Apocaliptyc and insane my dreams will never change

“Have sex with me-“

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

“It’s eight fifteen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You were serious?”

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

“Sweetheart-“

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

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

“Wait, just- Hold on-“

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think you are.”

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

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

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

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

“Sweetheart-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re learning something about yourself.

You are not good at flirting.

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

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

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

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

“Why, you forget something?”

“No.”

“Then what-“

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“

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

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

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

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

“I do now.”

“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“

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

Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sam.”

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

“Sam.”

“I’m listening, what’s-“

“Have sex with me.”

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

“Just- Listen-“

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

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

“It’s already weird-“

“You’d be doing me a favor-“

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

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

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

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

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

“Sam Winchester-“

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

“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“

“That’s not healthy-“

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

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

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

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

You nod, and Sam blinks.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Maybe.”

“You- You’re-“

“Don’t be an asshole-“

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

That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”

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

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

“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.

“Does Dean-“

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

“I think you should-“

“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I- Okay.”

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

Sam blinks. “What?”

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

Sam snorts, and you scowl.

“I’m serious-“

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

You stand a little taller. “Really?”

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

“I do not annoy you-“

“You’re annoying me right now.”

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

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

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

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

“You need to sleep with her.”

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

“Sammy, what the fuck-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To take her virginity.”

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

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

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

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

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

But you’d asked him.

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

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

“How the fuck do you know that.”

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

“Sam-“

“She might’ve… Asked me.”

“She what-“

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

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

“No.”

“Dean, just-“

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

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

“She doesn’t want it-“

Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”

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

“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.

“Uh- Hey.”

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

Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

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

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

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

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

“What-“

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

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

“You didn’t?”

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

“Hey- It’s- Woah-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean says your name, and you shake your head.

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

“What if it’s not.”

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

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

“What if I wanted to. Help you.”

“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”

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

“You said you didn’t-“

“I lied.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whine again. “Dean-“

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

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

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

This might be real.

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

“Yes.”

“I’m old, sweetheart-“

“I like it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean grins back. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

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

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

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

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

Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”

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

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

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

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

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

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

You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.

“You like that, huh.”

“Dean-“

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

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

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

You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dean-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Everything?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want a little more?”

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

“Say please-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mh- Mhm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.

Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.

“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.

“You’re cute.”

“I- I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”

“Deeeean-“

“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.

“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”

You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.

“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.

Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.

“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.

You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.

“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.

“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”

“No, I mean like- It can’t-“

“It can.”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.

“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”

You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.

Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.

“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”

You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.

“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”

You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.  

“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“

His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.

“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“

“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“

Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.

“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“

Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.

“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“

Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.

His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.

You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.

“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.

“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”

You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.

He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.

Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.

He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.

“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.

“I like you too-“

“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“

He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.

“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“

You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”

Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.

“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.

“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.

“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”

✦End note: drooling for him ✦

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

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

sam’s beside you with the plastic pharmacy bag tucked under one arm, still talking about the case in that low, thoughtful voice of his. something about sulfur traces and whether the victim’s neighbor is lying. you’re trying to listen. really. but the man behind you says something else, louder this time, and your shoulders tense before you can hide it.

sam stops talking. “just ignore him,” he says quietly.

you glance at him. “i was planning on correcting him.”

“i know,” there’s something almost fond in the answer, which is annoying because he knows you too well. he knows you’re already building the perfect response in your head, sharp enough to make the guy regret leaving his house this morning. you’re not helpless. you’ve taken down monsters with worse manners and more teeth.

still, when the man catches up and moves around you, planting himself directly in your path with a grin that makes your stomach twist, sam’s whole expression changes.

“come on, gorgeous,” the guy says, looking you over without bothering to disguise it. “i’m just trying to give you a compliment. gimme a little smile.”

you open your mouth. sam steps forward first. he doesn’t shove the guy or raise his voice. he simply moves between you, broad shoulders blocking the man’s view so completely that the sudden absence of attention feels almost startling. one second, you’re braced for an argument; the next, all you can see is the back of sam’s jacket and the tense line of his shoulders beneath it.

“she’s not interested,” sam says.

the man scoffs. “she can speak for herself.”

“she can,” sam’s voice stays calm. too calm. the kind of calm that makes something warm and nervous curl low in your stomach despite the situation. “and she shouldn’t have to tell you twice.”

sam is gentle with you. always. he passes you coffee without asking, lowers his voice when you’re tired, tucks blankets over you in the impala when he thinks you’re asleep. even on hunts, his strength usually comes wrapped in carefulness, like he’s constantly aware of how much space he takes up and never wants you to feel crowded by it.

this is different. he’s still quiet. still controlled. but there’s nothing soft about the way he looks at the man in front of him.

“you her boyfriend or something?” the guy asks.

your pulse skips. sam doesn’t answer immediately.

his hand settles against the small of your back, warm and steady through the fabric of your shirt, guiding you slightly closer to his side without taking his eyes off the stranger. “does it matter?”

oh. that is deeply unfair.

the man mutters something under his breath but steps away, confidence shrinking fast now that sam’s standing there in all six-foot-something of his disapproval.

sam waits until he crosses the street before turning toward you, his hand still resting at your back. the anger leaves his face immediately. “you okay?” he asks.

you blink up at him. “yeah.”

his brows draw together. “you sure?”

“sam.”

“what?”

you try to gather your thoughts into something coherent and fail. “you cannot do that.”

his hand pulls away at once, concern flashing over his face. “i’m sorry. i should’ve asked before touching you.”

“no.” your cheeks heat. “not that.”

he looks confused.

you exhale, glancing toward the parking lot because looking directly at him feels medically inadvisable. “you can’t spend all your time being sweet and gentle and bringing me coffee, then suddenly turn into that because some idiot says something gross to me.”

he looks even more confused now. his head tilts, bangs falling gently over his eyes. “why not?”

you look back at him. sam’s mouth twitches faintly, almost shy now, but his eyes stay fixed on yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

“because,” you say, too honest and slightly horrified by yourself, “it makes it really hard to remember we’re only friends.”

the words hang between you. sam’s expression softens, but he does not look away.

“maybe,” he says carefully, stepping closer again, “you don’t have to keep remembering that.”

your heart does one stupid, painful little thing. the pharmacy bag rustles between you when his arm brushes yours, and neither of you moves toward the car.

Bradley and you were a couple three months after that, and happy ever since.

You supported him with his career and moved with him wherever he needed to go, which did bring a lot of fresh wind into your lives.

Very quickly Bradley's friends turned into yours as well, you were grateful for the people you got to meet.

Your Fridays evenings were always spent at the Hard Deck with your mutual friends, which was just like the evening you found yourself in.

You were invested in a heated but playful game of pool with Nat when you noticed Bradley at the bar, in a conversation with an eager blonde.

She was pretty, sure, but Bradley seemed obviously reluctant, and you smiled at that.

He was leaning away from her while engaging in polite conversation, but she didn't seem to take the hint.

She came closer and closer to Bradley, smiling and holding onto his forearm.

Bradley was fast enough and pulling his arm away but still the picture stung, and you excused yourself from your game with Nat to go talk to him.

The moment you reached your boyfriend one of his arms instinctively wrapped around you, much to the annoyance of the blonde.

“Wait, THAT's your girlfriend?” She exclaimed, her face contorting in something clearly mirroring disgust.

Her words hit you like a slap to the face and you turned to look at Bradley, whose immediate reaction was that his fingers started soothingly stroking your back.

“Yes, she is”, Bradley replied, and leaned over to press a kiss to your cheek.

The discomfort in you swelled to a new high when the woman scrunched her nose, her eyes roaming your body until they returned to your face.

She had the bland but perfect features of a model, which wasn't exactly what you looked like.

“You deserve so much better”, the woman said.

This time her words manifested as an aching feeling in your guts and you just wanted to run away.

This time Bradley's roaming fingers stopped as his grip tightened, and an incredulous yet angry look appeared on his face.

“Why the fuck would you say that?” He asked, and blondie took a step back at his obvious aggressive tone.

“I mean you're… well you're gorgeous, and she's like, not?” she tried to reply, but Bradley certainly didn't like that answer.

“Yeah she is”, he said, not just a statement but an exclamation, which intimidated her further.

“She is, and you have no fucking right to say things like that”, he said, and you felt like you could slowly breathe again.

She was silent for a few seconds and masked her shock by sipping something from her very pink beverage, whatever that was.

“Honestly, the way you're behaving it's a shame you're generically pretty, it certainly doesn't fix your character“, he added.

"Penny, we've got someone who'll buy all of us a round", he shouted, and Penny earned loud cheers when she rang the bell.

The woman was confused until Bradley pointed at the sign in the middle of the bar, reading 'disrespect a lady, the navy, or put your cell phone on my bar you buy a round'.

“Now fuck off, neither of us want to see your face tonight or ever”, he added, standing up straighter, as if she needed more intimidation to leave the bar.

Her anger was obvious as her nostrils flared.

“Whatever”, she spit as she turned around on her heels, walking away with hips that were deliberately swaying.

Bradley didn't give her a second more of his attention as he handed you the drink that was the reason why he was at the bar in the first place.

“I'm sorry baby, are you alright?” he asked you, and you gave him a slow but determined nod, yet tears were still brimming in your eyes.

“You’re the most beautiful person in any room to me, you know that, right?” he added, and a smile appeared on your face.

Of course Bradley was right, it only mattered what you and your friends thought, and ugly people didn't show their true features until they opened their mouths.

tagging: @starkleila @mayhem24-7forever @green-socks @letsfvckingdance @iangiemae @jewels98 @yespolkadotkitty @whateverbagman @neptunes-curse @iloveprettyboysblog @ateliefloresdaprimavera @littlebadariell @imjess-themess @marchingicenotes7 @midget713 @supernaturaldawning @gspenc @gigisimsonmars @tipsykeen @bespinnn @airedale17 @malindacath @aerangi @kassieesworld @kwanimations @18crazybutcutealsopsycho @marvelandotherfandomimagines @kmsryles343 @kendra-rose @desert-fern @allivingstone01 @rhettabbotts @withakindheartx @trikigirl271 @cherrycola27 @abaker74 @bonitanightmxres @ratcatcher2world @glowingtree @wingmanvenus @roosterforme @oliviah-25 @natasharomanoffisbaebby @fuck-me-865 @sugarvibez @lemmons1998 @jessicab1991 @seitmai @djs8891

They walked into the library, and the first thing Soldier Boy noticed was that it was warm and cool all at once. Like stepping into a building made of springtime. Sunlight poured in, but there was a soft hum in the background from the fans. The furniture was cozy, but everything was perfectly clean. Butcher called out a name, lazily bouncing on his feet, and an angelic voice called back.

“Be right there!”

Butcher smirked. Hughie shifted nervously, shooting Soldier Boy looks like he’d explode in this little fairy book house. He wouldn’t. Place wasn’t worth wasting his bomb on anyways.

Then you floated into view, and Soldier Boy felt the ground under his feet shift. You weren’t a molding, self-important, four-eyed bitch. If this was a fairy book house, you were a fairy. If you had the voice of an angel, it was because you were an angle, and the world twisted itself to give you everything you needed. The sunlight bended, hitting you like some scene from those romance movies he’d always refused to shoot. You floated more than walked. You smiled like you knew everything, and it didn’t even piss him off. 

Soldier Boy hadn’t been a teenager in almost a hundred years, but suddenly he remembered. How it felt for his face to heat and his cock to twitch and his heart to race under his palms. He kicked himself silently, gritting his jaw and standing a little taller. He was a grown fucking man. An American icon. A hero. He wasn’t going to tip over his fucking feet like some kid, especially not for some pretty girl that probably looked down on him. On everyone. The smart ones always did.

They were also the most fun to get in bed. They got bratty, then stupid when he fucked them nice and slow. All the mocking and sass draining out of their pussy, onto Soldier Boy’s hands and cock. Sharp eyes go dazed and sneers fall into open, shocked lips.  

You’ve got those sharp eyes, as you take their little group in. They’re like a hawk, picking them apart with a single look. A hawk in a doll’s body. A sexy, smart little doll.

But there’s no sneer. Even as you glare at Butcher, you’re more pouting than anything else. Solider Boy wonders if you’d pout while begging for him, or just get defiant and bitchy. He’d love to find out.

“You’re getting blood on the carpet,” you tell Butcher, and he shrugs.

“Ain’t you worried about where I’m leakin’ the blood from, love-“

“No.” You cross your arms, lifting you chin. “You’re going to clean it up.”

Butcher’s shoulders curve slightly. Like a scolded fucking child. “C’mon, I got other shit to be workin’ on-“

“Then you shouldn’t have dragged blood on my carpet.”

“But- I got work I needed ya for-“

“Hughie can tell me about it.” You offer Hughie a small smile, and he waves in return.

Soldier Boy stands a little taller. Maybe you just haven’t noticed him yet.

“Clean,” you snap at Butcher, turning on your heels and marching back between the shelves.

Butcher looks at Hughie and Soldier Boy, like they’re supposed to save him from this shit. Hughie gives him an apologetic smile, and follows you into the back. Soldier Boy grins, clapping Butcher on the shoulder before following.

“You didn’t tell me she was a firecracker-“

“She ain’t a firecracker,” Butcher muttered, rolling up his sleeves and glaring around the entryway for whatever people use to clean things. “She’s a fuckin’ problem.”

Soldier Boy smirked, looking back to where you disappeared. “Even fuckin’ better.”

Butcher snorted, giving Soldier Boy a strange, half-amused look. “Good luck with that one, Gov. Don’t blow the fuckin’ job.”

Soldier Boy flipped him off. He’d never blown the job over a woman before—not even an ethereal, enchanting one—and he’s not about to start now. He stood in the corner of your little office, while Hughie asked you questions about books and chemicals and other, smartass shit that Soldier Boy’s never bothered with. He always had people like you on payroll, to give him those answers when he needed them, but usually he didn’t. You punch anything hard enough, it breaks. And he was pretty fucking good at punching.

He said that, at one point. Hughie sighed like he was in physical pain—kid was fucking dramatic—and you just gave him a curious tilt of your head.

“You’re good at punching?”

“I’ m the fuckin’ best.” Soldier Boy pushed off the wall, crossing over to the desk. “Could show you sometimes. Teach you how to defend yourself.”

“Hm.”

You looked him up and down, and Soldier Boy found himself puffing out his chest and flexing his arms. He’d dealt with hard to get girls before. They always cave, when he chases long enough. When he gives them a bit of a show, and promises them it’ll be worth their time.

“What would I be defending myself against?” You asked, soft and sweet. Your voice was like honey. Soldier Boy wanted to get trapped in it, like a fly.

“There are evil people out there,” he drawled, leaning over the desk.

You didn’t lean away, but you blink, and Soldier Boy hears your heartbeat skip. Any reaction is a good one. Meant he was doing something to your body, and that was the first step in getting his foot through the door.

“But I’m here to protect you,” Soldier Boy winked, and stuck out a hand. That was his favorite line. It always fucking worked. “Soldier Boy, doll. Pleasure to meet you.”

Usually, that line made women of all ages and makes swoon. They’d bat their lashes and giggle if they were easy, roll their eyes and flush if they were hard, get starry-eyed if they were innocent, or twirl their hair of they were just as sinful as Soldier Boy himself. But you looked him up and down, and your heartbeat was at a steady baseline. You watched him like you were trying to read him. Like he had thoughts written over his face, and you were  skimming through them. Through him.

“I know,” you said, taking his hand and shaking once. Your fingers weren’t trembling. Your smile was kind, but controlled. “Nice to meet you.”

Soldier Boy blinked, hand still hanging in the air as you turned back to your computer. He’d felt an unsteady heartbeat under his fingers, when you’d touched. But it wasn’t yours. It was his. He wasn’t fucking nervous. His mouth was oddly dry. He cleared his throat and stood back up, trying to strangle some fucking dignity into his body. He wasn’t about to fold in half like some fucking pussy. He just hadn’t gotten properly laid in too fucking long. You were pretty. That was fucking it.

You helped Butcher and Hughie with the job, tracking down books and flipping through them with nimble fingers. Soldier Boy imagined them wrapped around his cock, and forced himself not to rub himself through his pants. He wasn’t about to be that fucking pathetic, no matter how much it hurt. No matter how he couldn’t look away from you for a single second, in case you just turned into mist and turned out to be some kind of fucked up hallucination.

Soldier Boy watched you, as you read and spoke to Butcher. You were polite. Please and thank you and tiny fucking giggles that made his balls heavy. It would be fun to fuck all that out of you. All those sweet words pouring out of your lips, as you’d cry and sing for him.

Butcher seemed to respect you, which said something Soldier Boy wasn’t sure how to hear. Nothing and everything good. When Hughie told you what supes they were going after, you didn’t blink or crow uselessly about murder not being right. You’d just rolled up your sleeves and gotten to fucking work. Soldier Boy could appreciate that. No use in crying about shit that had to be done.

“How’d Butcher find someone like you,” Soldier Boy asked when it was just the two of you. You looked up with raised brows, he almost fucking balked.

 Pretty fucking doe-eyes that ripped right through him. Fucking dangerous.

“Someone like me?” You echoed, and he grunted.

“You’re too fucking gorgeous to be tangled up in this shit-“

“Am I?” Your lips twitched. “I wish someone would’ve told me that. I would’ve kicked you out.”

Soldier Boy opened his mouth, his tongue dragging over his lips. You kept fucking smiling and talking, and he was asking you to smile and talk, but it did something drug-like to his brain and he didn’t fucking like it.

“You know, I used to watch your movies as a kid,” you said casually.

Soldier Boy smirked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He could fucking work with that. “Yeah? You a groupie?”

That got another, breathy little laugh from your lips. Christ, the sound was addicting. “Not quite. I’m not- That’s not really something I do.”

“Somethin’ you do? The fuck does that mean.”

You shrugged. “Hero worship.”

Soldier Boy frowned. The fuck were heroes for, if not to be worshipped. “You think you’re too good for that shit? For getting wet from seein’ someone you want on a screen?”

That got a flush. It’s the best fucking color he’d seen, on your face. He wanted to kiss over it, make it bloom down your neck and over your tits.

“I bet you were a dirty fuckin’ girl, weren’t you,” he leaned further forward, and dared to reach over the desk. To brush his fingers against your arm, and revel in the way you shivered from his touch. “Had posters of me in your room, didn’t you. Used to touch yourself, thinkin’ about me breaking through the fucking wall and taking you right there.”

You blinked at him, with those pretty fucking eyes. They were glossy, now. Another step. He was closer, to what he wanted, and it was the best damn feeling in the world.

“Well, I’m here to make dreams come true, doll,” he traced down your arm, and your breath caught. “Just tell me how you want it, I’ll fuck you ‘till you’re too cross-eyed to read this shit.”

He jerked his head to the books, and waited. This was the part where you told him to bend you over the desk, to pin you to the wall, to pull you into his lap and let you ride him until you passed out.

But instead, you fucking laughed. You pulled your arm back and giggled, shaking your head like he’d said something funny. Soldier Boy’s mouth fell open, and he felt like a fucking idiot. You flipped through your little book, ignoring his dumbfounded expression. He opened and closed his mouth like a damn fish, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

“My favorite was Ghosts of Hanai,” you told him, offering another one of those mind-numbing smiles. “Did you know it was a book first?”

Soldier Boy did not know that. He couldn’t remember how to speak, to tell you that.

“It’s a really good book. Obviously you’re not the main character- In the book- But I kind of liked the adaptation anyway. It wasn’t as- You know- Good. But it was more fun.”

“I’ll show you fun,” he muttered before he could stop himself, and you just giggled again.

If you did that shit one more time, he was going to have to go into the bathroom to beat himself off. Soldier Boy knew why Butcher called you a problem, now. You were perfect, and infuriating, and he should’ve wanted to put your head through a wall for fucking laughing at him, but he didn’t. He wanted to hear that songbird sound again. He wanted to fucking get under your skin, the way you’d seeped under his.

“Bye, Soldier Boy,” you waved to him like a sweet siren, when they were ready to go. He grunted, and waved back.

“You sure she ain’t some kind of supe,” he asked Butcher in the van, and Butcher snorted.

“I’ve wondered, but nah. Just a fuckin’ human.”

Butcher gave Hughie some kind of secret look that Soldier Boy didn’t concern himself with. He was too busy thinking about you. He’d have to go back to you see you. He’d make up a reason why. But he wasn’t used to not getting things he wanted, and he was worried he might want you so much his annoying fucking heart was going to give out about it. He couldn’t allow that.

You’d remember him. You’d laugh for him more. He’d figure out what made you like him, and he’d do it, and then this annoying buzz in his bloodstream could fuck off.

This annoying fucking feeling better fuck off.

It wouldn’t fuck off.

Soldier Boy found himself back at your library after a week. If anyone asked, he’d say he tried to stay away. It would be to preserve dignity. To pretend he hadn’t been hoping they’d need more stupid books so he could go back and see you.

You were clinging to the edge of his every thought. That laugh, that smile, the magnetic way you’d spoken and sat and been. Gentle but not weak. Kind but not stupid. A rare kind of thing to be, when you knew the dark kind of shit that grew in the corners of the world. Part of Soldier Boy prayed it was just an act. That he’d talk to you a little more, and you’d be no better than the rest of them. Then he could fuck you and forget after, like he’d done with almost every other person on his long, stained list of bodies.

But you were just fucking like that. And it was insufferable and enchanting and fucking amazing.

“Soldier Boy,” you said when he returned, blinking in surprise, and something else he couldn’t read. “You’re… back?”

He grunted. “Obviously.”

“Do you need help with another-“

“No.”

You frowned at him. Did that little head tilt, and Christ, what he wouldn’t give to just bury his fucking face in your neck and breathe you in. 

“I just here to get a book,” he heard himself say, and Jesus, you were doing something to him. He didn’t give a fuck about books. He certainly didn’t want one.

But you were here. And Soldier Boy had a feeling you wouldn’t be open to him just being here to see you.

And you lit up, when he said he wanted a book. Great. Now he was going to have to fucking read, just to get some pussy.

“What book?”

“A- Big one.” That had to be impressive. “Biggest you’ve got, doll.”

He winked, looping his thumbs through his belt. You made that face again, brow raising slightly. “Big as in long, or complicated?”

Soldier Boy shrugged. “Both.”

“Fiction or Nonfiction?”

Why were there so many kinds of fucking books. “Whichever one you like better. I trust you won’t give me something shit.”

That made your lips twitch, and it hit Soldier Boy like a rush of coke. His head got lighter and the world got sharper, and you smiled at him, and that heartbeat was his again. He really was worse than a fucking teenager.

“Wait here,” you told him, and he did. Like a fucking dog.

You came back with a massive heap of a book. There couldn’t be that many words in the world, let alone enough sentances to make something that long. Anything worth saying shouldn’t take more than a fucking page.

“Infinite Jest.” You passed him the book, and he stared at you. “Long and complicated.”

Soldier Boy grunted, not bothering to spare the book a glance. You were what he was here for, and if you just fucking walked away, he felt like he might explode.

“You like this thing?” He almost barked, and you paused, already a half-step back.

“It’s okay,” you said slowly. Actually fucking thinking about your answer. “I like his essays better.”

“Essays?” Soldier Boy frowned. “You like his fuckin’ book reports?”

You gave him one of those coy, honeyed half-smiles again. He was worried he was going to fucking drool. “Creative essays. Like- Book reports about your life.”

Soldier Boy nodded, glancing down to the book, then back to you. He didn’t want to read this shit. Book reports had, as far as he remembered, always been short. And he wanted to see what kind of shit you liked to read. What you considered good. “I want one of those. Instead of this.”

He’d meant it to be an order, but it came out without the usual edge he put in his tone. That edge was his best weapon. It had won him countless battles before they even fucking started.

But you just gave him that fucking look. The one where he felt flimsy and stupid and weak, his body all excited from your attention and his fingers itching to dig into your soft looking skin. You smiled, and he swallowed, drawing himself a little taller. He wouldn’t just fall into you. He refused to be that fucking weak.

“Read that first,” you told him. “Then we’ll talk about the essays.”

You turned and walked away. Soldier Boy let you go, because if he touched you, he was worried he was going to turn into more of a weak fucking lapdog than he already was. He wished he could read you—read that smile, those looks, the lacey tone you took with him and seemingly no one else—as well as you seemed to be able to peel him right apart. He looked back at the book, roughly flipping it to the first page. He tried to read the first sentence, but the words floated off the fucking page and didn’t even brush through his brain. He couldn’t read this shit.

Then we’ll talk, you’d said.

You’d talk to him, if he read this.

Christ on a Cross. He was going to try and read a book.

It took him a month. A month of staring at words in the dead of night, when he couldn’t sleep and no one was around to see. If Butcher caught him trying this shit, he’d never hear the end of it. Hell, he wasn’t hearing the end of it now, and no one even knew he was reading.

“Where you goin’, Gov?” Butcher barked as Soldier Boy moved to the door, and he scowled at the air.

“None of your fucking business.”

Then Butcher said your name, smiling knowingly, and Soldier Boy wanted to punch his teeth in. “You’re goin’ to see her again, ain’t you-“

“Said it was none of your fucking business,” Soldier Boy spat, raising a firm finger. “Not another word, or I punch your teeth into your asshole, you got that?”

Butcher just laughed to himself, and Soldier Boy ground his teeth. It wasn’t anything like your laugh, but then again, nothing was.

“Hi, Soldier Boy,” you greeted him without looking now. He wanted to think that meant something. That you were getting as obsessed with his presence as he was with yours. “Did the dictionary help?”

“Mhm,” he glanced at the sitting area, where a few old folks—younger than him, but wrinkled in a way he’d never be—were poking through the newspapers and chatting. There were some kids in the book section. Few teens giggling, somewhere deeper between the shelves.

No one paying him any mind. No one to look at him and wonder what the fuck Soldier Boy was doing in a library, why he’d needed a dictionary, like he was some dumbass who couldn’t speak or read or-

“I needed a dictionary,” you said, and Soldier Boy blinked. You were looking at him. Right at him. He felt it, in his heartbeat, and he never wanted it to fucking stop.

“What,” he said, stupid and drunk, and you smiled.

“I needed a dictionary. To get through Infinite Jest. The first time,” you amended, your eyes getting strangely softer the longer you watched him. “But- I still needed it.”

Soldier Boy’s hands curled into fists. “You read it multiple times?” This one time was feeling like it was going to fucking kill him.

“I read most things multiple times.”

He snorted. “Jesus.”

That made you blink. A faint flush creeped onto your face, and you looked back to your computer. Soldier Boy froze. Your heart was doing a little fucking stumble.

Interesting.

“You’re real fuckin’ smart, huh?” He tried, just to see what would happen.

Your heart did the little stumble again.

Jackpot.

“Maybe,” you mumbled, glaring at your screen. “I just- Like books.”

Soldier Boy snorted. “Yeah. Think I figured that one out myself.”

You hummed, not meeting his gaze anymore. You were getting quiet. He didn’t like it. Not like this. You’d be allowed to get quiet and shy when he was balls deep inside of you. Right now, he wanted to hear that pretty fucking voice, teasing and sassing and helping him, all at once.

“What kind of books do you like,” he asked, and it sounded lame to his own ears.

But you looked at him. And screw him up the ass and sideways, it was fucking worth it.

“What kind of books do I like?”

“That’s what I fucking said, isn’t it?”

You stared at him. He stared back, because there was one thing he wasn’t going to let himself do, and it was back off of this.

“Why?”

And Soldier Boy leaned back. Because you said it like that was a real question. Like he wouldn’t, obviously, naturally, want to know every fucking thing about you. Women liked it when someone listened, he’d learned over the years. He’d listen to whatever the fuck you wanted to say, if it got you closer to being in his arms.

“Because,” he said, and your lips tugged down into that pretty pout.

“Because why?”

“Can’t I just fuckin’ want know?” He snapped, and you leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms.

“No one ever just wants to know.”

Soldier Boy rolled his eyes. “Well, you’re looking at someone, doll. So get that through your pretty head.”

You blinked. Flushed. Wrapped your arms around yourself, like you were trying to stop that loud heartbeat from jumping right out of your chest.

“I like everything,” you said stiffly, and Soldier Boy smirked.

“Everything, huh.”

You shrugged, and he leaned over the desk. Your breath hitched, and he knew his features were turning wolfish, but he didn’t fucking care. You seemed into it anyways.

“Everything,” he breathed, and your lips pressed in a nervous little line. “Show me what everything is, then.”

And I’ll show you everything, gorgeous. He thought about saying it. Thought about how you’d melt and get nervous and he’d have his in.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t figure out why—what the fuck was wrong with him, what the fuck you were doing—but the words got caught, and he didn’t say them. He had you where he wanted you anyway, he rationalized. Talking to him. Smiling at him. Breaking you right now would be too fucking easy.

Since when had he not wanted easy.

Maybe since you pulled him through the bookshelves with light, delicate fingers on his wrist. Like you were afraid of breaking him. Since you talked and talked and talked, and he realized how fucked he was.

He wasn’t listening to you talk to fuck you. He just wanted to hear you talk, about books and ships and history and romance and any other fucking thing you wanted. He went home with a book he hadn’t gone there for, because you said it would help him keep trudging through Infinite Jest, and it did. He finished it that week, and marched back into your library with a prideful grin, slamming the monster of a book down on your desk.

“Done,” he declared, and you smiled at him like you were fucking happy, and it did something to his chest he didn’t want to name. Something fucking gooey and light. Something dangerous and strange.

“Did you like it?” You asked him, like it fucking mattered. 

Soldier Boy nodded, and you beamed.

“I have something for you, next.”

Of course you fucking did. You were just perfect like that. And the next thing was a damn picture book, but when he glared at you, you just giggled and pushed it further into his hands.

“Trust me,” you said, and fuck him, he did.

He took the damn book, because you were the one handing it to him, and he’d read it, because that smile was the best thing he’d ever damn seen.

“Bye, Soldier Boy,” you said when he walked away, and he paused.

Soldier Boy. The character, in the movie you hadn’t liked as much as the book. “Ben.”

You blinked, and he sighed.

“My name is Ben.”

“Oh- Okay,” you flushed, and there it was again. That little skip in your heart. “My name is-“

“I know your name, doll,” he drawled, and you bowed your head. Shy and adorable and he was so fucked.

“Right. I- I knew that.”

He chuckled, grinning down at you, and that hawk sharpness in your eyes was gone. You looked like a fucking bunny, and screw him, he wanted to bend you over right there. He brushed his fingers with yours, and you made the tiniest fucking sound.

“Bye, pretty girl,” he said, and you mumbled another bye of your own.

Soldier Boy took a deep breath through his nose, and smelled it. Heady and thick and purely fucking you.

You were turned on. It made his own cock twitch in response, throbbing and begging him to coat itself in that sweet slick between your legs. To feel the way it would stick and slide against him, to cover himself in you and make you his and-

He took a deep breath. He’d be back tomorrow. He’d keep testing it, until you snapped. You made him chase, he’d keep fucking chasing. He didn’t want to just take you anymore. He wanted to make you admit it. That you wanted him as much as he wanted you.

He was worried that wasn’t fucking possible. That no one had ever wanted anyone, as much as he wanted you.

Feelings were so fucking annoying. He still refused to name them. You’d do that for him, with all your smart words and pretty eyes. 

Soldier Boy looked over his shoulder before he walked out the door. You were watching him. He smirked, waving a hand in goodbye. You flushed and looked frantically back to your computer. 

He’d get you where he wanted you. Didn’t matter what he’d need to do. He looked at the book in his hands. Comic, you’d called it. He’d give it a shot. For you.

He was starting to worry, about the type of shit he’d do for you.  

“What’s your thing,” Ben grunted at you one day, and you frowned.

“My thing?”

“Everyone’s got something that gets them in this shitty game,” he said. “They kill someone you love? Help someone you hated. One of those soft little fuckin’ pussies try and do something to you?”

A small, angry part of him flared at that. Anything that had touched you would burn.

“I mean- It’s just the right thing to do,” you mumbled, looking back to your book, and Ben snorted.

Of course you’d do the right fucking thing. He knew you better now. He shouldn’t have bothered to be surprised.

You liked things too much. You were too soft and too hard in all the strangest places. You never looked at him like you were afraid, and you praised him for finishing comic book after comic book—you’d been right, he liked those things, more than he’d say aloud, but you knew—and then you’d flush when he gave you a little too much attention and get sassy when he tested you.

He knew about your past now. There were darker parts that made him angry. Happier shit that made you smile, and made him want you to smile about him one day.

You knew about his past. More than he’d ever told the tabloids. He’d found it slipping out of him, the longer he was around you. But you had that effect on him. Flowing over his like the fucking ocean and catching him in your tide. He didn’t fight it. Anything that made you look at him, that let him tease you, and made you all fucking soft and sugary.

Ben brought you dinner now, like some kind of delivery boy. But you always smiled at him, and asked him how his day had been, and damn him that kept making it worth it. You kept making it worth it. He was allowed in your place now, and he didn’t question why. He’d just been there, and you’d been going home, and he’d been allowed to walk you there. It wasn’t too far from the library, and pretty fucking small, but it smelled like you. Felt like you. So he liked it, and he found a reason to be there almost every fucking day, and that reason was food or your safety or another comic book. You’d talk and he’d listen, then he’d talk and you’d listen, and fuck him, he felt better than he had in longer than he wanted to admit. In maybe forever. And it was all fucking you.

“Wow.” Hughie had said to him, about a week ago. “You really don’t just want to like- You know. Bang her.”

Ben had grunted, not bothering to respond. All the shit he said just made them bigger asses. Butcher had taken to asking him to read every single piece of paper they came across. Frenchie had been making kissy faces behind his back, and asked him to make out with a book. The only reason Ben hadn’t crushed his skull with a single hand was that he’d be kicked out, and you’d probably frown upon that upon that.

“Heard you been reading,” MM had grunted to him. “Didn’t know you knew how.”

Ben had ignored that too, mostly because he hadn’t know he could read either. But he was getting better at it. Helpful to have a good motivator.

You.

He didn’t want to just fuck you anymore. He wasn’t sure what the fuck he wanted. You smiled and the world felt in order. You said his name and it sounded like being called home. Fucking you would be a benefit—you’d only gotten hotter, the longer he’d looked, and his shower and pillowcases knew your name as well as his dreams did by now—but he also liked just… sitting here. Talking. Like some cucked, pathetic little housewife-

“Why do you do it?” You asked, and Ben paused.

“Do what? Fight?”

You nodded, watching him with that judgement free curiosity. He frowned at his burrito, hoping it would give him the answer. He didn’t fucking know. He never thought about that kind of shit, unless you asked him to.

“Couldn’t you just… leave?” You asked softly, and he glanced up at you under heavier eyes.

“You want me to leave, doll?”

“No.”

You’d answered so quickly. It made him feel a million feet tall, and decide that maybe flying wasn’t that fucking bad, if this was what it felt like.

“But- Do you really want to do this forever?” Your voice was so quiet, Ben was worried you were trying to tread lightly around him. He never wanted you to do that. Not with him. If he was getting raw and weak, you had to fucking come down with him.

“Nah,” he took a large bite of his burrito, speaking through the mouthful. “Sick of it. All of it. Been lookin’ for something better-“

“Ben,” you chastise, holding out a napkin. “Chew.”

He rolled his eyes, but chewed. You smiled, waiting patiently for him to finish. He never fucking knew how you did that. Put up with him, when all the members of Butcher’s team looked like they wanted to throttle him every damn second. He used to like it like that. To be satisfied, with the way people would glare at him and not be able to do a fucking thing about it.

But you just… liked him. And that felt better than anything else.

“Looking for something better,” he said after he swallowed. “Y’know. Not this shit.”

“What does better look like?”

You asked it gently, and he doesn’t need to think about it.

Better looked like you.

“Still figuring that out, doll,” he muttered, and something taut flashed over your features. Ben frowned. Times like this, he really fucking wished he could read you.

“I hope you figure it out soon,” you mumbled, and Ben swallowed.

He did too.

You’re getting confused, but Ben is a confusing man.

Everything you’d heard about him—from Butcher, Annie, and the TV—said that he’d be a monster. An impossible, murderous asshole who’d snap you in half to get what he wanted. Over sexual and disrespectful. Arrogant and cold.

And he was arrogant. He was impossible, and a bit of an asshole. He’d flirted with you like he couldn’t help himself, and looked at you like he wanted to eat you alive.

But then he actually read the book. He smiled at you, and got soft around edges you hadn’t even noticed were so sharp. It had been like watching barbed wire unravel. Concerning and strange and… endearing.

Ben was surprisingly endearing.

It was like he’d never just had a friend before. He wandered after you in the library like a puppy, and leaned over your desk with squared shoulders like he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing himself.

“What’s that,” he’d ask you every day, about almost every thing, and you’d shove down a laugh. Under all the gruffness and anger, he mostly just seemed confused. About the world. About you.

So at least it was mutual. The uncertainty.

Because for everything you understood about Ben—his loneliness, his age, his strange puppy like demeanor—you didn’t get this. What he meant to you. What you meant to him.

You’re afraid you’re in love with him. That somewhere between take-out dinners and telling him you read romance books, he stopped being just Ben and became yours.

Not yours.

No one else’s. He says he hasn’t gotten laid in forever. Between visiting you and working, you’re sure he hasn’t had time to mess around in a bar or alleyway. That makes you smug, in a way that sits too brightly in your chest. You don’t want him to find that kind of feeling anywhere. You wish he’d ask for it from you.

He makes moves. He flirts and teases and smirks when it pools between your legs, nostrils flaring and eyes gleaming. Like he fucking knows. But he never does anything about it, and you’re going insane.

You mean something to him. You had to. He’s not the kind of man who would’ve stuck around this long, if he didn’t. But he’s also not the kind of man to deprive himself of things. If he wanted you, he should’ve fucking taken you by now.

Hughie turned red, and mumbled something about this not being his business, when you brought it up.

“Just- Talk to him,” he’d pleaded. “Not me. Never me- I- I like life.”

You’d frowned, but Hughie had frantically changed the subject. He seemed to know something you didn’t. They all did.

“He’s fuckin’ obsessed with you,” Butcher had drawled, when you’d asked him. “That’s what we know.”

Your face had burned. “It’s- No he’s- I mean- I know he- He likes women, and- I’m one- But- Just sex-“

“Love, he could find sex on the street or gutter if his dick needed a tug,” Butcher had rolled his eyes like you—pacing and wringing your hands—were the insane one. “He read for you. I’m real bloody sure he didn’t even know what the fuck a book was, ‘fore he laid eyes on your pretty fuckin’ face.”

You’d smacked Butcher. He’d laughed, and started asking more mission-related questions.

You’d obsessed over it all day. Obsessed with you. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. You were you and Ben was Ben. He was Soldier Boy. The handsome face you’d grown up fawning over, the big man on the TV screen that seemed untouchable. You’d almost fainted when you saw him, something like a survival instinct locking over you and stopping you from becoming a downright pathetic schoolgirl. You tried to divorce him in your head, from the idealization of a childhood crush.

But you couldn’t. He was meaner and kinder and smarter and cruder than anything you’d managed to dream of. His praise made you dizzy and his mocking tone sent a pool of desire between your thighs, and then he did the dishes when he thought you weren’t looking—you think he might be under the impression you’ll believe they’re just doing themselves—and asked about your interests and didn’t fuck around.

He was supposed to fuck around. To make it easy on you, to get over the infatuation.

He hadn’t. And now you’re so far gone you spend every day gorging yourself on his attention.

Obsessed.

Pretty girl, he calls you. You’d like to be his pretty girl, if he’d just put a claim on you. You wish you could drink enough to be brave. You wish he’d be selfish again, and just fucking take you.

But you’re going to have to do this the hard way. The way that cleaves you in half, if there’s a single wrong serration. If he just carves your chest open, takes your heart, and doesn’t offer his in return.

You have to try. Because if you don’t, you’re going to be here forever.

He brings you your favorite food, tonight. He sits with his knee bumping yours, and it makes your head so clouded you almost forget your plan.

“Do you have… anything?” You ask, your voice barely more than a nervous breath. “That you want to do?”

Ben gives you a sideways, almost confused look. “The fuck does that mean?”

“I mean, just- What are you planning to do?”

“When.”

“In the future.”

“Ah,” he shrugs, raising his burger back to his mouth. “This.”

You swallow. That’s not helpful. “This?” You prompt weakly, and he nods. “You mean- This?” You wave a hand around the room, and Ben’s lips twitch. “Me?”

“You?”

He says it like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and your heart shrinks.

That’s what you thought. You never should’ve listened to Butcher and Hughie, you knew that wasn’t what he meant, you fucking knew it and- God, you were so fucking stupid, to think he’d want you back.

“Nevermind,” you mumble, and Ben stiffens.

“Doll-“

“I’m getting a new shipment of books tomorrow.” You don’t want to talk about this anymore. “So- I might be too busy to eat lunch-“

Ben snaps your name, and you stare at your hands.

“I- Um- I don’t know how long it will take, so you don’t have to come over-“

Ben grabs your wrist, his touch almost searing into your skin, and when you look up, he’s staring at you. He’d moved to kneel over you. Your noses would brush if you twitched. His breath fans over your face, and you’re embarrassingly slack under his hand.

“Ben…” You whisper, because you don’t want to do this. You don’t want whatever fragile thing you had—even if it was just friendship—to break.

But he doesn’t move back. He never really has.

“You’re sulking,” he mutters, and you try to bow your head, but he catches your chin with two fingers. Tilts it slowly back up, forcing you to hold his gaze. “Why.”

Your voice is tiny. “Doesn’t matter-“

“The fuck it doesn’t matter. What’s wrong with you.”

“Nothing,” you try to avert your gaze. It’s impossible. “I just- You’re- I’m-“

You cut yourself off lamely. Ben leans in closer, jaw ticking as he scans over your features.

“You want it to be you?”

Your mouth falls open. “I- What?”

“My future.” He rasps. “You want it to be you?”

“Do you?”

Your mouth falls open. “I- What?”

“My future.” He rasps. “You want it to be you?”

“Do you?”

You expect him to laugh, but the lines on his face just deepen. He lets out a sharp breath through his lips, then smirks.

“Maybe I do,” he almost purrs, tipping your chin a little futher back. “What then, doll?”

You gape at him. So close. Saying words he won’t be able to take back, but not enough to make you melt. You’re still guarded. Still careful.

“Say it,” you whisper, because you have to be sure. “The- The whole thing.”

Ben frowns. “Doll-“

“Say it,” you almost plead. “If you mean it-“ Please fucking mean it. “If this isn’t just- If I’m not just some fixation, Ben, please say it-“

He crashes his mouth over yours, and your words turn into a long, hungry whimper. His lips are chapped and warm. Soft but firm, the kiss demanding but controlled. His hand slides into your hair, the other coming up to cup the back of your neck, and you melt into his strong body. His tongue traces over your lower lip, and you whine softly.

You get breathless embaressingly fast. Your thighs press together, but he’s not making it easy on you. His hand on your neck drags down your spine and splays possessively on your back. He pulls you closer, humming in satisfaction when you brace your fingers on his thighs. His knee pushes between your legs, and you grind down against it without a thought.

“Christ,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, smirking as you pant and cling to his jeans. “Needy little thing, ain’t you?”

“Ben,” you whimper, and he hums.

“’S alright. I’m gonna take care of you.” He hooks his arm under your knees, the other sliding under your arms. “C’mon.”

You wrap your arms around his neck as he pulls you into the air, pressing your face into his neck. He carries you steadily to the bedroom, setting you down with suprising gentleness on the bed. You blink hopelessly at him, as he draws back up. He still hasn’t said it.

And like he can read your mind, Ben smirks and flicks your nose with his thumb.

“Not a fixation,” he says. “Just my pretty fuckin’ girl.”

You flush, but refuse to cave that fast. “That’s not saying it.”

Ben snorts. “Jesus, woman-“

“Say it.” You snap, before—under the burn of his gaze—adding a mumbled, “Please.”

Ben chuckles. He peels off his shirt, and you almost forget to be stubborn. His big. Even bigged than he looks with his shirt on. His skin is tanned and soft, his boobs might be bigger than yours, and you can see the flex of thick, well built muscle with every breath. Your tongue flicks over your lips, and he smirks.

“You’re real fuckin’ demanding, you know that?”

“You- You’re supposed to- Ben-“ Your protests fall flat, as he trails a light touch up the underside of your leg. “Ben- That’s- You’re- Not playing fair-“

“I’m not tryin’ to play fair, doll,” he teases. “I’m tryin’ to get you ready.”

“Ready?” you squeak, and he hums, squeezing under your knee.

“Want you to be nice and relaxed for me,” he murmurs. “Gonna use this pretty fuckin’ body right. Make you wet, make you fuckin’ stupid.”

He pushes his fingers under the hem of your shorts, and your breathing is staggered and shallow. You lean back and push into his touch all at once, and Ben’s grin widens.

“Look at that. Already playin’ nice.”

You try to glare at him, but he lean back down, pressing you back into the mattress with a deep kiss. Your fingers shoot into his hair, as his weight settles between your legs. It forces them open, his budge pressing right against you clothed, aching pussy. You hadn’t even let yourself fully feel it—the vastness of your desire—because you’d been worried it would’ve just consumed you entirely. That you’d turn into some sex-crazed lunatic, imagining Ben above you and touching you and kissing you. You would’ve turned into a puddle that spent her days in bed with a vibrator, dreaming of what she couldn’t have.

But now you have it. You have him. Kissing you like he’s trying to let you consume him. He groans, with every whimper he draws from your lips. His hips roll against your core, and your breath catches. Your cunt feels like it’s almost in pain, from the neglect of intention. You scratch at Ben’s shoulders and belt, trying to drag him closer and tear every barrier between you apart with only your nails.

Ben catches your wrist, and pins it over your head. You thrash and strain, and he just chuckles, dragging his thumb over soft skin.

“Look at you,” he rolls his hips down again, and your back arches off the bed. “How the fuck could you think I wouldn’t want this?”

You blink at him, breathing through your mouth, and Ben leans down. His kiss brushes the very tip of your nose. You mewl, wired and desperate, and Ben laughs. The mockery of it only makes the heat between your legs stronger.

“You make me fuckin’ crazy,” he says, jaw clenched tight. “Make me… Feel things.”

“You make me feel things too,” you breathe out, and Ben stills.

“Yeah?”

You almost giggle at the slack, worshipful look on his face. Guarded but leaking with a hope you’re sure his old, old heart doesn’t know how to recognize. You don’t strain against his pull on you. You just lean up and brush a kiss over his jawline.

His whole body shudders. You sink back into the cushions, beaming as his wrecked expression. A low growl rolls through his chest, and his eyes go so dark it’s almost predatory.

“You,” his voice has dropped, so impossibly deep. “You…”

Words seem to fail him. You don’t mind. You don’t love Ben because he’s a man of words. You have enough of them as it is. You surround yourself with them, and there are only so many in the world that can express this. The electric, new and fragile and hungry thing between you. 

You love Ben because he’s a man of action. And you know he’s not going to be able to say he loves you.

So he crashes back down, and shows you instead.

It starts with open mouth kisses, over your collarbone and throat. You head tips back, your mouth going slack, and Ben moans against your skin.

“So fuckin’ responsive.” He snakes a hand under your body, giving you ass a firm squeeze. “Knew you would be. Sensitive fuckin’ doll, probably getting fuckin’ soaked from just a little touching.”

Humiliations burn with arousal in your gut, deep and hot and intoxicating. You are soaked. You can feel it every time you shift against him.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Ben coos, kissing a particularly soft part of your neck. “I know how bad you want this. I can fuckin’ smell it.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “You- You what?”

“You heard me,” he pushes your shirt slowly up, thick fingers brushing over the soft skin of your stomach. “Every time you got needy, doll. I could almost taste it.”

“And you- You never-“

“You’re the one who said to be sure.”

His tone is mocking, but his touch is hot and his expression is shockingly soft. You flush under the attention, unsure what to do yourself. Just splayed on the bed for him to play with, dazed and confused. Ben grins like a wolf, and tears off your shirt without a warning. You almost protest, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

“No bra,” he takes on perked nipple, rolling it between his fingers with a dangerous smile. “Fuckin’ slut.”

You swallow, watching with wide eyes as he lean over your chest. Electricy shoots through your body, as he wraps his mouth around your neglected nipple, sucking lightly as he plays with the other one between those infernal fingers. You stare at the ceiling with fluttering lashes, lost in the warmth of his mouth. His tongue flicks, and you whimper. Ben’s teeth graze against you, and a weak noise of his name falls from your lips.

He smirks, dragging more kisses over the curve of your breast. He gives your nipple one last flick, then kisses over the hurt.

“Already bein’ so quiet,” he teases, toying with the band of your shorts. “Think I might need to make you scream, doll. Make you prove how bad you want this cock.”

“I- I want it-“ You stammer, pushing up on your elbows. “Don’t- I want it-“  

“Shh.” Ben presses his finger against your mouth, and your jaw snaps shut.

He blinks. You swallow, trying to drag up the strength to resist him again, but it’s too late. He’s seen it. How fucking desperate you are to please him.

“Jesus,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “You’re- Chirst.”

Your cheeks burn. You try to roll onto your stomach, but Ben catches you and rolls you back. You pout at him, silently pleading with him not to make this a fucking thing, but he just keeps examining you. His gaze burns over your skin. You think you’re going to fucking explode.

Slowly—almost carefully—Ben pushes his thumb into your mouth. You take it, batting your lashes and loosening your jaw. The pad of his fingers tickles the back of your throat, and you suck lightly, eyes fluttering shut. Ben massages your thigh, and your legs fall further open.

“This what you really fuckin’ wanted, huh,” Ben mutters, and you hum, swirling your tongue around him. “You’ll do anything I fuckin’ tell you.”

You hum, sucking harder. You eyes burn, and you squeeze them shut.

Ben taps your cheek with his free forefinger. “Open.”

You obey, blinking through the shame, not letting yourself slack on his thumb. You flick against it, the same way he’d played with your nipple, and his throat bobs.

“Fuckin’ dangerous,” he says, and you don’t understand why he thinks that. You’re the pathetic one here.

But Ben pulls his thumb back, and with a softness you didn’t know he had, he leans down and brushes his lips against yours. It’s a restrained, teasing kiss. You think you’re going to cry, but then he pushes his knee back against your core, and you can only gasp against his mouth.

“That’s it, doll,” he mutters. “Relax for me.”

“Be- Ben-“ You blubber, already fucking ruined. “Touch me, please-“

He deepens the kiss, his tongue pressing into your mouth with such demand you almost sob. He knee grinds itself against you, moving back only so he can rip your shorts and panties away. Your breath hitches, as two massive fingers drag their way through your cunt.

“What a fuckin’ mess,” Ben growls. “I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I. Not fuckin’ my pretty girl like she needs.”

You whine, nodding like a bobblehead. Ben pulls slightly back, kissing a stray tear on your cheek.

“Fucking crybaby,” he hisses. “Barely even done anything yet, you’re going to be a fucking wreck when I’m done.”

God, you are. There’s no way around it. Those two fingers are curling right against your weeping pussy, and if he doesn’t do something soon, you’re going to fucking scream.

“I’ll give you something to really cry about.” Ben slams a quick, harsh kiss back on your lips before pulling away. “No cumming, ‘till I say. You got that?”

You stare at him, and the softness is gone. His jaw is set, his eyes sharp, and his voice a rough command. Usually, you’d laugh at his attempts to boss you around, but right now you’re barely more than putty in his arms. You nod, and Ben huffs in satisfaction.

“Good girl.”

Your cunt squeezes around nothing. Ben must smell the gush, because his nostrils flare and his fingers dig into your hips.

“Been waitin’ too fucking long for this,” he says, kissing his way down your body. “Going to take my fuckin’ time, doll. Think I’ve earned that much, keeping my cock in my pants long as I did.”

You mewl an agreement, and Ben laughs.

“Anything I say,” he mutters to himself, pulling your legs over his shoulders. “Too fuckin’ good to be true.”

You’d argue this wasn’t good, if it wasn’t the best feeling you’ve ever experienced. You’re completely at Ben’s mercy, one massive hand massaging your ass as the opposite parts your pussy folds, giving him a good look at the evidence of your desperation.

Ben hums in approval, and your pussy clenches again. He laughs, kissing the inside of your thigh, and blows a puff of cool air against your clit. Your hips fly off the bed as you cry out, and Ben slams them down with a single hand.

“Stay still.” He orders, and you whimper in acknowledgement.

You’re going to try. You’re really going to fucking try, to listen. To be good for him.

But he does’t make it fucking easy.

Ben dives headfirst into your pussy, and you almost fucking scream. You knew he was experienced, but this feels like someone’s mouth fucking you with a sex machine. A hot, messy sex machine that has rough lips and a thick tongue, plunging in and out of your gaping cunt. His nose drags against your clit, rubbing into it over and over like he’s trying to set you off, and you grab at the sheets to try and achnor yourself.

“Be- Ben- Fuck-“ He makes out with your clit, and your eyes roll back in your head. “Oh- Oh my god-“

He pulls back, smacks your pussy, and pushes his face back into your core. Your body doesn’t even seem to know how to process it, every nerve so lit up that it’s scrambled and dazed. You’re almost, literally, overloaded with pleasure.

Ben keeps eating you out with the fervor of a starved man. He uses his whole face, tonguing you like he’s trying to memorize the way you squeeze around him. Whenever you cry out for him, he spanks your pussy, and you can’t tell if it’s a punishment or reward. Maybe both, if the way your cunt pulses with every hit is an indication.

He hits your pussy again, right when you’re so close to the edge you can taste it, and you almost cum. The only thing that stops you it is physically yanking yourself back, trying to escape the intensity of his touch.

Ben grabs you and drags you back. You whine, looking up at him with glossy, tear stained eyes. He wipes them away with his thumb, glaring down at your open, wrecked expression.

“The fuck did I say about moving?”

“I- I didn’t-“

“You did.”

He plants one hand on your lower abdomen, spanking your pussy with the other. Once. Twice. Your eyes roll back and the tears roll down your cheeks, but Ben just sneers.

“You wanna cum, doll?”

“Yes- Yes, please-“

“Then be fuckin’ good.”

He spanks your pussy again, and pushes his face back in. Your cunt is so abused and raw it only takes a few seconds to work you back up to where you were before. You try not to move, but then Ben—like he wants you not to listen—flicks his clit back and forth over your clit, so fast it feels like a vibrator. Your thighs lock around his head, and your back arches off the mattress.

This time, Ben doesn’t pull back and spank you. This time is worse. He just… Keeps going. He’s strong enough to keep your hips steady against his face. He grabs your ankles, and forces them to stay around his head. You can’t get away from him, as he works your pussy. You thrash in the sheets, crying out and shoving his head as it becomes borderline impossible to hold your orgasm in, but he doesn’t fucking stop.

You’re crying, loud and pathetic, and Ben just moans against your cunt. You roll onto your stomach, trying to crawl away as your traitorous pussy grinds against his face, and Ben slaps your ass. One arm leaves your body—though it doesn’t help you at all—and you hear skin slapping behind you. You manage to twist over your shoulder, and almost cum just from the sight.

Ben, jerking himself off as he keeps you pinned to his face. His cock is thick and big, bigger than anything you’ve ever see. It’s almost pretty, and that’s not something a cock should be. He’s leaking with pre-cum. You want to lap it off of him.

He slams you further onto his face, and you mewl, collapsing back into the matteress. You might pass out, with the effort to keep your orgasm in. You can barely think, barely speak. You’re just sobbing into the sheets and lost in the pleasure.

Then it stops.

Ben pulls away, and the loss is worse than the torture. You cry out, babbling something like his name, and Ben’s lips slot gently over yours.

“Doin’ so fucking well, babydoll,” he mutters. “Just a little longer. It’ll feel good.”

You nod, trying to chase his lips when he pulls away. He hums in amusement, pressing a kiss to your neck, and drags your ass up into the air. Your knees are already wobbly. You wouldn’t be able to stay up, if Ben didn’t wrap an arm around your stomach and force you up.

“Never seen someone so fuckin’ gorgous when they cry,” he mutters, rubbing that thick cock between the lips of your pussy. “Think I just like you wet, honey. Wet and fuckin’ sweet.”

He gathers some arousal with his fingers, then reaches over to press them against your lips.

“Taste,” he orders, and you obey thoughtlessly.

You don’t taste bad. Just… Strange. You moan, but mostly because you like Ben’s fingers being back in your mouth.

“That’s it,” Ben coos, lining himself up against your entrance. “Keep suckin’, pretty girl. Know it helps.”

You hum, and you’re too gone to actually think about what he said. It helps.

Then Ben starts to push inside you, and it becomes obvious what he meant. You squeak around his fingers, and Ben shushes you, slowly. Pushing every inch in so slowly, letting you adjust before giving a little more. You’ve never been strenched this wide, had such deep an angle. You keep sucking on his thumb, trying to find something to do with your body but seize up and wiggle. Ben thumbs slowly at your clit, helping it get further and further in.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, his balls pressed against the curve of your ass. “Fit me like a fuckin’ glove, doll- Christ-“

Ben leans fully over you, his body blanketing yours and his hand splaying back over your stomach. His face presses into the crook of your neck, his thumb pulling out of your mouth so his hand can wrap around your throat. He grinds his hips down, and you mewl, fresh tears falling from your eyes.

Ben kisses them away, rolling his hips again. His cock hits so deep inside you, you think you see stars. Just having him in you is cruel. You’re so full, with so little friction, it’s a wonder you’re not sobbing.

But Ben takes mercy, squeezing your neck gently before whispering, “Sing for me, babydoll.”

He pulls almost fully out, slams back in, and you scream. It’s a broken, delighted sound of pleasure, and Ben groans against your skin. He lets go of your throat, letting your cheek press into the mattress, and grabs your hand. Your fingers tangle together, as you pant. There’s nothing you can really do but take it. The size of him along, it knocks the air clean from your lungs. Ben presses demanding kisses, over your face and neck. You try to kiss him back, but you mostly just writhe and cry out his name.

He’s like an animal, with all his grunts and growls of your name. Every thrust drags his cock over your g-spot, splitting you open over and over until you’re just a ball of tears and nerves in Ben’s arms. His thumb wanders back down to your clit, rubbing tight, harsh circles, and you scream. The Zpressure in your body feels seconds from exploding, and you really don’t think you can take much more.

“Be- Ben-“ Your eyes cross, as he keeps pounding into your gushing cunt. “Ooooh- Bennn-“

“I know,” he kisses your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, his hips snapping down like a drill. “Soak my cock, pretty girl. You can do it, come on-“

The permission is all you needed. Ben’s hips snap forward, the head of his cock angled to drive into that gooey spot, and you come undone. Your orgasm is blinding and powerful, sweeping through every inch of your body. It lasts, as Ben fucks and fingers you through it, unraveling you so completely you think you black out for a moment. All you remember is a heavenly, strangely pure kind of floating feeling, and Ben’s growled praise in your ear.

“Good girl,” he hisses, and you coo, pussy fluttering and weeping. “Fuckin’- Gonna fill you up, doll, fill you up real fuckin’ good- I’ll be leakin’ out of this pussy when I’m done, let everyone know who the fuck you belong to- My girl, my fuckin’ girl-“

Ben’s thrusts grow jagged, his hand moving back to your throat, and you make a blubbering sound of agreement. He chuckles, choked and rough.

“You’d fuckin’ love that. Bein’ full of me, bein’ mine, bein’- Fuck-“

Ben cums, thick ropes of cum spurting into your cunt. There’s so much of it, so much of him, you can almost feel it in your throat. Almost fucking taste it. He tries to fuck you through it, but soon his release is dripping down your thighs and spraying back to your calves, and he pulls out. A stream of it hits your back as he moans, and you only squeak when Ben rolls you over and paints your stomach and tits white as well.

It’s a glorious fucking sight. Ben in all his glory, his cock wrapped in his fist and coated in your juices, his chest heaving as he moans your name and cums all over your body. When he’s done he doubles over, crashing his lips against yours and kissing you with so much fervor, you could almost think no sex had happened at all.

He pulls back, and you giggle. You don’t know why. It just feels like the right fucking thing to do, with how softly he’s looking at you. How unbelievably fucking lucky you are. Ben raises his brows, rolls his eyes, and presses a softer kiss to your lips.

“You think this is funny?” He mutters, but there’s no venom in his voice.

You nod, smiling up at him, and he sighs.

“You’re lucky,” he mutters, and he has no idea.

You press a kiss to his lips, and they twitch up. His eyes soften again, as he takes you in. So fucked out you can’t even speak.

“Good?” He mutters, and you nod like a bobblehead.

So good. So fucking worth it, for the months of mind games of questions, with how fucking good it was.

Ben smiles. And you can read it all over his face.

How he really does feel the exact same way.

“Told you I’d take care of you,” he grunts. “My fuckin’ girl.”

And you are. And he really, really fucking does. He cleans you up and feeds you. Gets you water and crawls into bed, lighting up a joint but keeping you tucked tight into his chest. You look up at him with a dazed smile, and he looks down at like some adoring, devout follower of a secret religion.

“We should get married,” he says suddenly, and you laugh, finding enough of a voice to respond.

“Date me first, smart guy.”

He grunts, pulling you closer and kissing the top of your head. You both know there isn’t much dating that will need to be done, to get you on board. But Ben’s going to try anyway. And you love him for it. How willing he is, just for you, to really, always fucking try.  

✦End note: eric kripke WISHES he had my vision of soldier boy ✦

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

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

“What if we drive really fast. And run all the red lights.”

He snorts. “Stop tryin’ to tempt me.”

“I’m not tempting you, I’m saving you-“

“No.” He grips the wheel with white knuckles, jaw set in determination. “No, I- I can do this. Just a plane.”

“Just a plane.” You echo, fighting your smile. “Goes up, then down.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I would never.”

He shoots you a glare, and you smile back.

“You can do this.” You offer, softer than before.

Dean just grunts, and turns the car back on.

It’s about five miles, before you’re pulling over again. Not eating was the right call. When you get to the airport, you’re going to slip him some crushed up Xanax. You’ll buy him a cookie, sprinkle it on the top, and tell him it’s sugar.

“Where’s the line.” He mutters suspiciously, as you make your way through security. “Movies always got a line at this part. Why the hell isn’t there anyone here. They know something?” He grabs your wrist. “Look up planes in Kansas bad-“

“I’m not looking that up.”

“Why.” He whines. “Maybe there’s- There’s a plot, and everyone’s in on it, and the planes gonna go down-“

“Why would the plane go down.” You say lazily, holding out a hand. “ID, Dean.”

He fumbles with his wallet, still babbling. “I don’t know, engines gonna fail-“

“They wouldn’t plan a failed engine.”

“Then there gonna- Gonna fly us into something-“

“They already did that. It’s why we’re going through security.”

“They could do it again-“

“Shoes.” You order, smiling at the TSA agent a you reach the front of the line. “Deep breath.”

Dean obeys both order, eyeing the agent wearily as he checks your IDs. He waves you though with barely a word. Dean looks back with narrowed eyes.

“He didn’t ask up questions. He shoulda asked us questions, we could be crazy psychos-“

“He doesn’t need to ask questions.” You say, pulling of your shoes. “He looked us up. Belt.”

Dean pulls off his belt, hands shaking. “My uncle Bobby would say that’s Big Brother, y’know.”

“Your uncle Bobby would be right, in a way. Watch.”

His hands won’t stop shaking. “Maybe they’re makin’ sure we’re good victims for a False Flag-“

“Dean.” You say sternly, and he shuts his mouth.

You grab his hands, and squeeze them gently. His throat bobs.

“We are going to be fine.” 

Dean presses his lips in a tight line. You take a step forward, lowering your voice.

“There’s no false flag. And if there was, they wouldn’t choose a random flight from Kansas to California that’s mostly going over cows and mountains.”

“Could be a plot against cows.”

Dean mumbles, and you give him an unimpressed look. He sighs.

“Fine. Fine. I’m good. All good.”

He pulls away, and stomps to the metal detector.

You smile.

His hands stopped shaking.

“I hate this.” He mutters an hour later. After the shaking came the pacing. You’re a little worried he’s going to give himself an aneurysm. “I really fuckin’ hate this, I- We should go back. Baby’s still in the lot, if we leave now we’ll make it-“

“Dean.” You catch his hand, giving him a firm look. “We already paid.”

“Fuck- What if we call a bomb threat, they might give us a refund-“

“Or we’ll get arrested. For domestic terrorism.” You squeeze his hand gently. Offer him a soft smile. “Just sit down. We’re not even on the plane yet, you’ll have plenty of time to freak out later.”

Dean works his jaw. Looks longingly down the terminal, then back to you. Sighs, and sits with a grunt. 

You smile, rubbing his back as he glares at the floor. To any outsider, it probably looks like you are dating. 

It should. You’ve been practicing.

“I’m not freakin’ out.” He grumbles, and you smile affectionately.

“Okay.”

He scowls. “I’m not.”

“I said okay.”

You hold his glower with a smile. He stares at you—and you could swear his eyes flick to your lips, but you might just be going insane—and slumps down into the seat. 

“I hate this.”

“I know, De.” You move your hand to his hair, running your finger through it gently. Just like you did in the bathroom.

Like he’s been letting yourself do, since you agreed to the fake dating thing. He’s called it training. You touch each other more, you call him De and he calls you baby. You sit closer—although it may just be as close as before, only now you’re allowed to dive right into it instead of inching towards him on the couch—and share food. You’d nailed down a backstory. Negotiated all the small details of your fake relationship, that’s a little too close to the truth for comfort. 

But still not real. 

In moments like this, when you’re touching him causally and he’s leaning into it, where you’re in the noise of the airport but it still feels like only you and Dean in the world, you have to remember that it’s fake. 

“You’re gonna be okay.” You offer, and he snorts. 

“We’re gonna die.”

“No, we’re not. It’s only a five-hour flight, the worst thing that will happen is they won’t offer any meals.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. He’s pacing and playing grumpy, but he’s afraid. You know he’s afraid. He’d never stood as close to you, as when you were going through security. You’d never seen him so nervous as when you were driving to the airport. You don’t think he even slept last night. 

You’re worried about him. Worried he had one of those nightmares he won’t talk about, worried he’s going to fall over, worried he might actually run. You hook your arm through his, when they start calling boarding. Anchor yourself against him, when you’re the last two people left at the gate, and you have to get on the plane. 

It would be cute how jumpy he was, if you weren’t this worried. You’d tease him if he didn’t stumble down the walkway and freeze when he saw the plane door. 

You know you had to fly. Baby needed extra work after a bad storm that messed with her tires, and Dean had been so swamped at work he hadn’t gotten the chance. He’d been ready to just push her, until you did the math and realized that—even with the earliest you could leave—you’d only get there on Sam’s wedding day and get home after both your time off periods had finished. If he wanted this to work, he was going to have to fly. 

“Why couldn’t they just get married in Kansas.” He whines, and you smile. Buckle him in like he’s a toddler, because he’s shaking too much to do it himself.

“They don’t live in Kansas. And it’s like- Freezing there right now.”

“So? Winter weddings, those can work. Could’ve done, like- Snow photos- Fuck-“

He shoots up, when the plane starts moving. You sigh, and tug him back down by the collar of his shirt.

“We’re just going to the runway. It’s fine. We’re fine.” You pause, then take his hand. 

Really, fully, take his hand. Fingers woven together, palms pressed flat. He pulls on you slightly, tugging your hand with his up over his heart. You give him a soft smile, and he just blinks at you frantically.

“It’s okay.” You keep your voice gentle, and his throat bobs. “You’re okay.”

He doesn’t look convinced. His breathing stays shallow. But at the very least, he stops trying to convince you to get off the plane. 

You settle in, watching him with a little too much open affection on your face. The sweet old lady in the aisle seat leans over, and asks if your boyfriend needs medical attention. You laugh, and tell her he’s okay. 

If Dean hears it in your voice—how much you adore him—he doesn’t say anything. You’re pretty sure he’s too focused on his panic to hear anything at all. 

He hums Metallica, through the whole take off. Grips your hand so tight you stop feeling your fingers, but you don’t complain. It seems to help. You make it to the air, and he’s still conscious. 

He does make the mistake of looking out the window. You watch the blood drain from his face, and quickly grab it between your hands.

“We’re gonna switch seats.” You say firmly, and he blinks. Nods, clinging to your wrist like it’s the only thing tethering him from a complete panic attack. 

You shuffle around, and somehow manage to switch without Dean ever letting go of your body. You hit a bit of turbulence, and he looks like he wants to punch something. Stares around the plane with glazed over, almost rabid eyes. Looks at you so desperately, it almost breaks your heart. 

Your body moves before your brain can think better. You grab Dean’s head again, and drag it down against your chest. 

He pauses. You hold your breath, ready for him to push you away and tell that you took it too far.

Instead, his arms shoot around your torso. His face turns to press into your breasts, and he melts into your hold. 

You swallow. You really hope he can’t hear your heart. How it’s about to beat out of you and into him. Where it knows it belonged. 

“Can you...” Dean speaks into you, the sound rolling through your ribs. “Just- Talk? Please? ‘Bout anything, but-  Please.”

“Yeah. I- Yeah.” You take a deep breath, and your fingers start to comb through his hair. He shudders, holds you tighter. 

And you talk. About anything. About the book you’d been reading, about some random drama at work, about how you’ve been studying his family in preparation to meet them. Studying the flashcards he made you and employing… other methods. 

“I stalked your mom on Facebook.” You say sheepishly, face heating. “I followed her bread blog, too. And- I looked up how to knit, I know she’s into that. I can make a hat now. It’s a shit hat, but I can do it. She follows a birdwatching account, too, so I learned some birds. And- That soup kitchen she volunteers with. That’s cool.” You swallow. You sound insane. “She seems really nice.”

“She is nice.” Dean mumbles. It the first thing he’s said in two hours. “She’s gonna love you.”

“I hope so.”

“She will.” He snuggles further into your body. His fingers have been digging into your hips, and they might leave bruises.

You don’t mind.

“She’ll love you.” Dean repeats, his words soft. “Everyone says she’s a lot like me.”

For a second, you just nod, still petting his head. Then you hear what he actually said, and your heart does an Olympic level flip.

“What?” You squeak, looking down with wide eyes. He doesn’t respond. “Dean, what does that-“

A snore rumbles from his chest. The lack of sleep from last night caught up with him. He’s out cold.

You sigh. Resume your petting, even if it’s really more for you now. 

The old lady leans over, giving a kind small and keeping her voice down.

“You two are a lovely couple.” She whispers. “And I must say, it’s wonderful to see a man who adores his lady as much as this one adores you.”

And you smile in return, even as tears burn behind your eyes. 

“Thanks. He’s-“ You sigh, and smile down at Dean. 

Dead to the world, and so painfully perfect. 

“He’s the best.”

✦Chapter Nine✦

✦End note: i love when they're super normal about each other. yeah you're both so convicning good job ✦

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

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

You’re not even sure what you’re trying to say, but it’s comes out as a muffled, inaudible noise anyway. Bradley chuckles meanly as your face burns with humiliation, more saliva dribbles out of the gag he’d forced between your lips earlier.

You’re a fucking mess. Spit covers your chin, tears continue to stream from your eyes, sweat is beginning to pool in the middle of your bowed spine, a mixture of lube, his cum and your arousal coats your inner thighs.

There’s no escape from his ministrations; your face pressed against the sheets, hands bound together at your lower back with one of his ties, Bradley’s knees between yours, keeping them open. You quickly learned the hard way to keep your back arched, ass up to present him with both of your holes. Every time you shied away or lost the position he wanted you in, it earned you a flurry of harsh spanks.

You keen in relief as he finally removes the plug he’s been pushing in and out since he’d finished inside your pussy earlier, pausing every so often at the widest part to stretch your rim.

But your entire lower body clenches as Bradley’s calloused fingers swipe through the wet mixture dripping down your thighs to coat his cock. He’s not done.

Fuck. He’s not done.

“Soon,” he chuckles darkly as he swipes lube across your fluttering rim.

A garbled protest comes out as you try to wiggle away but his wet hand strikes your abused skin before pulling your hips back to where he wants them.

"You'll take it because I said so."

His words make you shiver. Or maybe it’s the head of his cock pressing at the hole he hasn’t yet breached.

Yet.

“What do you say, hmm?” He fists a handful of your hair, forcing you to nod. “Yes, daddy? Please fuck my ass, daddy?”

“Yes, daddy,” more spit falls out of your mouth at your attempt to repeat after him, eyes burning with embarrassment, but your pussy clenches again. “Please fuck my ass, daddy?”

“Fuck,” he breathes, finally giving away how hot this is making him. He lowers his voice to whisper, “What do you do if it’s too much?”

You snap the fingers still bound behind your back.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple before he straightens and begins to move his hips forward.

Holy fuck. The air is forced from your lungs as he slowly pushes inside your ass. It doesn’t hurt; but you’ve never felt so full.

“Big,” you try to say around the gag, chest heaving, as your body either fights to get away or push back against his intrusion; you’re not sure. It’s too much but not enough. “It’stoobig!”

It feels like you just fell asleep as a thick, strong arm slips around you, pulling you into his warm, comforting familiarity.

“Hey,” you mumble sleepily, wiggling back into his embrace. He hisses as your ass meets his groin. He’s hard as a rock. Just from seeing your nightgown-clad form under the covers. Even with how tired you are, a smile pulls at your lips.

Life with a nearly 5 month old is exhausting, but with your husband being deployed for the last 8 weeks was hell. Thankfully, the baby started sleeping through the night.

Not that Jake could help it. He cried when he told you he was getting shipped out.

You cried too.

“How’s our girl?” He asks, his hand flat against your soft belly, thumb brushing the underside of your milk-engorged breast. It seems innocent enough.

“Teething,” you reply, trying not to give away how bad you want him to touch you. You hadn’t been cleared by your doctor before he deployed and you were desperate. But you weren’t going to give in easily. You weren’t angry with Jake, but you were downright pissed at Uncle Sam. “Sleeping better but I’m still so tired.”

“I’m so sorry,” he breathes, pushing his erection into your ass, “I’m so sorry I’ve been gone, baby.”

“I know,” you reply, turning your head to press a quick to his lips but all of a sudden, he’s licking into your mouth, groaning as his hand slides up, feeling your full breast.

“Fuck, honey,” he breaks from your lips with a shudder, ever-so-gently plucking your nipple, “I can’t wait to see these gorgeous tits in the morning. Will you let me see? Let me suck on ‘em?”

“Maybe,” you smile as he whines, both knowing full well you’ll let him do whatever he wants. He’s read your texts. He knows how bad you want it. “But in the morning. I’m so tired.”

You exaggerate with a yawn.

He huffs, hand sliding down the front of your nightie. Your giggle turns into a moan as he cups you, feeling how wet you are.

“I need this,” he groans, nipping your ear lobe as circles your clit. “Let me have this. Please?”

“I don’t know,” you breathe, “I told you, I’m pretty tir-oh.”

You didn’t even feel him push down his boxers before the blunt head is at your entrance.

“Condom,” you begrudgingly remind him, wanting nothing more than to feel him bare, but you weren’t on birth control since you were nursing. You both wanted more kids ASAP but not until he took an instructor position. Not until the deployments were behind you.

“Yeah,” he agrees, but pushes inside, just a little. “Just the tip, I promise.”

•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•

“Jake,” you whine as you pad into the kitchen hours later, breast ready to explode from not feeding your daughter for hours, thighs sticky from where his load had dried after dribbling out of you during the night. “So help me if I get pregnant…”

Your heart skips a beat when you see him holding your daughter, flipping pancakes.

“I told Cyclone I’m done with the deployments,” he smiles as tears fill your eyes, “I start instructing in two weeks.”

“Two weeks?”

You were building a sand castle on the beach with your niece when a stray football came flying out of nowhere and would have been a missile to the castle had your reflexes not kicked in to intercept it in time. 

“HEADS UP!” Someone down the beach yelled as another guy came running over. 

“Oh my god I am so sorry, are you ok?” He asked, genuine concern in his whiskey colored eyes. He had on jean cut off shorts and wasn’t wearing a shirt, which just showed off his unfairly chiseled abs. 

“We’re good.” You said, managing to keep your voice normal sounding, despite your brain short circuiting at the incredibly good looking man in front of you…even with the mustache that you’d normally not find attractive. “Managed to intercept the missile before it hit the castle.” You smiled and handed him back the football.

“Well that’s a relief!” He smiled back, his fingers brushing yours as he took it, electricity shooting up your arm. “Wouldn’t want to take out any civilian castles today… especially ones as cool as that one.”

“Livie here is the master castle builder.” You said, smiling at your niece, “I’m just her assistant.” 

“It makes sense that she’s a master castle builder.” He said, smiling and winking at your niece, who blushed and giggled up at him, “I bet she’s a princess in disguise.”

“How did you guess?” You asked in a stage whisper, “That’s top secret information.”

“I’m trained to be very observant.” He replied smiling, then looked at your niece “Your secret is safe with me, Princess Livie.”

“BRADSHAW! STOP FLIRTING AND GET THE BALL!” His friend down the beach yelled. 

“Looks like you’re being summoned.” You smiled up at him. 

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Patience isn’t really in their vocabulary.”

“Do you wanna build with us?” Livie asked, her big brown eyes looking up at him.

“Liv, I’m sure he wants to get back to his friends and football, sweetie.” You said gently. 

“Actually… building sand castles sounds a lot more fun.” He answered, winking at Livie with a smile, “Let me go toss this ball back to my friends and let them know I’m ditching the for a better offer and I’ll be right back.”

“Ok!” Livie said happily. “See, Auntie Dovey? He wants to play!”

“I guess he does, Jellybean.” You smile softly. 

“Just give me a minute and I’ll be back… don’t build without me.” He said before jogging back over to his group of friends. 

You watched him for a moment but then forced yourself to look away, not wanting to get caught staring. Instead, you turned to your niece and smiled. She was having fun today. It was taking her mind off of her dad being gone, which had been the goal. You reached over and brushed a stray curl from her face. 

“Let’s get some more sunscreen on you quickly” You said, “And maybe take a juice break while we wait for your new friend to come back to build.”

“He can be your friend too, Auntie Dovey.” Livey said sweetly. 

“Thanks, Jellybean.” You smiled. 

You slathered her up with sunscreen again and then reached into the cooler to grab a juicebox out of her and a bottle of water out for yourself. 

“Can I have fruit snacks too, please?” She asked, sipping her juice. 

“Sure can.” You said, reaching into your bag and grabbing a pouch of fruit snacks out. “Disney fruit snacks, good enough for my little Princess.” 

“Thanks, Auntie Dovey.” She said, taking the pouch. 

“Looks like you have found a royal snack.” Bradley said coming back over. He’d put on a Hawaiian shirt… but left it unbuttoned. 

“Welcome back.” You said, smiling. 

“Thanks.” He replied, crouching down next to you and Livie. “So, I realized I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I’m Bradley.”

“Didn’t your friends call you Bradshaw?” You asked, looking over at him. 

“Yup. Bradley Bradshaw.” He said smiling, “My parents had a sense of humor I guess.” 

“I like it.” You said, smiling, “I’m Y/N… and you already know Livie..well Olivia, but nobody really calls her that.”

“It’s nice to meet you both..officially.” he smiled, “Ready to build some amazing sand castles, Princess Livie?”

“Yup!” She said excitedly. 

The three of you played in the sand building a very large sand castle. You watched Bradley with your niece, your heart melting at how sweet he was with her. Livie was loving the attention… you had a feeling it had something to do with her missing her dad. 

“So when you’re not helping princesses build amazing sand castles, what do you spend your days doing?” You asked, putting a shell on the castle as decoration. 

“I’m a Navy aviator.” He said smiling as he handed another shell to Livie. 

“My Daddy is in the Navy!” Livie said, popping her head up, “You fly planes?” My daddy fixes planes!”

“He does?” Bradley asked “That’s a really important job. I can’t fly safely unless my plane works!”

“My Daddy is on a big ship right now.” She said, a little less enthusiastically now. “He’s been there a really really long time. That’s why Auntie Dovey is taking care of me.”

“I’d happily spend the day on the beach with you anytime, Jellybean.” You said, smiling softly at your niece, “But, it has been a long few months and I figured a beach day was in order today.”

“Deployments are tough.” Bradley said, “Especially when they’re long. I bet your Daddy is missing you just as much, Sweetheart.” 

“Can we take a picture of our castle for Daddy?” Livie asked, looking at you. “He loves building castles with me!”

“We sure can.” You said, reaching over to grab your phone. “Hop on into that picture, Jellybean. I’m sure Daddy wants to see his Princess.”

“Here, let me take one with both of you in it.” Bradley offered, smiling. “I’m sure he’s missing you both.”

“Thank you.” You smiled, looking over at him, “That’s sweet. Although I’m sure he misses Livie most of all.”

You moved so you were next to Livie, your arms around her, both smiling at the camera as Bradley snapped a few pictures. Afterwards, Livie asked to take her bucket and go closer to the water, looking for more shells. You said she could but to stay where you could see her and not to go into the water. She took off running to the wet sand to dig for shells. 

“She’s adorable.” Bradley said looking over at you, “How old is she?”

“She’ll be 7 next month.” You replied, looking back at him, smiling, “My brother, Luke should be back in time…provided the Navy doesn’t extend the deployment….again.”

“Again?” He asked. 

“The deployment wasn’t supposed to be this long. He’s already been out 5 months.” You said. “It was only supposed to be a quick 3 months at sea this time.”

“That’s rough when the short ones turn into long hauls.” He replied, “It’s never been that big of a deal for me, but I know the others in my squadrons have had families to get home to and it’s hard on them.”

“No family waiting on you to get back to shore?” You asked, “Someone special?”

“Nope.” He replied, something looking like pain flashing across his eyes before he masked it again. “No family…and single. My squadron now has become like a ragtag family…and I recently reconnected with my godfather… but that’s… complicated.”

“I definitely understand complicated family dynamics.” You said, looking over to where Livie was still playing. 

“So how’s her mom doing with the deployment?” He asked, chuckling as Livie cheered at finding another shell. 

“Her mom left the picture when she was just shy of a year old.” You said. “Signed over full parental rights and custody to Luke… two weeks before he was set to set sail on a 6 month deployment.”

“Holy shit.” He said softly. “That’s … wow….”

“Yeah.” You replied, “Luke called me in an absolute panic. He was stationed in Pensacola then. I jumped on a plane and was there by that night. We got it all figured out… eventually. I’m a freelance writer and can do that from pretty much anywhere, so I moved to Pensacola then here to San Diego. Whenever Luke deploys, I’m Livie’s guardian.”

“It’s just the three of you then? No parents or other family?” He asked

“It’s… complicated.” You laughed softly. “Parents… never great at the whole parenting thing. We have an aunt here… well sort of. She was best friends with our mom in college and she kinda took us under her wing… made sure we always had what we needed and were taken care of.”

“Looks like you and your brother landed on your feet.” He smiled, “And you’re doing great with Livie.”

“Thanks.” You replied, smiling back. 

Livie came running back with her bucket, dropping down in front of the two of you, smiling ear to ear.

“Look how many shells I found!” She exclaimed, “Can I take them home, Auntie Dovey?”

“Sure, Jellybean.” You laughed, “You can take them home. Those are very cool shells.”

“You’ve got quite the collection there!” Bradley said, looking into her bucket.

“Can we go show Auntie Penny?” She asked, excitedly. “And Amelia?”

“We can stop by before we leave.” You smiled. “I don’t know if Ames will be there.”

“Penny is the aunt you were talking about?” Bradley asked, his eyes wide in shock. 

“Yeah…” You said, you look over and smile in understanding. “You must frequent the Hard Deck…”

“I mean… yeah…” He chuckled, “But… she’s… dating my godfather.”

“Pete's your godfather?” You asked, laughing. “He’s… a bit of a wildcard. But he’s been good for my aunt… this time. Luke, Amelia and I all gave him the shovel talk.”

“He deserves it.” Bradley laughed, “For what it’s worth… I think he’s settling down. Both personally and professionally. He finally accepted the promotion of rank and is staying on at Top Gun. He’s in charge of the Dagger Squadron.”

“Is that your squadron?” You asked 

“Yeah.” He replied, “We were brought together to fly a mission last October and when we got back they decided to keep us as a unit. It took a bit to get all of our orders changed and reassigned.”

“So you’re… here in San Diego permanently?” You asked

“As permanent as the Navy can guarantee.” He replied, “We fly missions and we’ll deploy, but not like other squadrons.”

“I’m glad he’s sticking around then.” You said, “Penny seems really happy.”

“I’m hungry.” Livie said, moving to sit in your lap. “Can we go eat at Auntie Penny’s?”

“We can stop and say hi, but she’s getting ready to open… and I somehow don’t think Daddy would approve of me having you in a bar when it’s open, Jellybean.” You laugh.  “How about we get a pizza on the way home?”

“Cheese and pepperoni?” She asked

“Of course.” You agreed. 

“That’s a good choice.” Bradley said, smiling. “I parked over by The Hard Deck so I can walk that way with you if you’re going there first.”

“Sure, that sounds good.” You replied, standing up and brushing the sand off of you. “We actually parked over there too… Livie just wanted to come down this way to build.”

You helped Livie put her sundress on over her bathing suit and then tucked the towels into the bag. You had on shorts over your swimsuit and had opted for a one piece today so you just pulled a tshirt on over it. 

“I can help carry your cooler, and whatever else you need me to carry.” Bradley offered, smiling. 

“Thank you.” You replied, taking Livie’s hand with your free hand. 

The three of you start walking down the beach heading the way Bradley had come from earlier when playing football with his friends. Once you got close to The Hard Deck’s back entrance, Livie spotted Amelia sitting on the patio and took off running towards her. 

“How does she still have so much energy?” Bradley asked, chuckling. 

“If I knew that, I could bottle it up and make a fortune.” You laughed, looking up at him.

“Or power a small country.” He teased, winking at you. 

“You’re probably not wrong.” You smile, shaking your head.

Livie is showing her shells to Amelia when you get to the patio. She smiles when she sees you. 

“Hey, Dove.” Amelia said, “Hi Bradley. Livie said y’all were building castles today.”

“Hi, Ames.” You smiled, “We were… decided a beach day was needed… and we made a new friend…but I hear you already know one another.”

“Yup.” She smiled, looking at Bradley, then back at you “I did always say I wish I had a brother like you… guess I’m kinda getting one… of sorts.”

“I’ll happily be your big brother, Amelia.” Bradley chuckled, “Is Mav inside with your mom?”

“Of course.” She said, playfully rolling her eyes. “The rest of your squadron is in there too. Mom’s about to open to the general public though.” 

“That’s our cue to run in and see Aunt Penny before the crowds hit and it’s no longer suitable for a 6 year old in there.” You said, laughing. 

You guide Livie into the bar. The jukebox is already on and you notice the group that had been playing football with Bradley earlier was indeed all gathered at the pool table. He didn’t go over to them though, instead he followed you and Livie to the bar where Penny was slicing limes and lemons for the night and Mav was stocking the cooler with beer.

“Auntie Penny!” Livie said excitedly, climbing up onto a barstool. 

“Hey there, Jellybean.” She replied, smiling, “Auntie Dove brought you to the beach today, huh?” 

“Yup!” She confirmed, “And we builded sand castles and Bradley came and played with us! We made a super big castle… with shells for windows!”

“Wow, that sounds like a way cooler day that I had.” She winked at the little girl, then smiled over at you and Bradley. “Hi, Dove, Bradley.” 

“Hi Aunt Penny.” You said, smiling. “We wanted to stop in before we head home to get pizza.”

“I’m glad you did.” She replied, “I was going to call you later anyway. Are you and Livie free tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Just getting groceries at some point.” You said.

“Then the two of you are coming over for dinner. Pete and I are going to grill out and take advantage of me not having to come into the bar.” She smiled. 

“Sounds fun.” You said, smiling, “What do you want me to bring?” 

“Just yourself and that sweet little girl.” She winked, then looked at Bradley, “We expect you to be there too, Bradley.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” He chuckled, “Should I bring anything?”

“Just yourself.” She laughed. 

“How did you manage to end up building castles with Dove and Livie, Rooster?” Mav asked, finishing with the beer in the cooler.

“Jake launched a longshot down the beach and I didn’t get to it in time.” Bradley explained

“Thankfully, I have fast reflexes and saved the castle from being bombed.” You laughed. 

“Then Bradley said he’d build with us!” Livie said happily, looking up at him. 

A woman with dark hair came up next to Bradley on the other side, smirking. She looked over at you and Livie and her expression changed to curiosity. 

“Hey Phoenix,” Penny said smiling, “What can I get you?”

“The squad needs another round please, Penny… on Bagman’s tab.” She replied, smiling. 

“Hey, Nix.” Bradley said

“Hey, Rooster.” She replied, smiling, “I can see why you ditched football for sand castles now.”

“What can I say..” He said, “Livie had a much better offer. She’s a sand castle Queen… you don’t turn down royalty, Nix.”

“I guess not.” She laughed, then looked over at you. “I’m Natasha…or Phoenix… I answer to both.”

“I’m Y/N.” You replied, smiling, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too.” She said, returning the smile. 

“Bradley… why does everyone keep calling you Rooster?” Livie asked, looking up at him. 

“It’s my callsign…. Kinda like a nickname.” He replied, leaning in closer to her, “Pilots all have them…and sometimes everyone uses that more than our real names.”

“A nickname…” She said and you could almost see the wheels in her head turning as she processed the information. Her eyes lit up, she looked over at you, “Like your real name is Y/N but you’re Auntie Dovey.. And Daddy just calls you Dove.”

“Exactly.” You smiled, lovingly at your niece, “And how we all call you Jellybean.”

Phoenix looks at Bradley, raising her eyebrow, smirking. Thankfully, Penny has the drinks ready for her to take to the squad.

“Here you go, Phoenix.” Penny said, winking, “On Hangman’s tab as requested.”

“Thanks, Penny.” She replied, smiling. She picked the tray of drinks up then looked over at Bradley, “You planning on joining us tonight?”

“Maybe later.” he replied, “Gonna run home and shower…change. I’ll text you.”

She nods, looks over at you and smiles, “It was nice to meet you… hope to see you around.”

“You too.” You replied, smiling. Once she headed back towards the pool table, you looked over at Penny, “We should get going. I have to pick up pizza on the way home for Livie and she will be ready for a bath, movie and early bed today after being outside all day.”

“I’ll walk out with you.” Bradley said, smiling. He looked over at Livie who was already looking like her energy levels were waning. “Hey, Princess Livie… want a piggy back ride out to the car?” 

She smiled up at him like he’d hung the moon, her whole face lighting up. 

“Yes, please!” She replied. 

“Hop on up.” He said, then helped her to carefully stand on the barstool so she could climb onto his back. His arms went around her legs to securely hold her while her arms held onto him around his neck as she leaned onto him.  “After you.” He smiled and winked. 

You said goodbye to Penny and Mav and then led the way out to the parking lot and to your car. Bradley carefully crouched down so that Livie could get down, while you put the small cooler and bags into the trunk. He helped her into the backseat and buckled her into the booster seat. 

“Thanks for letting me hang out with you two today.” He said once he’d closed her door. 

“I should be thanking you…” You said smiling, “You really made her day… and I had a lot of fun too.”

“I know I’ll see you both at Penny’s tomorrow for dinner,” He said, looking almost bashful as he rubbed the back of his neck nervously, “But, would you want to get dinner with me sometime? Or coffee?”

You smile softly, your eyes meeting his, your heart beating a little harder as you reply, “Are you asking me out?”

“Yeah,” He chuckled, smiling the same sweet smile that had made your stomach flutter all day, “Yeah, I am.”

“I’d love to, Bradley.” You replied, butterflies once more fluttering in your belly. “Dinner… coffee… either, or both sound great.” 

“I’ll take both then.” He said, his smile getting bigger. “Since you already agreed… no take-backsies.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” You laughed, “I’ll see you tomorrow at Penny’s… we can make plans from there.”

“Sounds perfect.” He agreed, “Have a great night, Y/N.”

“You too, Bradley.” You replied, smiling as you opened the door and got in. 

He waved at Livie and then turned to head toward his own vehicle. 

Once you arrived home you ordered a pizza and got Livie in a quick bath then changed into her Pjs. The pizza arrived about 45 minutes later and you set her up to eat while watching a movie. As you ate, you pulled your phone out and sent a quick message to your brother. 

YOU: Hey Big Brother! Took Livie to the beach today… she was in need of a pick me up. We built sand castles so she was in her element (see attached pictures). She’s doing great. School’s out for the summer so we’re hanging out and living our best lives now.  Our sand castle was almost destroyed by enemy fire today (AKA a football)... thankfully all of those backyard rounds of catch paid off and I was able to intercept it before it was a direct hit. It did result though in meeting a really great guy. He’s actually an aviator. He was playing football with his squadron, but then ditched them to build sand castles with Livie the rest of the afternoon. He’s actually Pete’s godson. Small world. Having dinner at Penny’s tomorrow… He’s going to be there too. Lukey… I like him. Also… he asked me on a date. 

Have to go for now, Livie is finishing her pizza. Gonna let her watch a few more minutes of Moana and then get her off to bed. Love you and miss you. ♥️Dovey

You hit send and then set your phone down. A few minutes later, Livie was done with her pizza and already starting to nod off. You paused the movie and helped her up the stairs to get her teeth brushed and then tucked her into bed. You promised tomorrow to help her write a letter to her dad. She wanted to send a picture she drew and tell him all about her new friend. You had a feeling Luke would be hearing an awful lot about Bradley in the coming days.

***

A/N: Thoughts? Do we want more? Leave it here? LET ME KNOW!

***

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The shower eases the tension in your muscles, washing away the road weariness and residual anger. The fact that you used up all the hot water feels justified, until it turns acidic and hollow. You don't like fighting with Dean.

While keeping the weapons clean and in top working order is important, you know that cleaning the guns is a stimming behavior for him. You hope the task and the time you spent in the bathroom were enough to calm him so that he'll at least talk to you.

Poker-faced and still sitting at the table, Dean is now focused on cleaning your gun. You take it as a good sign.

"Wanna grab some dinner?" You ask hopefully, watching for any indication that he's beginning to soften.

"Not hungry."

Stubborn jackass.

"Seriously? How long are you going to pout?"

That at least gets him to look at you.

Waving a hand over the pieces of your handgun, "I'm not pouting. I'm busy," he gives you a look like you're missing the obvious.

With a huff, you toss your dirty clothes on the bed, then shove your feet into your boots, not stopping to tie them. "Fine," you spit, swiping the key off the table as you pass. Yanking the door open, you step into the golden evening light. The resounding crack of angrily closing another door is satisfying, even if it is childish.

Gary's locking the station door as you pass. Smiling, you give him a little wave. He calls out, halting your angry march away from Dean.

"Hey. Sorry if I got your fella all worked up. I, uh, overheard some of your argument …afterward." With a sheepish look, he scratches the back of his neck. "I was gonna come out and help ya, but thought it might make things worse. Anyway, uh, for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Lifting a hand, you point between you and the motel. "He's not my …" Realizing it doesn't matter, you shake your head and give him a friendly smile. "Not your fault. He's got a lot going on—overworked, tired, stressed out."

Gary hums in understanding, and you pull your thoughts up short.

Why am I defending him?

"Honestly. He's really just got a stick up his ass about the car." The words taste sour before they even leave your lips.

Everything you had said earlier truly had been in jest. You hadn't meant to hurt Dean's feelings or make him angry. He knows that you love Baby nearly as much as he does—nobody could love her as much as Dean—and that you would never want her altered in any way, which makes his continued ire even more frustrating.

"Alright, well," Gary's laugh draws your attention back to him, "hope he makes it up to you properly." The conspiratorial wink and then the waggle of his bushy eyebrows play up his implication.

Choking on the breath you just took, you squeak out, "Th-thanks." Spinning on a heel, you take a couple of quick steps before turning back. Face still flushed, you haltingly ask, "Do …do you …Where's the best place to eat around here?"

"That would be the Roadside Bar & Grill," he responds without hesitation, "but it's a few miles down the road." He looks around and tilts his chin up to where the Impala now sits. "Guessing he's not gonna let you drive her for a while?"

"No." A surge of sadness hits. Rarely given the chance to drive her before, you've probably lost privileges for life now. Kicking a small rock away, you weakly smile at the man. "Well, thanks. I'll find something closer."

Giving you a sympathetic look, he offers, "If you don't mind being seen with a scruffy-ass old man, I was just headed there myself. You could ride with me."

You shouldn't. The only weapon you have on you is the small knife sheathed in your boot. The world is safer now, but sometimes people are worse than the monsters. The brothers will be pissed when they find out—Sam will lecture you for days, and Dean …well, he's already not speaking to you, so that won't change.

You spare a glance at the Impala just as your stomach grumbles loudly. Chuckling, you look back at Gary, "It would be my honor to be seen with you."

Sitting close to the stage, your fingertips dance on the table top to the beat of the latest song you requested. Gary had bailed, saying he was too old to keep up and needed to head home. You declined his offer of a ride back, and he left only after you promised to call Dean when you were ready to leave. That had been two, or maybe three hours ago—you've lost track of time—but you have no intention of calling Dean.

Getting back to the hotel is a later problem. Alcohol and a little flirting with the hot band members are much more appealing than going back to an under-air-conditioned room with a sulking Winchester, who is most definitely angrier at you now for leaving without telling him where you were going, and without your gun.

You're not a child. You can take care of yourself. He's the one acting like a child. Being a baby about Baby. You laugh at your little joke, then mumble, "The car ride home is gonna suck."

Tossing back your shot, the bass player catches your eye as you set the empty glass down, dispelling further thoughts of the stubborn-headed lout. With a coy smile, you slide off the barstool and move closer. Keeping eye contact, he dances his way over to you, doing a quick slap pop of a chord before removing his cowboy hat and bending to place it on your head. He winks, and you lick your lips, swiveling your hips with the pulse of the guitar.

Dean would love this band. They've done an exceptional job covering all his favorite songs.

Stop thinking about him!

With a huff, you spin too quickly and trip on a still-untied boot lace. A large hand grips the back of your arm, keeping you from face-planting the floor. The touch is familiar, but not as familiar as the scent of his cologne. Once you get your footing, you plant a hand on the top of the hat as you look up at him.

He's soooooooo tall.

"Deeeeeean! You're here!"

Though he's fuming inside, Dean can't help but smile as you look up at him with those bright, sparkling eyes and giggle.

Then a second later, your entire demeanor shifts, and you pull your arm from his grip.

"Wait. You're here."

"Yeah. For a while now."

"What?" Taking a couple of steps back, you're now glaring. "How'd you find me?"

He shifts to keep one eye on you and one on the stage. The tattoo-covered musician you'd been flirting with steps to the edge of the platform as he continues to play, and Dean shoots him a warning look. The dude hesitates, then nods toward you and points to his head.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Despite your protest, Dean removes the hat from your head and hands it to the wanna be bassist, mumbling, "Yeah, that's right. Be more worried about your fugly hat than the woman you were ready to take advantage of. Loser.”

Dean continues to glare as the poor excuse for a musician heads back toward his bandmates to finish the set. JPJ would be pissed about the way the guy handled "Ramble On".

"OW!" The punch to his arm brings his attention back to you.

"I asked you how you found me?" Fingers curled into fists and planted on your hips, you glower at him. "And why'd you take my hat?!"

"Gary," he rubs his arm, muttering, "and it wasn't your hat."

"You didn't punch him, did you?"

"What? No!" Trying to follow your train of thought, he waves at the stage as he squats to lace up your boots. “You just saw me give it back to him. I didn't touch the guy."

"Not him! Gary." One of your hands abruptly lands on the top of his head as you pout, "You didn't hurt him?"

"No. I didn't hurt him." Shaking off your hold on him, he stands.

"Good!" You lean off balance, but catch yourself by gripping the table. "He was just joking, too." Smile returning, your eyes widen. "He's a really funny guy."

"I know." Pulling out his wallet, he tosses a couple of bills on the table, then nods to the bartender who's also been keeping an eye on you. Placing a hand on your back, he ushers you toward the door.

"You do?"

"Mhmm."

You stumble and grip a belt loop. His hand slides to your waist.

"How?"

"He pulled up as I was getting ready to come look for you. He apologized, we talked a little bit, and he told me where you were."

"Snitch."

Dean chuckles, "He was worried about you." Voice a little lower, he pushes the door open and adds, "So was I."

Blinking up at him, you squint an eye closed and scrunch your nose, like it will help you see him better. It's adorable.

"You were?"

"Yeah." There's more he wants to say, but it can wait until you're sober.

Instinct makes him pull you against his side when you suddenly stop, but you push away with a huff and turn to face him.

"WAIT! If you've been here f-for a while, why didn't you come talk to me?"

Matching your pace, he keeps you within reach as you continue to step backward. You come to a wobbly stop, correcting your stance before he has a chance to help. Then something seems to break inside you. Tears pool on your bottom lashes, glistening in the beam from the overhead street light.

"You're still mad at me." You nod, believing the statement to be true.

"I'm not-"

Before he can finish, you rush forward to grip the front of his shirt and plead, "Please don't be mad at me anymore. I didn't mean to hurt you. I really didn't."

The palm hitting his cheek stings a little, but your skin is warm, soft, and your fingertips tickle his ear. Closing his eyes, he allows himself to lean in and savor the touch for a brief, precious moment. When your hand slips down the front of his shirt before falling away, he reminds himself not to read into it because you're three sheets to the wind.

"I know," he soothes, placing his hands on your shoulders. "Now let's get you back to the hotel so you can sleep this off." Turning you to face the car, he's startled by your shout.

"BABY!" Slipping from his hold, you rush to her side, laying your head against the window and spreading your arms over her frame. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of it. I love you."

Dean shakes his head, laughing as you apologize to his car. He's never actually seen you this drunk and wonders if he can get whiplash from your emotional swings. After a few minutes of you snuggling with her, he finally intervenes.

"Alright, that's enough, Drunky McDrunkerson," he peels you off the car, and you fall back against his chest laughing, "time to go."

"I love you."

"She knows."

"No. I love you." You tilt your head, wearing a lazy smile and adoring eyes.

His pulse hitches, and his brain momentarily short-circuits. Quick to lock the feelings down, he states as casually as possible, "I love you, too. Now, let's go."

"NO!"

Christ, you're quick despite being plastered. Arms out, body pressed against the door, you look at him like you're daring him to push you aside. Throwing his hands up, he takes a step back to let you ramble about whatever you seemingly need to get off your chest now.

"I LOVE you. Like deep," a hand comes to your chest, and you poke at your heart, "from here. Real love. And it …it makes me sad when you're sad or angry, and I can't fix it. I can't …I can't hug you or touch you like I want, 'cause it would be weird. 'Cause you don't feel the same."

The tears return while you're talking, causing his chest to tighten as his breath stalls. Pressing his lips together, he silently repeats, "She's drunk. She's drunk. It's just the alcohol talking." But drunk words are sober thoughts. He's not sure if he believes that.

Then it's like your face explodes with glee. "But you just said you love me. So, you love, love me, too. Right?"

Staring dumbfounded into your hopeful gaze, the words lodge in his throat. Then you straighten, your eyelids flutter, and you topple forward.

"Whoa." Wrapping an arm around you, he holds you against his side, "I gotcha," as he opens the passenger door. Placing a hand on the back of your head as you finally let him ease you into the seat, he tucks your legs in when you don't move any further.

Thankfully, his reflexes are still intact, as your fingers narrowly miss being crushed when you stick your hand out to prevent him from closing the door.

Eyelids heavy, you hiccup, "Y …you did …didn't answer my …my question."

Grabbing your wrist, he places your hand in your lap and pats it, hoping that's enough of a trigger for your brain to keep it there. "Good?" he asks, shaking his head as you wiggle to get comfortable.

Eyes closing, you lean against the headrest and hum, "Mhmm.

Brushing a finger along your jaw, he states quietly, "If you remember to ask tomorrow, I'll tell you." "I'll remember," you promise on a whisper back.

Double-checking that all your limbs are out of harm's way, he closes the door and briefly presses his hand against the hood. His stomach lurches as he rounds the rear of the car, but he breathes a plea to Baby that you will.

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Jake Seresin never looked more himself than when he was out of uniform and off the clock, arms and attention thrown wide as if he could embrace the whole world, if the world would just let him. Tonight his shirt was already half unbuttoned with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, veiny forearms on full display. 

He navigated the Hard Deck as if he’d built the place from the ground up, and maybe in a way he had: every time he walked through the door, the room recalibrated around him.

He kept you close, your hand swallowed in his as he navigated through the crowd. Every time someone called out to him, he gave your hand a subtle squeeze. 

“You’re showing off,” you shouted over the Aerosmith song playing through the crowd.

Jake glanced back at you  and just flashed you a smirk before continuing on. As you followed him through the crowd you looked around, spotting the usuals. Rooster was at the pool table playing a game of 9-Ball with Phoenix. Bob was perched on his stool nearby sipping a ginger ale and snacking on his cup of peanuts.

Jake threaded you through the press of bodies and settled at your usual table next to Bob, never once breaking contact. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was make you feel like the only person in a room full of people desperate to be seen. 

He let his hand linger as he sat, just a little too high on your thigh to be innocent. You shot him a look, but he just arched an eyebrow.

He ordered a round from one of the college kids Penny had hired as a waitress to help out with the summer crowds before you could say a word. Another round of pilots had arrived at Top Gun for the summer and The Hard Deck would be busier than normal for the next several weeks while they were here.

The waitress returned a few minutes later, setting a bottle down in front of you. Jake watched as you picked it up and brought the rim to your lips. You felt the head of his gaze as you to the first gulp.

“You’re starin’, sweetheart.” He drawled, voice pitched just for you.

“Only thing here worth looking at,” you shot back, louder than you meant. 

Bob snorted into his drink, and even Phoenix cracked a smile. 

Jake just shook his head and leaned closer. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I’ll think you want something from me.”

“Who says I don’t?”

Jake tipped his head, appraising you. You could feel the tension in him, a restless itch just under the surface. You took another slow sip, eyes on him the whole time, and watched his fingers drum an uneven pattern against your knee.

After that you played innocent for a while. You talked to Bob about how his wife was doing, and bugged him for the hundredth time to bring her around sometime. Meanwhile Jake took Rooster’s place after he’d lost handily to Phoenix.

A few rounds into the game, Jake was holding court over something stupid Rooster had done in the hangar. You let him talk, but waited for your moment.

“Like you’ve never fucked up a landing before?” 

It landed exactly like you wanted. Rooster laughed so hard he nearly choked, Bob snorted into his can of Canada Dry, and Jake’s eyes cut to you in a razor thin sliver of warning.

You watched the way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before he caught himself. The grin didn't falter, but something behind his eyes went very still, very focused. He turned fully then, crowd be damned, and stepped close enough that you could smell the leather of his jacket and something underneath, something warm and distinctly him. His thumb traced a slow circle across your knuckles, proprietary and deliberate.

"That so?" He asked, mild as summer thunder, and something in his tone made your breath hitch. He lifted your joined hands, pressed a kiss to your knuckles that was half reverence, half challenge. "Funny. Don't recall you minding my landings at oh-dark-thirty last Tuesday. Or the Tuesday before that." His eyes held yours, dark and dancing. "Seemed pretty satisfied with my technique then." 

You felt the heat crawl up your neck, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you leaned into him, your knee pressing against his under the table, and smiled slow and wicked.

"Tuesday," you said, like you were considering it. "Was that the one where you couldn't stop talking about your 'flight data' for twenty minutes after? Or the one where you fell asleep with your face in my-"

"Alright," Jake cut in, but he was laughing, that low, helpless sound you rarely heard. He caught your hand, lacing his fingers through yours tight enough to mean it. "You win."

"Do I?"

"For now." He brought your knuckles to his mouth, pressed a kiss there that lingered too long for public. "But I'm keeping score, darlin'. And you're racking up quite a debt."

You reached for Jake’s bottle before he could, twisting it from his fingers with a practiced ease. He let you, but the smile that spread across his mouth was all teeth. 

“You’re playing with fire, darlin’,” he said, voice soft as velvet.

“Maybe I like the burn,” you fired back, and this time Phoenix didn’t bother hiding her grin. She looked at Rooster, then at you, like she was betting on how long until someone broke.

Jake rolled his shoulders as he brought his arm around you, resting his fingers at the curve of your neck. 

“So what you’re telling me,” Jake said as he leaned in closer, “is that I have to keep you in line?”

“I’d like to see you try,” you replied

You let the silence ride for a minute, then cut through it by slumping into Jake’s side, cheek resting against the point of his shoulder. He went tense for a second, then relaxed, exhaling a laugh against the top of your head.

“Hangman’s got a soft spot,” Phoenix chirped. “Who knew?”

“Don’t go spreading rumors like that,” Jake shot back, but he never moved you away. If anything, he tugged you closer.

After that it turned into a contest: who could escalate, who could hold out the longest. You stole his fries, fed him one just to see if he’d bite your fingers. He did, gently, and then sucked the salt from your thumb with a look that should have been illegal.

Phoenix watched it all, hiding her face behind her glass, but her shoulders shook with laughter. Rooster looked at Bob, then at Jake, then at you, like he was counting down to zero.

It was just before closing when you made your play. Rooster was recounting some old war story, half the table bored, the other half buzzed from too many rounds. You ducked your head, leaned close enough to Jake’s ear that no one else could hear, and whispered, “Maybe if you were as good in the air as you are at running your mouth, they’d rename the whole program after you.”

His hand stopped moving. Just for a second. The smallest beat, but you caught it, the way he froze and then reset. He looked at you, real slow, like he was recalibrating his whole opinion of the evening. Then he leaned in, close enough that you felt the scrape of his stubble at your cheek.

“Careful, darlin’,” he murmured. This time it wasn’t a joke. His voice was a full octave lower, all steel and expectation. “You keep testing me like that, I’m not gonna be responsible for what happens.”

You grinned, teeth flashing. “Promise?”

He looked at you for a long moment, jaw set. Then, slowly, he smiled. “You got it coming, sweetheart.”

You hoped so.

You were going to let it go from there. You could tell Jake was just the right level of worked up to give you a good fuck later when you got home. But then Rooster handed you the perfect opportunity to push just one more button, and you couldn’t help yourself.

“Y’know,” you said, tilting your head, “I’ve heard a lot about Hangman’s legendary stamina. But honestly, all I’m seeing tonight is talk.”

The words landed with a thud. Rooster let out a low whistle. Bob’s brows hit his hairline. Phoenix grinned so hard she looked like she might choke.

You kept your eyes on Jake. You watched the way his expression didn’t so much as twitch, except for a tiny pulse along the line of his jaw. You could tell, though, that you’d hit something vital. Maybe not a nerve, but close. You bit down on your smile, waiting for him to come back at you, maybe with a one liner or some lazy threat.

He didn’t say anything. He just looked at you for a long, silent moment, and then he stood. The suddenness made your chair squeak against the floor. His hand slipped behind you, not rough, not soft, just sure, and slid into the back pocket of your jeans. He tugged you upward, slow and steady, until you had to rise with him or get hauled up like a sack.

He bent his head, lips grazing your ear, and said, “Go get in the truck.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, and it sure as hell wasn’t a joke.

You blinked, not sure what you’d expected, but it wasn’t this. Maybe you’d thought he’d laugh it off, maybe you thought you’d keep sparring until you ran out of steam, but the finality in his tone made you shiver in your bones.

And then, right there, in front of all of them, Jake gave your ass a firm smack. Not playful. Not gentle. Just a warning shot across the bow. You stifled a squeak and shot him a look, but he was already looking down at you, steady as the North Star. Entirely in control.

“C’mon, darlin’,” Jake said, still close enough that only you could hear the heat in his voice.

You were on your feet before your brain caught up with your body, the line between game and reality burning up in the aftershocks of his handprint. You made yourself walk slow, even as your heart beat at Mach one. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to, you could feel Jake’s eyes following you all the way to the door.

Outside, the night was ocean-black and the air tasted like rain. You wrapped your arms around yourself, partly for warmth, partly to hold together the thrill leaking out at the edges. The lights in the bar flickered gold and blue through the windows, but you stood just out of range, feeling the world get very quiet.

You could see Jake through the glass, still at the table, like nothing had happened. He smiled at something Rooster said, tossed a couple bills on the table for yours drinks, and finished his beer in one long pull. 

King of composure, even with the room watching.

You waited by the truck, hands in your pockets, watching the oil shimmer on the blacktop. Your whole body buzzed, not from the drinks, but from the leftover adrenaline of pushing a man built for boundary lines right over one.

He didn’t say anything at first, just unlocked the door and nodded at you. You climbed in, tried not to smile too hard as you settled into the leather seat. He got in, started the engine, and let the rumble fill the silence between you. You felt his hand brush your thigh, but this time it was just a tap. Small, controlled, but a clear reminder.

Jake just stared straight ahead, profile clean as a knife blade in the streetlights. You realized then: you’d started the game, but he’d already planned the end.

The drive back was nothing like they normally were. Usually Jake’s hand was on your thigh, his thumb idly circling just above the seam of your jeans. He’d casually crank the radio up and harmonize badly to whatever was on. Sometimes he’d take the long way home, windows down, letting the wind and the engine noise fill up the spaces where words weren’t needed.

Tonight, though, Jake was all silence. He put the truck in gear, eyes forward, and the only sounds were the hum of tires on asphalt. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t touch you. His knuckles ghosted the shifter, light and controlled.

You shifted in your seat, searching for a foothold, but he offered nothing. Even the radio was turned down to a whisper, some old country song flickering in and out like static. You tried to catch his gaze at a red light, but he didn’t give you the satisfaction. Just flicked the turn signal, waited for green, and rolled on.

You wondered, as the lights of the base bled past in a blur, if you’d pushed him too far.

Jake pulled into the driveway, killed the headlights, and let the engine idle for a few heartbeats before shutting it off.

He didn’t move right away. Just sat there, fingers drumming a slow, thoughtful rhythm on the wheel. 

Finally, he said, without looking over, “Ready?”

You nodded. Your voice, when it came, was thin. “Yeah.”

He got out, boots crunching on the driveway, and you followed, legs a little unsteady. Jake didn’t touch you. He didn’t need to. The space between you crackled, sulfur and static, a live wire waiting to ground.

You didn’t dare look over your shoulder as Jake moved behind you, but you heard the measured steps: the hollow knock of boots against the old tile, the faint rasp of his jacket as he hung it on the hook. You kept your eyes on the kitchen counter, the swirl in the cheap laminate suddenly fascinating. The air in the house was warm and still, no fan running, just the ache of your heartbeat pulsing in your ears.

In three silent strides, he was behind you. One hand gripped your hip, fingers spread and possessive, and the other slid up the nape of your neck, into your hair. His palm was rough from years of flight controls and gym pull-ups. He used it to tip your head back until your spine arched and your eyes found his.

Jake’s pupils were blown wide, but his smile was calm. “You thought you were real cute tonight, didn’t you?”

You felt the blush start at your jaw and spread, slow as lava. You bit down on your lower lip, teeth scraping skin. It wasn’t that you couldn’t talk, it was that you knew exactly what would happen if you did.

He chuckled, close-mouthed and dangerous. “Not so mouthy now, huh?”

You shook your head, just once. He loosened his hold on your hair, but didn’t let go. He let his fingers drift down to your chin, guiding your face so you couldn’t look away. 

“I think it’s time you learned a little lesson about consequences.”

The word landed like a promise, and your knees nearly buckled.

Jake took a step back, dropping his hand, and glanced at the hallway. “Bedroom. Now.”

You didn’t run, but you didn’t dawdle either. The house was small enough that the ten second walk to the bedroom felt like a walk of shame, every inch of you aware of the heat in your cheeks and the thrum between your thighs. 

You stood beside the bed, hands at your sides, trying to pretend your heart wasn’t about to batter itself loose from your chest.

You heard Jake in the bathroom, washing his hands, humming a song you half-recognized from the bar. He took his time. When he finally came into the room, he stood in the doorway for a long, silent moment. Just watching.

“You know what to do.”

You slid your shirt over your head, folded it and set it on the chair like you’d been taught. Your jeans followed, denim slithering down your legs, and you left them pooled at your feet. You shivered in the sudden coolness, left in just your black bra and panties.

Jake crossed the room, slow and deliberate, and let his hand rest at your hip. He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, and whispered, “You look nervous. Are you nervous?”

You nodded, swallowing hard.

He smiled, a genuine one this time, and ran his thumb along the waistband of your panties. “Good. That means you know you’ve got it coming.”

With no warning, he smacked your ass. Once, hard. The sound cracked in the small room and you jumped, more out of shock than pain. He squeezed, then did it again, the second one lower, softer. You yelped, heat blooming beneath his palm.

“Hands on the bed,” Jake said, voice suddenly all command.

You bent, palms pressed to the duvet, ass up and thighs already trembling. You heard him step back, then the sting of his hand again. Three, four, five sharp slaps, each one just a little different: sometimes cupping, sometimes open, sometimes a flick at the end that made you gasp. He never missed, never lost the rhythm. Sometimes he’d wait, a beat or two, just to make you wonder when the next one would land. The pain was real, but so was the pleasure. You arched your back, grinding into his hand on reflex, and you heard him laugh.

“Look at you,” he drawled, “already making a mess of yourself.

He paused then, letting his palm smooth over the red heat of your skin, and you moaned at the relief.

“You gonna be good now?” He asked, low and close.

You whispered, “Yes.”

Jake ran his hand down the backs of your thighs, kneading the tender flesh, then hooked his finger in your waistband and tugged. 

“Take ‘em off,” he said.

You did, trembling as the fabric slid down. Your skin burned where his hand had left its mark. 

He stepped away again, and for a second you thought maybe that was it, maybe he was done. But you knew better. Jake never quit a job half-finished.

He dragged two fingers down your spine, then up, then back down, slow and steady. “You know why I’m doing this, right?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Because I was a brat.”

He chuckled, “Smart girl.” 

Then another smack, this one less about pain and more about ownership. You felt every nerve ending light up.

You heard the clink of his belt, the slide of a zipper, and knew what was coming next. You knelt between his knees until you were eye level with the soft trail of hair that disappeared beneath the band. You hooked your fingers into the waistband and pulled his jeans down past his hips. His boxer briefs barely contained him, and when you pressed your palm against the bulge, Jake groaned low and needy. You looked up at him, waiting for a nod, and when he gave it, you freed him with a careful, reverent touch.

His cock was thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. You wrapped your hand around the base, marveling at how he filled your grip, and stroked him once, slow and teasing. Jake’s hand found your hair, fingers threading through, but he didn’t push, just held you there, letting you go at your own pace.

You started slow, licking up the shaft, then swirling your tongue around the crown. You looked up at him, eyes wide, waiting for the command.

“Take it, baby,” he said, voice rough, and you did.

You loved the way Jake lost his composure when you sucked him. He went from cocky to silent in half a second, every muscle drawn tight, every ounce of focus on the way your mouth stretched around him. You set a pace, bobbing slow, then fast, then slow again, your hand working what your mouth couldn’t reach.

Jake watched you, eyes burning, one hand threading through your hair, just guiding, like he wanted to keep you there forever. 

“God damn,” he groaned. “Look at you.”

You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, feeling the weight and heat at the back of your throat. He thrust gently, never too much, but enough to remind you who was in charge.

“Good girl,” he said again, and this time you moaned around him, the vibration making him curse. You squeezed your thighs together, aching with need, but you kept your focus on Jake, on the way he looked at you like you were a miracle.

You had him right there, right on the edge, could feel it in the way his thighs trembled beneath your palms, the way his breath came ragged and desperate. 

But Jake never let you finish him like this, not when he could have more. His grip shifted from your hair to your shoulders, pulling you up his body with a strength that made your head spin. He kissed you messy and deep, tasting himself on your tongue, then guided you until you were sprawled across the mattress. 

He shifted, settling back against the pillows, and drew you up with him, guiding your knees to straddle his hips. His cock strained against your stomach, hot and insistent, and he looked up at you with dark, hungry eyes. 

"Ride me," he said. "Want to watch you." 

He stroked himself, slow and steady, then watched as you lined up and sank down, inch by inch, until you were full of him.

You gasped at the stretch, the shock of how good it felt, how right. Jake held you steady, rocking you gently as you adjusted. 

“That’s it, baby girl,” he murmured, “just like that. You’re so perfect.”

He let you set the rhythm, at first. Soft rises and falls, rolling your hips until you found the angle that made you clench around him. Jake’s breath stuttered every time you moved, and his hands roamed your body, up and down, pausing to cup your breasts.

You rode him, slow at first, then faster, chasing the pleasure that built with every glide. Jake never stopped praising you, telling you how beautiful you were, how good you felt, how proud he was.

“God, you’re amazing,” he said, voice hoarse. “Take what you need, sweetheart. I got you.”

You lost yourself in the motion, in the way your bodies fit together, in the electricity that crackled up your spine every time you bottomed out. Jake’s hands left smudges on your hips, and when you leaned forward to kiss him, he bit your lower lip, just enough to make you whimper.

When you came, it hit you all at once. A burst of white heat that made your vision blur. Jake held you tight through it, coaxing you to ride it out, fucking up into you just enough to make it last.

You collapsed against his chest, boneless and sweating, and he just held you, stroking your back and murmuring, “Good girl. That’s my girl. You did so fucking good.”

The room smelled of sex and sweat, the sheets tangled beneath you like a nest of vines. You were still trembling, your body humming with the aftershocks of what Jake had just wrung from you. His hands were on your hips, warm and possessive, and before you could catch your breath, he was flipping you onto your stomach with a single, effortless motion. The world tilted, your cheek pressing into the cotton sheets as he arranged you exactly how he wanted: head down, ass up, your thighs spread just enough to make you feel exposed.

You whimpered, the sound muffled by the pillow, but Jake heard it. His fingers traced the curve of your spine, before dipping lower to spread you open. You could feel his gaze on you, heavy and hungry, and the vulnerability of the position made your pulse spike. 

"Fuck," he murmured, voice rough with approval. "Look at you. So pretty like this."

A pillow appeared beneath your hips, lifting you higher, angling you just right. You gasped as the shift in position made your oversensitive nerves flare to life. Jake’s hands were everywhere: skimming your thighs, squeezing your ass, teasing the wetness still dripping from you. 

"So wet for me," he said, and there was something darkly satisfied in his tone. "Even after all that. You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart."

You tried to push back against him, to find some friction, some relief, but his palm landed on the small of your back, holding you down. 

"Uh-uh," he chided, fingers sliding through your folds with maddening slowness. "You don’t get to rush this. I wanna take my time with you." His touch was light, almost teasing, and you whined, your hips twitching in frustration. 

"Jake—"

"Shhh." His fingers pressed inside you, just the tips at first, then deeper, stretching you open with a slow, relentless rhythm. You clenched around him, your breath hitching as he curled them just right, hitting that spot that made your vision blur. 

"That’s it," he murmured, voice dripping with Southern charm. "Take it like a good girl. Let me hear you."

You couldn’t help it. The sounds spilled out of you. Whimpers, gasps, and broken pleas, each one rewarded with a deeper thrust, a firmer touch. Jake’s free hand slid up your spine, tangling in your hair and pulling just enough to make your scalp tingle. 

"You like that, don’t you?" He growled, fingers working you faster. "Like being used. Like being mine."

You nodded, your cheek rubbing against the sheets, your body arching into his touch. 

"Yes," you breathed, the word barely audible. "Yours."

Jake’s laugh was low and dark. "Damn right you are." His fingers twisted inside you, and you cried out, your thighs shaking as the pleasure coiled tighter, tighter. "Jake, I can’t—"

"You can," he said, voice firm. "One more for me, sweetheart. Give it to me." 

His thumb found your clit, circling with just enough pressure to send you spiraling. You came with a broken sob, your body clenching around his fingers as wave after wave of sensation crashed over you. Jake didn’t stop and didn’t slow down. He worked you through it, drawing out every last tremor until you were boneless, trembling beneath him.

When he finally pulled his fingers free, you whimpered at the loss, but then his weight was shifting. He wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked himself, using your wetness like lube.

Then his cock pressed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you moaned as he pushed inside, inch by slow inch. The angle was deeper like this, sharper, and you gasped as he bottomed out, your body stretching to accommodate him. 

"Fuck," Jake groaned, his breath hot against your ear. "You feel so good."

He started to move, slow at first, letting you adjust, but then faster, harder, his hips snapping against yours with a rhythm that made your toes curl. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he fucked you, each thrust sending sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. 

"You take me so well," he growled, voice rough with need. "Like you were made for this. Made for me."

You could only whimper in response, your body too overwhelmed to form words. Jake’s hand slid up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you pinned, and the dominance of the gesture sent a fresh wave of heat through you. 

"That’s it," he murmured, his voice a dark purr. "Let me hear you. Let me hear how good I make you feel."

You obeyed, your cries filling the room as he fucked you harder, deeper, his cock hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur. "Jake. Jake, please–"

"Please what?" He demanded, his voice a growl. "Tell me what you need."

"You," you gasped. "Just you. Always you."

Jake’s laugh was dark, triumphant. 

"Damn right." His hand slid around your hip, fingers finding your clit, and you cried out as he rubbed you in tight, relentless circles. "Come for me again, sweetheart. Show me how much you love this. Show me how much you love me fucking you like this."

The words sent you over the edge. You came with a broken scream, your body clenching around him as pleasure ripped through you. Jake followed with a groan, his cock pulsing inside you as he spilled himself deep, his hands gripping you tight enough to leave marks.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the weight of Jake’s body pressing you into the mattress. 

Then he shifted, rolling onto his side and pulling you with him, his arms wrapping around you like a cage. His lips found your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to your skin. 

"Gonna fuck the brat right out of you," he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. "Every damn day if I have to."

You shivered, your body still humming with the aftershocks of what he’d done to you. 

"Promise?" You whispered.

Jake’s laugh was a dark, delicious thing. 

"Oh, sweetheart," he said, his voice a promise all its own. "You have no idea."

-

Tag List - if you'd like to be tagged please let me know. I did start a new tag list as my old one had a lot of inactive usernames and people that weren't interacting with my posts. If you were on the old one and would like to be added to the new one, please let me know with a comment

“Exactly.”

“You have no taste. You lack… enlightenment.”

“I have standards. And I lack nothing,” he shoots back, flashing that grin that should come with a warning and a government-issued permit.

While you aren't truly mad, you try to pretend, but then he starts singing. Purposely loud and off-key, twisting the lyrics into something ridiculous to make you laugh.

Absurdly, it works.

By the time you stop for gas, you’re not speaking to him. Not because you’re actually mad, but because he knows he’s charming, and you refuse to reward that.

You lean against the car while he pays, scrolling your phone like you’re deeply invested in something.

He comes back with snacks. “It was the last one,” he says, holding out your favorite chocolate like he’s presenting a tribute to a mildly hostile queen. “Peace offering.”

You don’t take it.

He raises an eyebrow. “Still doing this?”

“I don’t negotiate with men who insult Sleep Token.”

“Alright,” he nods thoughtfully, "but I didn't insult them. I just chose not to listen to them." With a smug grin, he unwraps the chocolate and takes a bite.

Your head snaps up. “You did not!”

“Oh, I did,” he says, chewing slowly. “And wow. This is really good. Shame you’re missing out.”

You snatch it out of his hand so fast it would impress a magician.

He laughs, head tipped back slightly, sunlight catching on his sunglasses, a bead of sweat on his throat drips down into the collar of his shirt.

It hits you, sharp and inconvenient. You like him. Not just in a ‘this is fun’ casual way. You like him in the 'this feels dangerous and real' whole-lot-terrifying way.

Great. Fantastic. Brilliant timing.

You shove the chocolate into your mouth like it will choke the realization.

The teasing settles into something softer once you're back on the road. Windows down, music lower, the world stretching out in long, lazy miles.

You’re turned slightly toward him, one leg tucked up under you. He has one hand on the wheel, the other on your knee, loosely holding your fingers while his thumb smooths over your knuckles.

“You’re staring,” he says casually.

“I’m not.”

He glances over, smirking. “You’re doing it right now.”

You look away immediately. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” he challenges.

You hesitate, just for a second, but it's enough for him to notice because usually you’d accept the challenge by kissing him to stop the charm and smugness from leaking out.

His demeanor shifts, no longer teasing, but curious. “Something on your mind?”

“Just thinking,” you shrug.

“Dangerous.”

“Please. I think all the time.”

Jake chuckles. “And I usually end up in the dog house.” He pulls your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles. “What’s on your mind?”

You don’t answer because the truth is sitting right there, heavy and impatient at the back of your throat, like a tickle that you can’t clear away but has decided, inconveniently, that now is good enough.

You should ignore it. You should swallow it down. You should absolutely not say anything while he’s driving seventy miles an hour.

So naturally you say, “I think I’m in love with you.”

The car jerks to the side, but only slightly. Years of training keep him in control, but the mood shifts.

Pulling your hand from his, you clap it over your mouth like it will physically grab the words and shove them back in.

“I,” you start, voice muffled. “I didn’t. That just...”

He’s too calm. “You’re in love with me?” he repeats, not looking at you.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“Like what? Out loud?”

“Jake.”

Finally, he glances over, the look on his face isn’t panic or confusion, it’s warm and soft, and it makes your stomach drop in an entirely new way.

“You picked a hell of a time,” he says.

“I know,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. “I was going to be cool about it. Maybe wait until we weren’t in a moving vehicle. Face to face.”

“Bold strategy.”

“Shut up.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, then looks back at the road. A beat passes. Two. Three. You brace yourself for the deflection, the gentle letdown.

“I was going to say it first.”

Your head snaps toward him. “What?”

He shrugs, like he didn’t just casually rearrange your entire emotional framework. “Been trying to figure out when. Didn’t think blurting it out at the Hard Deck or between gas stations was the move, but...”

"You’re kidding.”

“I don’t joke about stuff like that.”

“You literally just ate my chocolate out of spite.”

“That was different, that was war.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. A small, disbelieving, half-hysterical laugh. “You’re serious?”

“I’m serious.” He reaches over, his hand finding yours, giving it a steadying squeeze. “I love you.”

Your heart tries to somersault out of your chest. “I love you too.”

Jake smiles at you. “You’re still not touching the aux,” he adds.

"Hey," you protest, "I just confessed my love...”

“Doesn’t mean I trust your playlist.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re in love with me,” he shoots back, grinning smugly.

You roll your eyes, but your fingers tighten around his anyway. “Yeah, unfortunately for me.”

Jake laughs, and you turn to hide your smile.

You stopped at the same gas station on the way back to Fighter Town, and Jake had emerged with a magnet of your favorite chocolate bar. It lived on the fridge in the apartment you shared with Jake until you left. Now it lives on your fridge.

Hugging a coffee mug, you stare at the faded souvenir, wondering how it all came to this. Funny how a cheap magnet could become a token for a life you no longer have. You kept it because throwing it away felt too much like admitting your relationship was over.

“Hey.”

Jake’s voice startles you from your reverie, and you twist to see him leaning against your bedroom door. Shirtless and beautiful and rested. The dark circles and redness his eyes had worn last night are nearly invisible.

“Morning.”

His eyes move beyond your shoulder, and when that boyish smile appears, you know he's seen the magnet and had a brief flash of the same memory that sent you spiraling into the past. His smile fades faster than yours had, and the silence that follows is heavy, filled by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of the city waking up.

Neither of you can pretend last night didn’t happen, and neither of you knows what happens next.

Jake scratches the back of his neck. “I still think Sleep Token sucks.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “You still have no taste.” You take one last look at the magnet, then move to grab another mug from the cupboard.

“Do you regret it?” Jake blurts at your back.

“What?”

He’s at your side before you’ve set the mug down. “Do you regret it?” he asks again, “Not last night or this morning or whatever.” He frowns, shaking his head like he’s trying to shake his thoughts into order. “Us. Do you regret us?”

“No,” you say softly, “I don’t regret any of it.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “I know last night doesn’t magically fix anything, and I don’t expect it to," he winks, "although I was in top form."

You roll your eyes, chuckling, “There he is.”

“Seriously,” he sighs, taking your hands, “can I come back tonight? Or tomorrow maybe?”

“Jake.”

“I don’t mean,” he gestures vaguely toward your bedroom. “Well, okay, maybe I mean that a little, but that’s not what I’m asking.” He takes a deep breath. "I’m asking if I can come back and have dinner with you? Can I call you when Rooster does something stupid today? Can I send you videos of dogs doing cute stuff? Can we go to dinner and you steal my fries when I specifically told you to order your own?”

Your eyes well with tears because you miss all of those seemingly trivial things. “Stolen fries taste better.”

He chuckles but brushes his thumb over your knuckles, and it seems to ground him. “I know we can’t just pretend nothing happened. I know I hurt you, and there are things we need to talk about. What I’m asking is,” he smiles weakly before dropping his gaze to where your hands are joined. “Can we start over?”

“Start over?” The hitch in your breath draws his attention back to your face.

“Not all the way over." The gravity in his tone contrasts with the glint in his eyes. Lifting his chin toward the refrigerator, he asserts, “I’m not sitting through the Sleep Token phase again.”

“It wasn’t a phase.” Your attempt at sterness is thwarted by the involuntary curl of your lips.

It seems to ease the tension in him. The urgency in his voice is gone. “I don't want to erase how this began or pretend we haven’t loved each other,” he sighs, “or ignore that I screwed this up.”

He squeezes your hands, searching your face as he seemingly searches for words. The vulnerability in his expression is so rare that your body reacts with a sharp stab in your chest.

“We’ll go slow this time, like normal people.”

“We’ve never been normal people.”

“That’s true.” He grins. “Just... let me take you on a date tonight?”

“A date?”

“Yeah. It's been a long time since we've done that. So let me take you on a real date.” He rolls his eyes, smirking, “I’ll even let you pick the playlist.”

You gasp. “Wow”

“I know. Huge personal growth.”

Your laugh feels lighter than any you’ve managed in months. Jake watches, hopeful and terrified.

“One date,” you agree.

His grin arrives slowly, bright as the rising sun.

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