over. Where’s my little smartass, huh?”

You glare at him. It’s weak. It doesn’t land.

He grins. “There she is.”

Then his hands are on you again—everywhere. Not hurried. Not frantic. Washing you like he owns the time, exploring you like he’s already memorising every reaction. Fingers deliberately brushing over places that would make your knees buckle if you weren’t in his arms, places that pull another whine out of you no matter how hard you try to swallow it down.

“You whine like that again,” he says low and dangerous, mouth close to yours, “and I swear to God I’ll fuck you right here against the wall.”

You do it anyway.

A soft, broken whimper slips out. He groans, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re gonna kill me.” His grip tightens, hands anchoring you in place, breath hot and steady now. “Round two,” he says quietly, pressing his brow to yours. “And this time you don’t get to pretend you don’t like it.”

You’re still in his arms—pressed between his chest and the shower wall, water pouring over both of you in hot, relentless sheets—when you notice it. Tucked into the far corner. Discreet. Unassuming. And unmistakable.

The sight of it knocks a surprised laugh out of you before you can stop it, something bright and delighted cutting straight through the haze of heat and exhaustion.

“Is that a shower seat?” You ask, voice hoarse and giddy. “Oh my God—”

He stiffens.

You feel it immediately—the way his body goes taut, the subtle hitch of breath, the split second where everything freezes. You twist in his grip just enough to look at him, blinking up with those shiny, smug eyes, already smiling before your mouth catches up.

“You really are an old man.”

There’s a beat.

Just one. A dangerous, suspended moment where the steam hangs heavy in the air and the water keeps pouring and you realise—too late—that you’ve done it again.

Then he sets you down. Slow. Controlled. Deliberate. You barely register your feet hitting the slick tile before his hands leave you entirely, the sudden absence almost more jarring than his grip had been.

“Right,” he mutters, jaw tightening. “You little fucker. You’re gettin’ it now.”

You yelp as he pulls you tighter against the hard line of his body in one brutal, seamless motion, one hand gripping the back of your neck, forcing you close, the other already shoving your thighs apart like he’s done waiting for permission.

“Old man’s about to fuck the giggles outta you.”

He lifts your leg and hooks it over his forearm, pinning you in place, lining himself up with practiced ease—and then he’s thrusting back into you like he’s been waiting for it since the second he pulled out.

You gasp—sharp, desperate, the sound ripped straight from your chest.

He groans in answer. “There’s that noise,” he growls against your jaw. “Thought I broke you already. Guess I gotta try harder.”

You slap his shoulder, half‑laughing, half‑wrecked, breathless and bright even as your body betrays you.

“Could’ve just used the chair—”

He drives into you harder. Your back hits the tile with a dull crack. Your vision whites out, heat and sensation flooding your system all at once.

“No fuckin’ chair,” he snaps. “You wanna act like a brat, you take it like one.”

Water runs down his chest, yours, slicking your skin, pooling between your bodies as he sets a brutal, unforgiving rhythm—standing, holding you up, making you feel every second of his attention, his strength, his obsession.

“Still think I’m old? Still wanna talk shit?”

You try to answer. You can’t. Your mouth opens, but nothing coherent makes it out—just broken sounds, breathless and humiliating.

He grins. It’s feral now. Unrestrained.

“That’s what I thought. And you’re gonna come again—on this cock—standing up.”

His grip tightens, one hand digging into your hip, the other anchoring you in place as he keeps moving, relentless and exacting.

“Because you’re mine,” he growls. “Mine to fuck. Mine to ruin. And you’re not sittin’ down ‘til I say you can.”

You’re a mess now—clutching at him, crying out, nails clawing at his back as your body starts to give in completely. He holds you tighter, mouth at your throat, muttering filthy promises between ragged breaths, like he’s casting them straight into your skin.

“Say it,” he snarls. “Say you love it.”

You do. You say it. Again. And again.

And when your legs finally give out, when your voice breaks, when your body shudders and clenches around him and he follows you into it with a hoarse sound that borders on a growl—he still doesn’t let you go.

He just keeps holding you there, forehead pressed to yours, twitching inside you, breathing like he’s been through a war.

“Yeah,” he pants softly. “Not so fuckin’ smug now.”

When it’s time to get out, your legs don’t cooperate. You try to step out of the shower and immediately wobble, one foot skidding uselessly on the slick tile as you grab for the wall like the floor’s turned to jelly beneath you. Your body hasn’t caught up yet—nerves still buzzing, muscles trembling, balance a suggestion at best.

You don’t hit the ground.

He’s there before you can even gasp, catching you like he expected it. Big hands, solid grip, hauling you back against his chest with effortless strength—holding you upright like it’s nothing. Like this isn’t the direct result of what he just did to you. Like you’re the inconvenience here.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, half‑scolding, half‑amused. “You fall apart the second I’m done with you, huh?”

You glare up at him, still breathless, still wrecked—but your mouth betrays you anyway, tugging down into that stupid pout you can’t seem to stop.

He sees it. Of course he does. And he smirks like the absolute bastard he is.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, already reaching for the towel with one hand while hauling you fully into his chest with the other. “Ain’t my fault you’ve got zero fuckin’ stamina.”

You grumble something into his shoulder—muffled, irritated, unintelligible.

“What was that?” He mocks loudly, obnoxious as hell. “Didn’t catch that over all the whinin’.”

The towel he wraps around the both of you is obscene. Thick. Heavy. Warm. Definitely not motel standard. It smells like him. Soap and smoke and aftershave, clean layered over something darker, something that makes your chest tighten. He wraps it around you both like it’s nothing, like this much closeness isn’t a privilege—like he hasn’t just earned the right to hold you like this.

It traps heat and humiliation and entirely too much comfort all at once. An absurd amount of affection for someone who just folded you in a shower like a war crime.

He scoops you up again without asking, carrying you toward the bed like you don’t weigh a thing, muttering the whole way.

“Do I gotta do everything around here? Gotta fuck you. Carry you. Dry you off… what’s next, huh? You want me to tuck you in? Read you a bedtime story?”

He kicks the sheets back with his foot and drops you onto the mattress with a grunt—not rough, but not gentle either—and immediately follows, crowding into the space with you. The towel’s still half‑on, half‑off, his knee sliding between your thighs like he owns the space.

You roll away on instinct. He follows just as easily.

“Aww,” he drawls. “What’s wrong? Pouty again?” He leans in, amused and infuriatingly pleased with himself. “C’mon, sweetheart. Not gonna call me ‘old man’ one more time?”

You groan into the pillow, exhausted and oversensitive and absolutely not dignified.

He laughs—real laughter—and presses a kiss to your shoulder like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just ruin you twice. Like he’s not already hard again and planning round three the second your legs stop shaking.

“Y’know what?” He mutters, smirk curling against your skin. “Don’t answer that, doll.”

You’ve barely settled. Head tucked into the crook of his shoulder, legs tangled messily with his, the towel shoved somewhere into the twisted sheets. Your body is boneless, limbs heavy and useless, skin still buzzing like it’s forgotten how to cool down.

Everything aches. Everything hums. You’re not sure when you started nuzzling into his chest—only that his skin is warm and rough under your cheek, and his arm is already curled around your waist like he doesn’t intend to let go.

And then—

He shifts. Not much. Just a subtle, smug maneuver—one arm looping tighter around you, the other bracing behind his head. His chest rises beneath you as he exhales, and before you can register the change in weight—

He rolls you. Not hard. Not fast. Just enough. Suddenly, you’re lying across him—stretched out like a blanket over his chest, your cheek pressed above his heart, legs tangled with his beneath the sheets.

You make a sound. It’s not even a word. It’s just a tired, wrecked little ugh.

“Uh‑uh,” he mutters, voice all cocky satisfaction and too much teeth. “You don’t get to curl up and go all sweet on me like that.”

You grunt. That’s all the reply you can muster.

He laughs—low, smug, cruelly fond. “Nope,” he drawls. “You know what I want.”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him—but it’s half‑assed at best. Your eyelids are heavy, your pout already forming, and whatever venom you were reaching for dies somewhere between his stupid smirk and the way his fingers start tracing slow, lazy circles at the small of your back.

“You’re serious?” You mutter, voice rough with sleep and something else you refuse to name.

“Dead fuckin’ serious.”

His hand slides under the sheets—bare, broad, grounding—rubbing in maddening little patterns like he’s coaxing obedience out of muscle memory.

“C’mon,” he says. “Say it.”

You press your lips together. Shake your head once.

His eyebrow lifts. A warning in the shape of a smirk. “Say thank you.”

You huff. Actually huff. It sounds petulant and exhausted and deeply betrayed.

“I hate you.”

“Uh‑huh,” he drawls, amused beyond reason. “But you’re still gonna thank me.”

You narrow your eyes. You debate. There’s pride and there’s self-preservation—and then there’s him, tapping your ass once beneath the blanket like a threat dressed in affection.

“Don’t make me take you for round three,” he warns.

You groan into his chest. Loud. Dramatic. Utterly defeated. But you do it. Quiet. Sulky. Voice barely above a whisper, muffled into his skin.

“...thank you.”

He blinks. You feel it in the way his chest lifts—the little hitch before the smirk comes back.

“What was that?”

You lift your head, cheeks burning, jaw tight, dignity frayed down to its last nerve.

“Thank you,” you grumble. And then—with teeth clenched, eyes blazing—“Thank you, old man.”

And he laughs. A real laugh. Deep. Rattling. Bright and awful and unbearably fond. It shakes through his chest beneath you—the kind of laugh that would be annoying if it weren’t so real. He lets his head drop back against the pillow, smile wide enough to flash teeth, eyes crinkling like he just won the lottery and the war.

“Jesus Christ,” he grins, dragging a hand down your spine. “You’re a goddamn menace.”

You mean to stay still. You do. But you nuzzle into him before you can stop yourself—cheek rubbing against his chest, breath fogging over skin still damp and flushed.

You don’t mean it to be soft. But it is. And something shifts in him, too. Not much. But enough.

His voice drops—still rough, still low, but quieter now. Softer at the edges. Like he’s not even speaking to you, just thinking out loud.

“Anytime, sweetheart.”

Then his hand settles between your shoulder blades. Heavy. Warm. Possessive. Holding you there. Not forcing. Not caging. Just… keeping.

And he doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. Because he already knows… you’ll thank him again. Tomorrow. Next time.

Every time.

A/N: PHEW!!!! This one was in my wips for a while but I finally got her done. No words. Lemme know what you guys think, I love it always. All the love!!!!! <3

Your core still quivered with the aftershocks of how hard you came around his cock, which was still buried deep inside you, locked in place with his knot. Dean nosed at your neck and shoulder as he tried to regain his breath, calm his wildly beating heart.

His skin was dewy against yours, especially where your thighs were hooked around his hips. He held himself above you so he wouldn’t crush you with his weight. You appreciated it, and you soothed up and down his sweat-slick back with grazing fingertips.

Through the newly formed bond, you could feel the frenzied haze of it all begin to clear from his mind, soon replaced by shock, and then, remorse. It made a tremor of worry churn in your belly.

“Dean?” you whispered. Your gaze met his with concern as you grasped his arm.

“What the hell did we just… I shouldn’t have…” His voice was coarse and his eyes filled with upset. “Fuck, this shouldn’t have happened.”

Dismay struck you deep, along with a pain that tore at your heart. Your only consolation was that the two of you were locked in this position, so he couldn’t slip away from you.

“How the hell could you say that to me?” you said. Against your will, your voice trembled. Tears began to sting in your eyes.

 Dean faltered. He blew out a breath and reached for your cheek.

“You know why,” he said. His face became edged with desperation. He shifted his thigh and accidentally tugged at the base of his knot. You both groaned at the pain that flared between you, where you were joined. 

Dean drew in deep, slower breaths in attempt to calm himself. His eyes shut, and his forehead dropped against yours.

“I’ve barely got three months left on my deal,” he said, through clenched teeth. “This isn’t…it’s not fucking fair to you.”

To you either, you wanted to point out, but you shook your head and held him close by the back of his neck. Your fingers trailed up into his hair, your nails brushing his scalp and eliciting a shudder from him.

Your touch both aroused him and soothed him. Your scent was everywhere, now mingled with his own that now covered you like a blanket. It was intense, and a bit overwhelming to his senses.

But it felt right.

“Don’t talk like you’ve already given up,” you said tersely.

It was with more vehemence than he expected. Dean pulled back a bit, just enough to meet your eyes. Your brows had drawn together, almost in anger. Your lips pulled into a frown.

“We’re going to find a way to break it,” you said. You reached up and held his face. Despite the strength of your words, your hands were gentle. “And I meant what I said, Dean.”

Between lusty sighs and the combined magnetic force of your heat and his rut and emotional tensions at their ultimate breaking point, the whispered words against his neck had come from the very center of you.

“Alpha,” you’d said, through abject need and burgeoning tears as you’d rubbed yourself against him. It was both biology and your heart’s longing. “Dean, I love you. Please…”

The tether of his restraint hadn’t lasted long after that. Because even though he couldn’t respond to you in words, he’d shown you in each and every action of his body molding with yours, wrecking you and claiming you on a dingy motel bed.

You deserve better, Dean thought, looking down on you now. You deserved more than what he had to give.

“I didn’t want to do this to you,” he said coarsely.

And yet, he still heeded the pull of you. Your guiding hands brought him down to your lips. It wasn’t the rough, manic, bruising kiss that had fueled your earlier passions. No, this was slow and warm and tinged with bittersweet.

Dean brushed sweaty strands of your hair away from your face. You held him to you and silently prayed that he wouldn’t let go either.

“I know,” you said. Even though the situation shouldn’t have warranted it, you giggled a little. “That makes you just about the most unselfish Alpha in existence.”

He snorted at that. His eyes took in your face, and further down, to the parts of you that weren’t covered by his body over yours. He let out a breath of defeat.

“No, I’m hella selfish,” he said. His lips quirked. “For better or worse, you’re mine, Omega.”

Your smile grew. “Good. Glad you’re finally caught up.”

Dean’s hand playfully tightened in your hair as he growled. It had little heat though, and you had the audacity to laugh. He shook his head and claimed you with another kiss.

You had to be just about the wiliest Omega in existence.

Dean never gave up.

But he also couldn’t fight off Lilith, or the hellhounds that tore his chest open and spilled his blood on the hardwood floors of some poor family’s suburban house.

You screamed as if your very soul was being ripped apart, along with his skin.

The mark on your neck burned something fierce. It had you clamping a hand down over it as you sunk to your knees next to Sam and cried over Dean’s body, his unseeing eyes. It wasn’t right.

You would never be right again.

It took about a week into your self-isolation. When you finally drew enough strength to get out of bed, you finally noticed it in the mirror—in the bathroom next to Bobby’s guest bedroom.

Your neck looked as if something had burned you. Your eyes widened in horror.

When you touched it, you hissed at the pain. The delicate nerve endings of your mating gland were even more sensitive and raw. Apparently, this was what happened when an Alpha mate died before their Omega.

However, even that pain was nothing compared to what you discovered, two months later.

Your mating gland had healed, and the claim mark was gone entirely.

You sank against the wall, all the way to the floor, and you cried until you were exhausted and frayed. Not even Bobby’s offer of a hot meal and a listening ear could penetrate your grief.

You were ashamed of the way you lost track of Sam after it all went down. You’d descended into yourself, and Bobby had been the only one there to catch you. Sam had forged on by himself, down a spiral of revenge, you were sure.

He wouldn’t come back to Sioux Falls, nor would he tell you where he was when you finally got him on the phone. He claimed he was better off alone as he tried to find a way to save Dean, but there was something off in his voice. Something that told you whatever he was doing was dangerous, and wrong.

“Sam, don’t you dare make a deal,” you demanded, through frustrated and sorrowful tears. “Dean wouldn’t want—”

“Don’t fucking tell me…what Dean would want, okay?” Sam seethed. “If it were me, he wouldn’t stop. If it were you, he wouldn’t stop. So don’t tell me to stop.”

“I’m not telling you to stop!” you shouted back. “I’m telling you not to do something stupid! And I’m asking you to let me help.”

There was a long pause on the line. You tried to calm your labored breathing as you waited for him.

“If you really want to help me, do what you can from Bobby’s. I’ll check in when I can,” he said.

And the line went dead.

Two more months had passed by the time you started to feel the barest hint of yourself again. You’d tried to go on a hunt with Bobby, but you really hadn’t been ready for it. Your head wasn’t in it, and that was how hunters got killed.

So you stayed behind and answered the phones for him. You pretended to be FBI and CIA and Homeland Security for fellow hunters trying to get their hands on police files.

You also helped Bobby with research and reorganized his extensive, and ridiculously chaotic home library. He was the only one you knew who could have A History of Paganism next to a guidebook on Chinese tea ceremonies.

But one night, you decided you were sick of sitting on your ass (and all the dust).

You were finally going out for a drink.

Bobby was locked at home in research for a case. You felt bad about bailing on him, but he insisted you were entitled to go out…

Not that you wanted to meet anyone. However, you did realize that you needed to reconnect with the outside world. You’d been staring at the peeling walls of Bobby’s house for four months now.

So you showered, found a simple black dress from deep in your closet, and started to blow-dry your hair. You didn’t do this often, but if you were going out, then you were going to make an effort.

You paused for a moment when a cramp hit your lower belly. You grimaced and pressed a hand there. A shiver ran down your spine.

Shit, not now, you thought. If this was your heat coming on, you would have to take another suppressant before you went out. You knew blocking your cycle wasn’t that good for you, but you hadn’t felt like dealing with it for the past few months. You just weren’t ready to go through another heat, whether by yourself, or with a stranger.

It…it was too soon.

After the cramping subsided for the moment, you continued drying parts of your hair, sweeping the brush through. With the hairdryer so loud in your ears, you didn’t hear the front door opening, or the resulting shouting and scuffle coming from downstairs.

Eventually, there was quiet. And then, heavy boots climbing up the stairs.

You saw the bathroom door push open out of the corner of your eye. You turned and nearly jumped right out of your skin.

Your scream echoed on the walls when you saw something that looked entirely too much like Dean Winchester.

Hit scent hit you then. Warm and musky, a hint of earthiness and soil, but no less familiar. It struck a blow to your chest and forced you to grip the counter for balance. You clicked off the hairdryer. 

The doppelganger raised placating hands, though his wide eyes slowly softened as a smile tugged at his lips.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said.

His deep voice was the same. He looked dirty and disheveled, wearing a familiar gray buttoned down over a black shirt, his usual jeans, and boots. If your memory served, they looked like the clothes he was buried in…

Your hands shook. “Wh…what the hell are you?”

Dean’s smile began to fall.

“Look, I know it’s hard to believe. But I’m me. I’m, uh… I’m back,” he replied. When he tried taking a cautious step forward, you brandished your hairdryer against him—your only feasible weapon.

“You…you back the fuck off!” you snapped. You opened your mouth to shout for Bobby, but before you could, Dean’s trademark smirk took hold of his face.

“What’re you gonna do, blow me to death?” he quipped.

After you broke through a bit of your shock, you spluttered with laughter. And then tears.

Dean’s lips quirked, but he moved towards you in slow steps. He took the hairdryer from you and set it down on the counter. With a slightly shaking hand, he touched your cheek. You closed your eyes for a moment, sucked in a breath, and inadvertently inhaled his scent once again.

Your heart pounded almost painfully in your chest. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. You realized it then. You didn’t need silver or holy water to prove it was him. You knew.

Your eyes opened and met his.

“Dean,” you uttered, brokenly.

He couldn’t fucking take it anymore. Dean pulled you into him by your waist. He held you as you shuddered and cried into his chest. His hand clenched in your hair, while the other pressed into the small of your back. It anchored him, and trapped you in the cage of his arms.

He buried his nose into your neck and had to squeeze his eyes shut past a telltale burn in his eyes. Your name fell from his lips, both longing and reverent. Your hold on him tightened.

His lips brushed against your mating gland, igniting sensitive nerve endings and making a tremble run down your spine.

“Alpha,” you whispered.

Dean’s insides clenched in response. He ached for you, just like he had soon after he’d been able to free himself from that pine box in the middle of nowhere. But his brows furrowed.

He pulled back from you, just so he could brush the bare skin along your neck with a gentle thumb.

“What happened to the mark?” he asked. He realized that he couldn’t feel you, not like before. And even your scent was different…like you’d never been claimed by him. Like you weren’t his. That realization hit him like a sucker punch to his stomach.

You frowned and leaned back so you could meet Dean’s eyes. It took you a moment to find your voice, and even when you did, it was uncharacteristically small.

“After…after what happened, it burned like holy hell,” you confessed. Your hands travelled down his chest, clinging to the open edges of his shirt. “Then it was a scar. Then, it was just…nothing. It was gone.”

Fresh tears burgeoned in your eyes. They spilled down your cheeks as your frame shook with a sob, but Dean gathered you back into his arms. As shitty as it was, he started to think this was actually for the better…

“What happened, Dean? How are you here?” you asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Haven’t figured that part out just yet…but something broke me out.”

He knew it wasn’t you who made a deal. Your shock was too real to be an act. He knew, however, that he needed to find Sam.

That could wait though. Dean’s gaze roamed your face. He wiped away the remnants of tears from your cheeks, brushed his thumb across your lower lip. Your eyes met his. He saw your heartbreak begin to fade—into a desire that called to his own. Despite the voice inside that warned him to hold back, he just couldn’t help himself.

When he finally leaned in to kiss you, it felt like coming home. You held his face in your hands and rose up on your toes to meet him. His arms wrapped around your waist and brought you flush against him, but it wasn’t enough.

Kisses became more frantic, with labored breaths and hands moving to remove each other’s clothing. Your sexy little black dress fell to the floor, along with your bra and panties and the rest of his clothes.

“You’re filthy,” you laughed, between the sloppy meeting of your lips with his. 

Dean’s response was to peel back the shower curtain behind you and turn on the shower head, as hot as it could go. A growl sounded low in his throat before he bodily hefted you along with him into the shower and under the spray.

For a moment, he let the scalding water beat down on him. You grabbed the soap and drew it over his neck, chest, and shoulders. The suds trickled down his body, washing away the grime of the road, and whatever else he hadn't been able to wipe off after escaping his grave.

He blinked water out of his eyes as he took in the sight of your concentrated face, and your gentle hands washing him. Then the rest of your body, your curves that fit so well in his hands, your breasts that heaved along with your heavier breathing, nipples hard and aching to be touched.

Dean took the soap from your hands and put it back on the dish, shortly before he pinned you against the cold bathroom tile. He ravaged you with lips, teeth, and tongue along your neck, down your chest, and over your breasts. You moaned and held him to you.

You didn't care that your hair was getting soaked all over again. Your fingers ran through his now wet hair as he touched you and drew pleasure from your body.

Your lower belly was beginning to cramp in earnest now, and resonating deep inside you with heat. You felt a flood of slick forming between your legs as your core pulsed with need.

Your scent hit him in a powerful wave, nearly making Dean falter as his eyes rolled shut.

“Fuck. You’re in heat, Omega,” he choked out.

You nodded, though you had to fist a hand in his hair when you felt his fingers between your legs. They swiped between your drenched folds, gathering some slick and circling around your clit. You moaned loudly and arched against his hand. The back of your head pressed into the wall.

“Alpha,” you said. A whine sounded in your throat as Dean’s touch firmed in response. His thumb pressed and massaged your clit while two fingers slipped deep inside your tight channel. 

A shiver ran down Dean’s spine, along with your nails grazing down his back. Already he was painfully hard for you. He had a suspicious feeling that your heat was triggering his rut, because he was becoming desperate to be inside you. His whole body felt tingling and alive, and charged with need.

His lips sucked hard on those sensitive nerves between your neck and shoulder, making you gasp. Your inner walls fluttered around his fingers.

“That’s it, Omega. Want you to come just like this before I fill you up,” he muttered. He earned your vocal agreement in response.

But then it hit him.

Flashes of memory. Darkness and blood. Agony tearing at his skin and insides.

And then, inflicting it himself, on other souls just as damned as him.

Your moan of release just barely managed to pull him out of his own mind. He felt your wetness coat his hand. Goddamn.

“That’s my good girl,” he praised. And yet, while his body caged yours against the wall, he couldn’t force himself to continue. He couldn’t back off either. He was fighting every instinct in his body that demanded he take you, right here and now.

“Dean?” you asked, sensing his hesitation. You cupped his cheek, but he didn’t want to look at you.

“I can’t,” he ground out.

Your eyes widened as shock and dismay threatened to overtake you. “What?”

Dean’s eyes closed. He was trembling with the force of both his need, and his restraint.

With a frown of concern, you wrapped a thigh around his hip, but he wouldn’t heed your attempt to bring him closer.

“What’s wrong?” you asked. No, you demanded to know. Because your body was quaking with desire as well. You needed his knot, and you wanted nothing more than for him to make this right—to claim you as his.

But Dean looked like he was in pain. He winced and pressed a fist against the wall by your head. He pressed his forehead against it.

You tried to comfort him with your hands soothing over his shoulders. There you finally caught sight of a mark on his right shoulder. It looked like a burn…a handprint. Your eyes widened with a small gasp.

He followed your gaze, but he eventually looked away with a frown. It was like he didn’t even want to acknowledge it, even if he didn’t know what it was. Whatever had hauled him out of Hell, he doubted it was anything good. 

“I’m, uh…” He breathed raggedly through his nose. “I’m not…the same.”

You had a feeling it was very difficult for him to admit that.

Four months.

That was how long he’d been lost to you. That was how long he’d been in Hell. You couldn’t even imagine…

You swallowed past a lump of sorrow, but you weren’t deterred. You grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet your eyes.

“You were my Alpha long before you claimed me,” you told him.

That affected Dean, probably more than you knew. He still shook his head though.

“It’s not right, Omega,” he said, even as his voice trembled. You don’t have a fuckin’ clue… You don’t know what I’ve turned into.

The water from the shower head was growing cold, but you’d never been hotter. The cramps were starting up again in earnest, making your teeth clench at the combination of pain and incredible arousal.

“I need you,” you said, through frustration, heat, and emotion all at once. “I would never leave you like this. I would never leave you.”

His eyes closed again, briefly. His breath came out harshly through his nose when you touched his cheek. Your touch was gentle, but it still ignited his skin and made every muscle in his body coil tight with strain.

It was hard to sort through the base instincts that were on the verge of taking over his mind, and then his body. Deep down though, Dean knew you were right. He knew you would never leave him. And that was kind of the problem.

“Alpha, please,” you said, through your own strain. Again, you took his face in your hands and shook him. It drew his gaze to your face. Your beautiful face that he’d seen over and over in the Pit, used as his own personal form of torture.

His whole body trembled.

You saw his distress, and it pierced your heart. You leaned up and brushed your wet cheek against his, while your fingers slipped into his hair in comfort.

“You’re here. You’re alive,” you said. “And you’re here with me.”

You nuzzled your way down his neck and pressed your lips to his mating gland, making him shiver for a whole different reason. You pressed your body against his and kissed, licked, and sucked at his skin.  

“Omega,” he warned, but the growl in his throat was more pleased than warning. He felt your nails graze down his chest and sternum, and soon enough your hand wrapped around his throbbing cock.

He sucked in a breath and pressed his face into your neck. His lips ventured tantalizingly close to the place you wanted him the most, and all the while you stroked him along sensitive flesh. Your thumb circled around his knot, and the dripping head.

“I know you need me too,” you said. You could smell his rut. Your lips edged at a smirk, and you decided to bluff. “But if you won’t make me yours, maybe I’ll find another Alpha who will.”

It didn’t take long before a vice grip closed around your wrist. Dean’s irises were rimmed with black when he met your gaze, half consumed by the Alpha as he pinned you harder against the wall. He grabbed your thigh and hooked it around his hip. And with the other hand he guided his cock to push into you and stretch your inner walls, inch by inch.

You both moaned in relief when he was firmly seated inside you. Your core throbbed around him in a spasm of pleasure. You cried out and rolled your head back against the wall, your nails sinking into his shoulders.

“Alpha,” you shuddered.

“I got you, Omega,” he ground out, just barely holding onto the tethers of himself. His fingers coiled tight into your wet hair and began to pound into you, a rough clip that had you gasping, toes curling as you arched against him.

His lips found your throat and laid a nipping kiss there. All you could do was hold on desperately. You knew he was close when his thrusts grew ragged, when it became harder for him to push into you with the swell of his knot forming. But it wasn’t until his fingers slipped between your joined bodies and circled more insistently over your clit that you came along with him, hard on his throbbing cock.

His teeth sunk into your neck, creating a newly forged bond through a haze of pain and pleasure. You cried out again at the force of it all—the sensations were nearly overwhelming, even more so than it had been the first time he claimed you.

And Dean nearly slipped in the tub.

“Fuck!” He managed to catch himself on the soap dish and the adjoining wall while you grabbed his arms steady. Shit, that really could’ve been disastrous, considering you two were now locked in place.

He glanced down at you. Through wide eyes and panting breaths, you broke first with a giggle. Dean’s lips curved with a smile. Soon enough, he was chuckling too.

The black around his irises receded, and he held you more gently and secure against the wall. After licking the line of blood clean from your neck with a slow, sensuous tongue, he brushed your wet hair back from your face. Then he turned off the frigid shower. 

“We really shouldn’t have done this in here. Shit,” he said with a laugh. How were you two supposed to get to your bed? Or at least get dry.

You giggled harder and dropped your forehead against his chest.

“It’s okay,” you said teasingly. “I think this is worth catching pneumonia over.”

Dean shook his head at your antics, but he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. Smiling bright, you leaned up just enough to reach his lips. Your kiss was slow and tender; a release of your grief, a grateful thank you, and a reminder all at once.

“I love you,” you whispered. “That’s all that matters. We’ll deal with the rest afterwards.”

Dean expelled a long breath. He nodded after a moment, conceding defeat.

“I love you too,” he admitted. And he meant it, down to his bones. 

He knew that afterwards wouldn’t be as easy as you seemed to think, but there was no turning back now.

You were his. 

AN: And there we have it! lol This was definitely a fun challenge. I might like to try my hand at A/B/O dynamics again in the future, but let me know what you think of this one. 😘💜

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Dean W. Tag List:

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb @vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

@melancholictearz @nic-kolas @sanscas @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka @branj19

@agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @deanfreakingwinchester @chernayawidow @beskarfilms @mimaria420