"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.

Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straight—

"Y'need'a get laid, boss."

John's hands immediately froze.

That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.

His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.

"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."

Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.

The work winds them all too tight — adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.

And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.

Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.

And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.

His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.

"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."

Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.

"I jus' think—"

"OUT."

The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.

Then he squared the stacks again.

——

Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.

"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"

"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."

"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.

"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.

Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesn’t always catch when there’s fuckery afoot.

Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.

"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.

"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"

"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing some—"

"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"

Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.

His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand — which all turn up empty.

The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.

"That's my phone."

"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.

Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you start—"

"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.

"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"

"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',” he mumbles. 

"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"

"Christ," Johnny snickers.

John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.

"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.

"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.

John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.

"Think I'll stand."

"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.

Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.

"What's Hinge?"

"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.

A dating app….

Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years — the 'ghosting', the games — and always thought: thank god that's not me.

Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.

There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.

"This is you, then?"

"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.

"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer some—"

"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."

Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"

"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."

John feels like he’s been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen. 

"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"

"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.

"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.

"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."

Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."

John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.

"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."

It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.

Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace. 

So… he pulls out a chair.

Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.

"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on them’s going to make him cross. 

Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.

The basics go quick — name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.

"Drinks? Socially. Smokes…?" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."

"I smoke cigars," John protests.

"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"

"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.

"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.

"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."

Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"

That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.

"Consultant," Simon offers.

"Civil servant," Kyle tries.

"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.

Three sets of eyes come up off the phone — Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.

"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.

Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.

"What've you lot got on yours, then?"

The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.

"Ah, well—" Johnny starts.

"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.

"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.

"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"

"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"

"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.

When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simon—

"What's Feeld?" John asks.

"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."

"It's not for you," Simon adds.

"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."

"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.

The rest goes quicker.

"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."

"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.

Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.

His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (he’s been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).

He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out. 

There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.

After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.

"I'll do these myself."

This time, Kyle hands the phone over.

The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night. 

Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s been meaning to stop by.

John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.

When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.

"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."

The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.

"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, or…"

"No."

The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.

So is the one after. X.

A woman in her work scrubs. X.

A woman holding a child. X.

A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.

It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance — arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.

"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"

"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.

"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"

"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.

"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."

"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."

Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clear—

His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.

Huh. 

There you are.

Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.

John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.

You're very pretty.

For the first time, John taps the profile open.

30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out. 

There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.

Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.

And at the bottom:

The best way to ask me out is by: using words.

I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.

John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.

Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.

John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:

IT'S A MATCH!

"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.

"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.

"Careful," John warns mildly.

Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.

John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.

Better in person.

Yeah. He'd bet you are.

"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."

"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.

"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."

John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.

"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you… make her wait?"

Silence.

"I mean, when you put it like that…"

"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.

He's already typing, screen tipped away.

"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."

"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."

He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.

——

Four miles away, a phone lights up…

——

Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.

Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it — it's mindless.

The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.

Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore. 

A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.

A man whose photos are all group shots. X.

A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.

Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.

The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.

He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.

John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.

Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.

You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.

His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.

Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.

The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.

Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.

You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.

It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.

But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.

You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.

On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.

Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!

HINGE: You and John matched!

HINGE: 1 New Message

You open it.

Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?

You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.

i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.

friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?

You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.

Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.

you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.

They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.

What movie are you watching?

You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.

You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.

you're not allowed to judge me.

Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.

You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.

it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.

The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.

Twelve times? Must be decent.

it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol

Dead?

it's a twist. it's festive!

You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.

You smile.

so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?

Not a thing.

hours in freezing water for zero fish?!

The fish aren't the point.

do tell, what's the point?

The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.

It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months. 

You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.

that actually sounds really peaceful.

i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.

That the trail from your photo?

it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.

Doesn't show.

Good photo of you.

Beautiful, actually.

You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow. 

Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.

oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol

No it didn't.

— and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.

well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.

Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending. 

how long have you been on hinge?

It's my first night, actually.

first night???

Profile's about two hours old.

yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?

Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.

——

John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway — close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.

He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.

What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face — it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.

"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.

"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."

He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.

"Need another, Cap?"

"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.

A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."

"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."

Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"

John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.

"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."

"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.

"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."

They go — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s still negotiating.

Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet — for the first time in a long while — has to wait.

He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.

did the football finish? who won?

He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue. 

Couldn't tell you.

omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!

I got distracted.

by what? 😇

I think you know by what.

Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it — and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.

anyway!

Anyway.

He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.

The cat in your photo. Yours?

yes! that’s twix. she's a menace.

Good name.

she prefers men that ignore her.

Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.

It goes on just like that: easy.

You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.

He talks about the Brecon Beacons — the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself. 

How's the average Friday held up?

certainly improved

Mine too.

He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesn’t feel so desolate.

——

The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.

He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.

He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether ‘I got distracted.’ read as charming or desperate.

He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.

He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic. 

By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.

He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.

He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet… here he is. 

It's a stupid fuckin' rule.

The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.

The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.

By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.

That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession — he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.

spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.

thought of you on the tube home

He reads the second message again.

Thought of you. 

He’d been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.

are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.

And there's the sarcasm. 

Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.

Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.

Thought about you as well.

He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.

I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.

lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.

don't really see myself getting married anyway.

the dresses were stunning though!

He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction. 

Nothing wrong with that.

Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?

successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.

what about you, how was your saturday?

He’s had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.

Quiet. Nothing worth typing.

hm. sounds like you should ring me then…

He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.

For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.

Could do.

Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.

Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now he’s using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.

Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.

Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.

for logistics.

He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the air’s still warm from the day.

He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.

——

You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.

Unknown Number. Local.

“John?”

“Evenin’.”

Fuck. 

His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.

You set the bottle down before you drop it.

“So you actually do ring,” you manage.

“Said so on the profile, I think.”

“I half thought it was a bit.”

“I don’t really do bits.”

“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”

The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.

“That meant to be me?”

“It’s uncanny, I know.”

The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.

“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”

“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”

“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”

“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”

“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”

The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.

“No?” you tease.

“I had imagined I’d see your face.”

“Been imagining, have you?”

You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns

“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”

“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”

“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”

You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.

“Is that what it’s come to?”

“Unfortunately.”

There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.

“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”

Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.

“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.

“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”

Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.

“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”

“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

“I could do a weeknight? After work?”

There’s a pause on his end.

“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”

You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.

“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”

“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.

“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”

“It is,” he agrees, smiling.

The conversation should end there but it doesn't.

You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when he’s considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.

Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.

Eventually, you yawn.

“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”

“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”

“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”

“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”

“Lie-in, according to my profile.”

“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”

A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.

“Night, John.”

You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.

——

Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.

good morning. how was the lie-in?

Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.

the lie confirmed!

He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.

Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as ‘suspiciously cheerful’.

The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.

survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.

Regards received. Sleep well.

——

Monday morning, John’s at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasn’t stopped looking at it. 

good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?

[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]

You, in your hallway mirror — chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like you’d just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.

His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.

Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.

His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.

Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.

“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.

“Fine.”

“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”

“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”

It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.

Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”

John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s a wonder none of them have pulled something.

"Have a date Friday. Drinks."

Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.

"That's great. Same woman or…?"

"The same."

“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.

“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.

"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words. 

He turns the phone back over.

Promote you, he types.

You look lovely.

Your reply comes before he’s picked his pen back up.

well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x

He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.

——

The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute — nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.

Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.

———

You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re in front of your open wardrobe by six.

The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.

The silky baby blue halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels. 

You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.

“It’s just a pub,” you tell her. 

She doesn’t seem convinced. 

———

The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.

You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties. 

The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait. 

You’ve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.

It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. You’d forgotten the feeling. 

You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.

You don’t have to wait much longer for him. 

He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. He’s tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.

He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” you smile.

He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.

“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.

“So are you.”

“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”

You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”

The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.

“What’ll you have?”

“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.

He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.

“Two of the, uh— the local,” he manages.

You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.

He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.

The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.

“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.

“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.

“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”

“Hm.” He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.

Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.

“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”

“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.

You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.

“That’s it? That’s your answer?”

“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”

“The lads — your guys from work?”

“Yeah.”

“They what, talked you into it?”

“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”

“And what made them do that?”

He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.

“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”

“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.

“Their exact words were a bit different.”

“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”

“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”

Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”

He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.

“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”

He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”

“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”

“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”

“Away?”

“Away.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Doing…?”

“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”

“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”

“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.”

“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”

“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”

You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.

“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”

He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it. 

“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”

You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.

The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.

The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together. 

“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”

It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.

The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.

“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”

“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”

His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.

“No—I know. I just—”

“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”

“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.

“None of that either,” his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”

“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”

And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.

The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.

It’s going well.

It’s going suspiciously well.

And every time it’s gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.

He’s in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.

You look at the seat opposite.

Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.

You don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.

“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.

“I am,” you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.

The booth is easier than the bar, somehow — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—

“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”

He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”

“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.

“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it. 

“Say it out loud anyway.”

“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”

“Ten.”

“Mm.”

“A whole decade.”

“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”

“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”

“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”

“Mm.”

“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug. 

“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.

“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.

The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.

“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”

“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue. 

You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face. 

“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”

“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”

“Yeah? And what was the answer?”

“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”

Something in your chest slides sideways.

“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.

“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”

You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.

“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”

You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.

His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick — half a second, there and back — but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.

Neither of you leans back.

And the pub carries on behind you — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.

You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your sense—

“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you grin.

“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”

“I suppose I could be patient.”

“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.

Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.

His jaw shifts. 

“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.

And you’re both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.

You two make it out the door.

The night’s gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.

Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.

He moves you.

One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.

Whatever mindful version he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.

He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.

He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.

“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.

“I walked you out first, yeah?” he says, unrepentant.

You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.

“Walk me home?” you ask.

“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”

You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”

“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”

He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth. 

——

The car smells like-new — clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.

The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth. 

The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door he— 

You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.

He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.

The dashboard glow makes everything blue. 

You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?

"So," you say.

"So…”

You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.

"Did you have a good time tonight?"

His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.

"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says. 

"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want to see me again? Like this?"

"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overly—"

"Keen?"

"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.

And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.

"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."

“Right.” He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.

"I want to ask you up."

"Mm."

"And I'm having a whole debate about it."

"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."

"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."

He's quiet for a second, lips pursing. 

“Can I look at you now?” he tries.

“Yeah.”

"You want to know where I'm actually at?"

"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."

“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”

The badly goes straight between your thighs.

“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”

“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”

“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”

“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”

“When you put it like that…”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”

And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you. 

“Would you like to come up?”

——

The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.

John is a gentleman.

John has been a gentleman all night.

John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock — the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow — and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.

Your flat smells like you — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.

"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."

"Sensible."

And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole car’s worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:

"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer from—"

"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side. 

"Water? I'm gonna have water."

"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering. 

He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean. 

So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t move on it.

 Your pace. Your move.

You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

“Not at all.”

“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”

He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.

He likes that. 

He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.

Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart — which is going quicker than he’d care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.

When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you. 

You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.

In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth — the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.

Good.

You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere he’ll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.

“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”

“Mm?”

“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”

“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.

“Definitely not.”

The rest goes gradually — his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow — and then you’re bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.

“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”

“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”

You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.

He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.

Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.

“Can I?”

“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”

His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.

You’re sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums — feels you feel it — and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.

“Oh my god— okay— okay—”

“Mm.”

“Don’t be smug—” and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.

“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.

“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”

He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—

"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."

"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"

He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."

"You and your word—" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.

He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.

"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"

"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You're— god—"

"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”

"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"

John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.

Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.

He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you. 

"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"

"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”

"—okay maybe move a little—"

He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts. 

“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek. 

“Don’t think, then.”

It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away — and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.

He draws back and drives home again, and whatever you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.

You don’t think.

He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—

“Harder?” he asks against your ear. 

"Yes, please."

He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.

He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion you’ve bkth created.

"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob. 

"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."

He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves —  it takes you under, and you pull him with you.  

He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—

How good—

How gorgeous—

You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—

It’s watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin — and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.

When he lifts his head, you’re already looking at him.

Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.

He comes down on his side, careful of the mess he’s made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going. 

He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.

"John?" Small, against his throat.

"Mm?"

"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."

He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.

You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink — wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.

He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And it’s aimed at him, so.

"You're staring," he says, not looking up. 

"You're tidying me."

"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."

"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."

He huffs into your hair.

Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.

There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway — sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.

She stares at John.

John stares back.

"We have an audience," he says.

You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."

Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.

"That went well," you say, overly pleased. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

"Well, consider me chuffed."

Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak. 

"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."

And there it is — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside. 

He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.

"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.

“No?” you ask. 

"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."

You lift your head off his chest and look at him — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it. 

“Alright," you agree. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”

"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.

At the door he stops. 

"C'mere."

You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts. 

"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.

"Goodnight."

"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."

——

The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.

Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares. 

“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+

There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.

You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.

You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.

You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.

A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.

The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.

It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.

There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.

That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.

You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.

"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"

He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.

"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."

His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."

"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."

The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.

"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"

"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"

He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.

"Suppose."

"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"

He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.

"Wot's tha' include?"

"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."

"Tha's my specialty, love."

"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."

"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."

"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."

A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.

"'m Simon."

The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.

You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.

"Olright, love. Lead the way."

Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.

"This wot he stole?"

You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.

"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."

The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.

You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.

"What the fuck is this?"

You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.

"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."

"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."

"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."

Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.

"Who the bloody hell is that?"

You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.

"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"

Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.

"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"

Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.

"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."

Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—

Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.

He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.

"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."

"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"

"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"

"Please…"

"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.

"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"

"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.

"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."

He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.

"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.

The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.

"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.

"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—

Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.

"Ahh—fuck."

You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.

You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.

"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"

It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.

"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"

"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."

You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.

"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.

"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.

"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"

"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."

"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"

Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.

The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.

Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.

Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.

Nothing at all.

He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.

"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.

"Never better."

Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.

Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.

It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.

She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.

“Deeean-“ You whine out, and he chuckles, squeezing your ass tight.

“That’s right, baby. Call my name, tell the whole house who’s got you in their lap-“

A door slams downstairs, and you shove Dean away just as fast as he rips himself back.

You’re both panting and flushed. You can see his arousal through his jeans, and your fingers are shaking too much to get a proper grip on your unbuttoned blouse.

Your father calls your name, the stairs creaking, and you shove Dean again.

He gives you an incredulous look, mouthing what are you doing?

Closet. You mouth back, pushing him again. The man is built like a fucking tree, it’s like trying to move boulder underwater. Get- “Get in the fucking closet-“

He moves, right before the door opens.

Your father smiles at you, glancing around the room. “You doin’ alright, kiddo?”

“Yep. How was work?” You bounce on your toes, shooting tiny looks to the closet.

He has no reason to check anything. It all looks perfectly innocent. There’s no clothing scattered across the floor or stench of sex in the air. Dean hadn’t even taken his shoes off, and the sweater that he’d ripped from your body is allowed to be on the bed, because it’s your room.

And it’s not like you’ve been known to do this kind of thing.

Sleep with older men.

Sleep with anyone.

You’re pretty sure if your father had to gamble on it, he’d put down money that you were going to die alone. Which isn’t entirely unfair. You speak to men like they’re dogs—because they are—and the last time someone asked you on a date, you spent the whole time staring them with an unimpressed expression and your arms over your chest.

It’s not that you’re rude. You just refuse to lower yourself just to please someone who can’t even do their laundry without Mommy’s help. And most college boys don’t even know their food groups. There’s protein, and green stuff, and candy. That’s it. It makes you want to bash your head into a wall.

But that’s how Dean got you.

Stupid, handsome Dean and his big hands and don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll take care of it. Dean and the way he picked you up like you weighed ten pounds not to show of how much he can bench, but because you’d been standing in his way teasing him, and he’d needed to move you.

He’d placed you onto the counter of the kitchen with such care, and a stern, amused look. You’d gaped at him, heat flooding your cheek and all the blood in your body confused about if it should be curling in your fists and swinging, or pooling between your legs to help you hump him like an animal in heat.

“Not so mouthy now, are you.” Dean had drawled, and that’s when you’d known.

You were a goner. He had you in the palm of his calloused hands.

It worked, because you had him wrapped around your finger.

But neither of you were supposed to be close enough to even touch.

Dean’s your father’s best friend. They met in some old man club for people who like saws and drills or whatever. Maybe it was just a workshop. Or he fixed your dad’s car, and the dumbass fell just in love with him as you were.

Dean’s great. Dean and I got coffee. Dean showed me this new Thunderbird, think I’m gonna buy it. You can drive it, when you get home, maybe we’ll put the deed in your name. I’ll ask Dean if he thinks that’s a good idea. Dean thinks it’s a great idea.

Most of your Senior year had been spent getting calls and texts from your dad about how perfect and amazing Dean was. If he knew that the man was in your closet fighting a boner right now, he might end up more jealous than angry.

It still doesn’t feel like an experiment you want the results of. Some things are better left to the imagination.

“Work was good.” Your father shrugs. “You eaten dinner?”

“Um- No.” You need to stop looking at the closet. It’s suspicious. “I was actually going to go out, and- Eat there.”

“Do that tomorrow.” He waves a hand. “Dean’s coming over tonight, we’re gonna fire up my new grill, see how she cooks.”

“I know, I just- I wanted like Chinese or something.”

“Then get Chinese and eat with us-“ Your father pauses, and you swallow. “How’d you know Dean was comin’ over?”

Shit. You can almost feel him glaring at you through the closet. You’re supposed to be the smart one, sweetheart.

It’s his fault. You can still feel where he’d been teasing your sides, and it’s making your brain all stupid and fuzzy.

You know because Dean showed up early and cornered you in the living room. Because you’d done the stupid dance where you both pretend you’re not going to cave. You’d asked why he was here. He said he didn’t need a reason. You said he did, it wasn’t his house. He’d teased that he was always welcome. You’d rolled your eyes, and asked if he was sure about that. He’d leaned over you and murmured that you sure as shit seemed happy to see him. You’d just glared, because if you spoke you would’ve started to drool. He’d muttered that, for the record, he’d been invited for the drill. But that he was really here because he needed to see you.

Then he’d shoved his hand under your shirt and kissed you stupid.

You can’t tell your dad that part.

“You told me.” You say lamely.

You can almost hear Dean’s groan.

“Oh. Huh.” Your dad shrugs it off. Why wouldn’t he. “Alright. You gonna stay?”

It’s a horrible idea. If you stay, you’re going to spend the whole time grumpy because you’d been so close, and now Dean was feet away and unable to touch you.

“Sure.”

Fuck.

Your dad takes the victory. In his eyes, you’re sure he thinks it’s a miracle that his daughter wants to hang out with him and his friends instead of going out and doing young people things. You think he forgets, sometimes, that you’ve never been all that good at young people things.

And you’re certainly not going to burst his bubble by reminding him of that. Or the fact that of course you want to hang out with his friend. Sex on Legs Winchester. Even if you didn’t have something halfway started with him, you’d stick around just to ogle the eye candy.

“Am I just a sack of meat to you, princess?” Dean mutters when you tell him as much.

You bite back your smile, and shrug. “Maybe. You gonna do something about it?”

He fixes you with an almost awestruck stare, before chuckling and shaking his head.

“You’re trying to get me killed.”

“No, I’m not-“

“Yeah, you are. I pop a boner now, your old man is gonna rip my head off.”

“So don’t pop a boner, dumbass-“

Your words fall off in a tiny squeak, as Dean grabs the back of your neck and pulls you into a deep, long kiss.

It’s far from the first time you kissed. That had been a night only a week after you’d moved back home—a long, torturous week of staring at massive biceps and imagine them wrapped around your neck, or beating yourself up in the sheets as you got off to the idea of Dean and his stupid, cocky smirk—when he’d been staying over so his house could get gassed for bugs or something. You’d smiled at him too sweetly. All his touches had lingered too long. You’d gone downstairs to get some water, and ended up on top of him on the couch.

You still haven’t slept together. Every time you get close, fucking something has to happen, and you stop.

But you’ve kissed so much you think your lips are molded to shape his.

You immediately turn to slack putty, in Dean’s arms. Kissing him back with frantic passion, leaning over his chest and moaning openly into his mouth. Your fingers find their way to his belt, then lower. Dean tips your head back further to deepen this kiss, and you paw at his bugle with a tiny whimper.

He hums, squeezing the back of your neck. “Behave.”

“Don’t want to.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.

“I know.” Dean pulls back, kissing one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You need some motivation, baby?”

You nod, fixing him with your best, doe-eyed stare. It’s the one that always makes him cave, even when he says he knows he shouldn’t.

But you both know you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t be doing any of this. There’s a long list of reason that starts with your father’s best friend and ends with massive age gap that could be followed to prevent all of this. But you both seem to get a little blind, when you look at each other. Suddenly you can’t read and Dean—a man who’s all self-control and smooth, cool collection—stumbles over his feet like a highschooler.

He says that’s how he knew this was worth it. That you do things to him that no one else ever has. You blush and giggle and press your face into the crook of his neck, and for a little while you both forget the whole world. Sometimes you whisper that he does things to you as well. You’ve never wanted to wrap around someone like this and never let go.

And that overrides all logic and reason. It doesn’t matter what kind of rules there are. You want to break all of them, just to be closer to him for a few moments longer.

“You play nice tonight.” Dean whispers in your ear, tracing lazily up and down your spine. “Then I’ll help you sneak out. Back to my place.”

“Your place?” You sound a lot more pathetic than you want to be. You really don’t know how to help it.

“Mhm. And you know what’s at my place that ain’t here?”

You shake your head, and Dean kisses the tip of your nose. It scrunches up, and his eyes shine with adoration. You’re never going to get sick of him looking at you like that. Like you’re the only thing in the world.

“Peace and quiet.” He mutters. “Just you, me, and nothing else.”

Your eyes widen, as you realize what he means. “Oh- Okay.”

“Okay?”

There’s a hint of worry in his voice. Like he needs to be sure you really mean it, even when you’re slack and folded into his arms, digging your nails into his biceps like you’re trying to leave a mark.

You nod frantically, and his shoulders relax.

“Okay.” He mutters, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. You smile at him, and his throat bobs. “Behave.”

“I always behave.” You tease, and Dean snorts.

“Yeah. Alright.”

“I do. I’m very well trained.”

He chuckles, kissing you light and soft. You push up on your toes, trying to chase a little more, and Dean lets you. He always lets you.

“Don’t think you’re the one on the leash, sweetheart.” He mutters against your lips, and you giggle.

“Dogs train their owners sometimes. With feeding habits and walk schedules.”

“Hm.” He leans back, a smile twitching on his lips. “Is this feedin’, or walkin’?”

 And this is your favorite expression on his handsome face. The one where you can tell that he’s really trying to be annoyed with you, but can’t stop himself from enjoying your company. From looking at you like he wants to just lock the door and pin you to the bed until you’re giggling and beaming all the time. You’d be all for that plan, if your father wasn’t probably waiting downstairs, wondering why Dean’s running late-

Shit. Right. Your father.

“Actually.” You kiss over his beard, curling your fingers in the collar of his shirt. “I think it’s fetch.”

Dean snorts, and ducks down to kiss you again. You push him lightly back, and he stumbles like he’s been shot.

“Out the window.” You say sternly, pointing at the roof.

Dean groans, running a hand over his face. “C’mon, one more-“

“No.”

“But-“

“Behave.” You mock, and he scowls.

“Son of a bitch.” He grumbles under his breath. He’s making a face like a toddler who just got his favorite toy truck confiscated for bad behavior. It’s rather adorable. “Gonna be the death of me, woman. Can’t believe I’m so in love with a fuckin’ brat.”

“Aw, you love me?”

You say it like it doesn’t still make your heart skip to hear it. Dean sighs like he let slip some grand secret, instead of something that he’s told you countless times in dark corners and in booths of bars.

He looks at the window. He’s back to pouting again.

“It’s gonna hurt my knees.” He whines, and you laugh, closing the space between you once more.

“Tough shit, Winchester. Should’ve tried to keep it in your pants.”

“But you make it so hard-“

“I know.”

That earns you a glare, and you giggle again.

You’re both so very bad at this. Dean should already be downstairs. You shouldn’t be goading him into saying longer, but you can’t help it at all. This is your favorite kind of teasing. The one where you end up folded under him with his pretty lips wrapped around your nipples and thick fingers stuffing up your pussy and toying with your clit until you’re whining his name.

Dean’s looking at you like that’s exactly what he wants to do with you. You’re smiling at him like you’re begging for it, and neither of you ever back down from the challenge.

Then your father calls your name from downstairs. And it’s like a bucket of ice water is poured over both your heads.

“Dean’s runnin’ late!” He shouts. “You should go get your Chinese now!”

You sigh, and Dean grimaces. The urgency doesn’t stop him from grabbing your face between his hands, and kissing you one last time.

“Tonight.” He mumbles like an oath. “Just you and me.”

You hum. “Only if I behave, right?”

“Sure. Only if you behave.”

And he says it like that because you both know perfectly well that it doesn’t matter how you behave. You could sit on his lap or rub your foot on his crotch under the table, and he’s still going to open the door when you sneak over. If anything, the question is just how big a price do you want to pay tonight. How far are you willing to push him, how greatly do you want him to snap once you’re alone.

You think you want him to lose it. He’s always extra pretty when he looks like he’s about to cry from frustration, and he’s never hotter than when there’s that dangerous gleam in his eyes that reminds you he could toss you around like a sack of potatoes.

God, it sounds nice though. Being Dean’s sack of potatoes.

He sneaks out the window, and flips you off after you laugh at him for groaning the whole time. He has to sneak down the block to get his car, and you won’t be here when he arrives. You have to go get your Chinese.

But after that, all bets are off.

Dean is worse at this than you are. The sneaking around.

You get stupid and nervous when your dad is around and Dean is hiding. You told me wasn’t your best moment, but it also wasn’t that far from your worst. And you know your dad. You know that he’s not really going to question most things he tells you, because even your more obvious excuses aren’t that suspicious.

But Dean’s a fucking dumbass.

He’s your dumbass. Your old, grumpy idiot who’s some kind of genius with a wrench and a circuit board and an engine, but who stares at the crossword puzzles you do and mutters that all those letters look fake. He could find his way home if you dropped him in the middle of the woods—you call him your pigeon, and he doesn’t think that’s half as funny as you do—but he also thinks that Michaelangelo is the Ninja Turtle and needs your help writing emails. One time you asked him when he’d last gone to the doctor, and he said some time in ’07. You’d smacked him upside the head and dragged him by the nape of his neck.

Later that week, he’d been grumbling to your dad about how the doc was making him cut back on steak. His cholesterol had been through the roof. He’d protested and bitched, but you’d grabbed his jaw and snapped that if he died, you were going to leave him.

So now he’s down to only two burgers a week, and you’re very proud of him.

Which is what he’d told your dad.

Not the you part—he wasn’t that stupid—but the doctor part. And how he’d been bargained down to two burgers in exchange for other things.

Blowjobs. You might not have fucked yet, but you’d done most everything else, and you’d talked him down from a three burger a week deal with the promise of blowjobs.

Which he’d told your dad.

Because he’s an idiot.

“You’re datin’ someone?” Your dad had said in surprise, and Dean had frozen.

On the couch, you’d rolled your eyes. God, he was so lucky you loved him to death.

“I- I- Uh-“

“Why didn’t you tell me? You coulda brought her over, I wanna meet the lady who finally got you to settle.” Your dad had snorted, his voice dropping so that you probably weren’t supposed to hear it. “Hell, if she gives good enough head for you to drop burgers, I gotta meet her.”

You’d felt sick. When you’d glanced over your shoulder, Dean had looked sick.

His eyes had flitted to yours in panic. You’d given him a tight, prompting look, and his throat had bobbed.

“She, uh- She’s real busy-“

“I got time.”

“Right. Good.” Dean had looked trapped. This was the only time you saw him really stumble over his words. When it came to you.

It would be sweet, if he wasn’t a few wrong words from getting shot in the head.

“She, uh- She’s just- You know- Women-“

“Where’s she work.” Your dad had asked casually.

Dean had gone pallid. “The… Place.”

“Place?”

“Bookshop.”

“Oh.” Your father had called your name, and Dean had looked seconds from passing out. “You know any ladies at the bookshop Dean’s age?”

You’d hummed, pretending to examine your nails. “Um… Maybe Matilda.”

Matilda is the lovely old woman who you share all your shifts with. She has five cats, two grandchildren she loves more than her dolt of a son, and knows that you and Dean are dating because she caught you making out in the nonfiction section a month ago.

Dean had glared at you, and you’d just smiled back. The fuck was I supposed to say? You’d tell him later. There’s only four of us, and two are high schoolers.

He’d gotten out of the bookshop jam by saying that she worked at a different place. Your father had bought the lie, but never dropped it. He never drops any of Dean’s slip ups.

Because every time you’ve almost been caught, it’s been Dean’s fault. There was the time your bra got found in the Impala, and when Dean’s brother knew about you before you were formally introduced, and when you’d been on a date and your dad had walked into the bar. You’d shoved Dean under the table, and the fucking dumbass had decided to kiss your thighs the whole time he was down there. You’d kill him if you didn’t love him. But you also think he’d kill himself if he ever really pissed you off.

But now your dad thinks Dean’s sneaking around with some lady from out of town, and you go to bars by yourself when you said you were going out with friends. And he’s a nice, nosy man, so he hasn’t let go of either fact at all.

“How’s your girl, Winchester?” He asks Dean over dinner, and Dean grunts.

“Good. Pissin’ me off, but good.”

You stick your tongue out at him behind your dad’s back. He’s just grumpy about the couch thing.

Your dad had gone to check on the grill, and you’d put your feet in Dean’s lap. He’d grabbed your ankles and hissed for you to behave. You’d smiled at him and moved them, before immediately crawling over him. You’d had a hand resting right against his crotch, and another grabbing at his chest. You’d kissed his cheeks and neck while he just grabbed your waist for balance.

“’M so wet, De.” You’d whispered, sucking a kiss right under his jaw. “Need you so bad.”

He’d made a strangled, almost pained sound. His cock had twitched under your hand, and you’d pressed down harder.

Dean’s fingers had flexed on your waist. You’d dropped your weight onto his thigh, grinding down and moaning against his skin.

You think, if your dad hadn’t come back the next second, he would’ve flipped you over and ripped off your skirt. But you’d heard the door open, and pulled easily away. Dean hadn’t been able to stand up for five minutes. You’d giggled and run your fingers through this hair, before following your dad out on to the porch.

So he’s a little mad at you.

You hope he stays mad at you. He always kisses you like an animal, when he’s a little pissed. Then he presses your face between your breasts and mumbles about how it’s not fair that he can’t stay mad at you, and it’s a better feeling than any high in the world.

Your goal for the night might be driving him so up the wall that when he finally fucks you, he rearranges your guts in his name.

It’s not going to be that difficult to do.

“What’d she do to piss you off?” Your dad asks, and Dean makes a face.

“Nothin’. Just- She gets mouthy.” He’s still glaring at you. You pretend not to see it. “And she likes to push my fuckin’ buttons.”

“You’re fun to rile up, buddy.” Your dad shrugs, totally oblivious to you and Dean eye fucking across the room. “Just take a deep breath and tell her she’s making you mad.”

Dean snorts. “Trust me. I think she knows.”

You beam at him and flutter your lashes. His eyes narrow, his grip on the counter going white knuckled.

He is fun to rile up. You hope he never works on that.

“You know who I saw at the store today?” You dad asks you, and you hum, poking at your chow mein.

“Who?”

“Gordon.”

“Oh, shit.” You look up. “How’s he doing?”

“Alright. Think he’s livin’ at home too. Surprised you didn’t know.”

“Well, we don’t talk that much anymore-“

“He asked about you.” Your dad shrugs casually. Too casually.

You know where this is going.

“Gave me his new number, to pass onto you. Said he missed you, all four years-“

“Dad.” You sigh, giving him a flat look.

He raises his hands. “I’m not sayin’ anything-“

“Yes, you are.”

“Well- Nothin’ that we gotta read into, but you two were always so close-“

“Dad-“

“Who the fuck is Gordon.” Dean grunts, and you flush.

He looks pissed. And not you just flashed him and he’s got a boner at the table pissed.

Really pissed. Like he wants to bite someone’s head off, but hasn’t figured out who yet.

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

“He’s- He’s just my childhood friend-“

“Childhood best friend.” Your dad corrects, and you’re going to fucking kill him and then yourself. “They were little bandits together, we all thought they’d end up datin’, but I guess they both got sidetracked.”

“We didn’t get sidetracked.” You mutter, staring at your plate.

You can feel Dean’s gaze burning into you. It’s almost impossible to look him in the eyes.

“We just- It was never like that-“

“Didn’t he take you to prom?”

“As friends-“

“You didn’t come home ‘till the morning-“

Something cracks, and you and your dad both fall silent.

Dean’s broken his mug. With his hands. One hand.

Oh, God.

You’re worried that if you stand up, there’s going to be a slick stain on your chair.

“You alright, buddy?”

“Yeah. I’m good.” Dean stares at you, nostrils flaring. “You gonna call the boy?”

Boy. Not man, boy. And he says it so mockingly, it makes you feel buzzy and faint.

“No.” You try to sound normal, but you’re sure it comes out pathetic and dazed. “I- Um- We never-“ You glance nervously at your dad, and clear your throat. “Gordon actually ditched me for Anna, on prom night. That was- It was why we stopped talking.”

“Oh.” Your dad makes a sour face. “Well, I always knew he was gonna be bad news eventually. You deserve better, kiddo, and if I see him again I’ll give him a piece of my mind- I’m sure Dean will too.”

And you have to agree with that.

Dean looks like he’s about to go and smash Gordon’s head against the curb. Your dad keeps rambling about Gordon and kids not knowing what they want and how both he and Dean will make sure you never settle for less than you deserve. Dean keeps staring at you, and you’re sure that part is true as well.

Dean’s not going to let you settle for anything less than what you deserve at all. If he can help it, he’s never going to allow you to settle, period.

You really hope he knows, that it’s him and nothing else. Never anything else. Whatever confusing feelings you had eventually developed for Gordon had vanished when you were a teenager. You’d barely had a college boyfriend—more like a few loose options you’d kicked to the curb once you decided they’d lead to pallid and sickly futures—and no one in your life has ever made you care about a relationship the way Dean does.

And you really worry sometimes, that he doesn’t understand that. You try to remind him, but the age gap hangs over your heads like a sword of Damocles. He’s said before that there has to be better boys for you. Boys your age.

You don’t want a boy your age. You want a man.

You want Dean.

And from the look of him, you’re not sure he’d be able to stomach you with anyone else.

“I’m not going to call Gordon.”

Dean looks up from the sink. You’d followed him into the bathroom while your dad cleaned the grill, desperate to make sure he understood. You like him a little grumpy and mocking. It makes everything in your chest feel wrong, when he really seems upset.

“Alright.” Is all he mutters, grabbing a towel to dry his hands.

“Dean-“

“What?”

He gives you a challenging look. You swallow, and lean back against the door.

“I love you.”

The first time you’d said it had been all romantic and dumb in the rain. It had fumbled from your lips like a prayer, and he’d kissed you until your legs gave out. Even now, months later, it has the safe effect. Dean’s shoulders slump, and his eyes soften. Everything in him softens. Just for you.

“I love you too, princess-“

“No.” You whisper, pressing your lips in a tight line. “I really love you.”

Dean frowns. “Yeah, I know-“

“Dean.” You push off the door, your eyes locked onto his. “I love you.”

No one else, is what you tell him with your eyes. Just you. Always just you.

Dean blinks, his gaze raking over your body, then darting to the door. He rasps your name, because he knows you too well. He knows that glint in your eyes, he knows the sweet smile playing on your lips. He tells you all the time, that it almost gives him a heart attack. You close the distance in small, cautious steps. Dean clears his throat, looking almost desperate for you to take mercy.

You won’t. You need him to understand.

“Sweetheart, you can’t-“

“Yes I can.” You sink to your knees, and Dean grabs a fistful of your hair.

Your drag your hands over his thighs, and his swallows hard, a vein in his brow ticking as he tries to keep still.

“Come on.” He rasps. “This ain’t behaving.”

You shrug, slowly undoing his belt buckle. “Oops.”

Dean’s chest heaves, and a small groan rumbles in his chest as you kiss his crotch. You watch him under hooded lashes, pulling down his pants and taking his underwear with them.

He’s already hard. Thick in your hand and weeping from his slit, the angry red of his cock demanding your attention, even as he tries to talk you out of it.

“Baby, you- You don’t gotta-“

“But I want to.” You murmur, slowly pumping his cock with a light grip.

Dean grunts, bucking into your hand. His head is tossed back, his eyes squeezed shut, his breath coming out in pants. You stop stroking him, and he immediately looks back down.

“What’re you-“

“Can I?” You press your cheek into his thigh, letting your warm breath fan over his balls. “Please?”

You pout, just to be sure he knows. Dean never likes making you do this. He always whines on and on about how it should be about you, not him. He says he gets off just fine tasting you and making you cum on his fingers. You’re still trying to make him understand that just the thought of him fucking your face like a toy ruins your underwear.

You’ll be sure to show him after.

Dean stares down at you, gripping the bathroom sink and petting the top of your head. He lets out a ragged breath, closes his eyes, then drags them back open. You think he might be checking that you’re still there.

You’re about to suck his soul out of his cock. He’s not going to get rid of you that easy.

“You sure?” He mutters, and you nod eagerly.

“Please.”

A feral sound rumbles from his throat. His dick twitches, and he gives the tiniest nod. 

“Is that-“

“Go for it.” A smile ghosts his lips. “Show me what you’ve got, baby.”

You give him a flat look. He knows damn well, what you’ve got. And you can see him smirking, opening his mouth to say something cocky and smug about you biting off more than you can chew.

You don’t give him the chance, before you’re wrapping your mouth around his head and swirling your tongue.

Dean groans, his blunt nails scraping against your head as his whole body tenses. You hum around him and repeat the motion, again, and then one more time for good measure.

“Jesus-“ He chokes out your name. “Warn a guy- I- Wasn’t fuckin’ ready-“

You smile, pushing further down. You suck lightly, taking his base into your hand and pumping it in time with your mouth. Dean makes a sinful, deep noise that comes straight from your dreams. He croaks out your name, bowing his head and tugging on your hair as his cock pulses in your mouth.

“Baby- Fuck-“

You take your free hand and grab his balls, slowly massaging them as your mouth picks up the pace. Dean’s looking down at you like you fell from Heaven, right onto your knees for him, and him alone.

“You’re a fuckin’ brat, you know that? Just- Lookin’ at me and- Shiiit-“

He’s losing composer. It’s what you live for. The way his eyes roll back and he starts to shallowly thrust between your lips, letting drool slip down your chin and pre-cum leak over your tongue.

“Mouth was made for me.” He grits out, his teeth bared and voice tight. “Pretty little slut, know you love this shit. You’re wet, aren’t you. Drippin’ all over the floor for me.”

You moan in agreement, and Dean slams his hips forward. His cock bruises the back of your throat and you have to relax your jaw to stop yourself from gagging. Dean tenses, his voice raw and strained.

“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m sorry-“

You’re not having any of that.

Dean cuts himself off with another guttural sound as you push yourself forward. Your nose brushes his abdomen, your jaw unhinged to take all of him, and it’s still not enough. You stick out your tongue, flicking the underside of his cock as you squeeze his balls.

“Son of a bitch- You-“

You suck, letting your throat squeeze around the head of him. He makes another, feral sound, and tugs at your hair.

“Baby, shit- You’re so fuckin’ warm, and- You gotta get off or-“

He almost whimpers as you pull back, sliding off his cock with a pop and stroking it as you leave an open-mouth kiss on the swollen head. Dean’s fingers flex, and you know he wants to shove you back down.

You give him a soft smile, kissing down his shaft, then over his balls. You suck there for a second, still jerking his cock in your free hand, and he finally snaps. Pulling you back by your hair and giving you a wrecked, hopeless look. He’s trying to use his listen to me voice, but he seems to know it’s a lost cause. You’ve got him exactly where you want him.

He says your name like a prayer, and you open your mouth. Stick out you tongue, fixing him with a challenging glare.

Dean swallows. “You sure- Fuck-“

You flick your tongue over his head, squeezing the base of his dick tight.

Dean shakes his head, looking up like he’s praying.

“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters, and you know you’ve won.

You keen as Dean’s grip on your hair tightens. He shoves you right down his cock, pushing against the back of your throat before yanking you back. You moan around him, your eyes watering from the overwhelming taste and force. You’re barely more than a cocksleeve for his pleasure, and that’s exactly what you wanted.

Dean barely able to think outside of where he’s fucking your mouth, making broken and worshipful sounds, calling your name with every thrust.

“Fuck, baby- Takin’ it so good, love you like this, choking on my cock. Look so pretty for me, wish I could take a picture- Fuuuckkkk-“

He tosses his head back, still watching his cock pump between your lips. He gets transfixed and babbles, coming apart above you as you just keep smiling and taking it.

“Pretty girl,” he grits out. “My pretty fuckin’ slut, sucking dick like a damn vacuum- Crying for me, baby girl, you need this cock that bad-“

You mewl in agreement, dizzy from the praise. You do need his cock that bad. If the thoughts weren’t being fucked from your head, you whimper that no one fucks your mouth like he does. No one makes you feel so holy and used all at the same time. You’re so wet you feel it every time you shift, so wet you’re worried he’s going to be able to smell it. But you love this. The taste and weight of him, and how no one gets it but you.

It’s almost pornographic, the way he’s taking your mouth. Your lips shine with spit and pre-cum, tears pour down your cheeks as his thrusts become jagged sharp, and sweat shines on Dean’s thighs as you keep working his balls. They’re getting tight and heavy in your hands. He’s about to loose it.

“Baby-“ He taps your cheek, words pushed out between moans. “Baby, I- I’m gonna-“

You sink your nails into his thigh. You’ve never failed to swallow before, and you’re not starting now.

Dean hisses out your name, but doesn’t stop. You moan around him, sucking as hard as you can to shove him over the edge.

He cums hard, shooting thick ropes of release down your throat. You unhinge your jaw, and manage to get most of it. But he always lets out so much, and a fair amount ends up smeared with your tears and dripping down his legs.

You pull slowly back, and start to lick up what you weren’t able to get on your first try. Dean hisses, sensitive from the orgasm, and strokes his hand through your hair. His gaze is fixed on where some had dripped down to your tits. You have a feeling that if you were really, truly in private, he’d shove his face into your chest and clean you up himself.

“You are-“ He lets out a broken laugh, as you smile up at him. “Something else.”

“You’ve told me.” You tease, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Too proud of it.” He grumbles. “Like you want to be over my knee later.”

You shrug, eyes sparkling. Dean’s jaw ticks.

His thumb swipes over your cheek, where a little bit of the cum is still stained.

“Open.” He mutters, and you obey.

He presses his thumb between your swollen lips, and you take it with a happy hum. Dean groans, watching you suckle his release of his finger. You flutter your lashes at him. He pulls out, smearing spit over your cheek.

“I’m goin’ in an hour.” His voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it. It sends an excited, electric thrill between your legs. “You better follow, or I’m comin’ here and fucking you in your daddy’s house.”

You nod like a bobblehead, unable to even find the words. Dean laughs and pulls you to your feet, kissing you harshly. It’s messy and open, possessive in a way you’d never found hot before you had him.

Other boys being possessive had seemed like they thought of you as a nice little toy they threw a tantrum over having to share. With anyone, even your friends.

Dean being possessive makes you feel priceless. Treasured. He’s yours, and he doesn’t want you to forget it. You can do whatever the hell you want, just so long as you remember that he’s yours.

Your dad is calling for you again. Dean slips out of the bathroom first—he doesn’t have cum and drool to clean off his face—but not before kissing your cheek and slapping your ass.

He says you’re going to be the death of him, but he’s bouncing around like he’s ten years younger. You’re the one who needs to clutch the railing as she walks downstairs. He didn’t even fuck you and it’s hard to walk from the throb between your legs.

You’d been right. You’d completely destroyed your underwear, turning it to just a soaked scrap of lace.

And Dean might have you begging at his feet, but you don’t roll over that easy. You pulled off your panties before you left the bathroom. You keep them bundled in your fist while Dean talks to your dad for the last hour, sitting on the counter with your legs crossed. When it’s time for him to go, he wanders over to give a perfectly innocent goodnight.

His eyes are gleaming, as he drawls see you around, kid.

Kid.

He knows you hate it when he calls you kid. And suddenly, you don’t feel bad anymore.

“Night, grandpa.” You say lightly, and Dean laughs, but it’s rougher than before. You can see it in his eyes, the way he’s planning out every single way he’s going to make you pay for that.

Then you stick out your hand, and he blinks. There’s a confused, cautious shadow over his face as he takes your hand and shakes it. You cover it with your fist, and slip your panties into his grip.

Dean pulls back with a frown, looks down, and coughs so loud he staggers. You bite your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. Your father looks up from the sink with a worried face.

“You alright, Dean?”

“Yeah, uh- Yeah.” He stares at you, working his jaw. His words are pushed through his teeth, and you can see his cock, already straining through his jeans again.

His closes his fist around your panties, and shoves them into his pockets. Your dad asks him something else, but you don’t hear it. You’re fully fixed on Dean. On the dangerous promise in his eyes.  

You’re in trouble.

Good.

Dean lives more than twenty minutes away, but you make the drive in fifteen.

You’re desperate, and past denying it. You’ve got the hottest man alive waiting for you and finally about to fuck you, anyone else would be breaking traffic laws as well.

It wasn’t hard to sneak past your father, especially because you failed to sneak past him. You got downstairs and found him watching TV. You’d thought he was in bed, and the blood had drained from your face.

“Dad, uh- You’re-“

“Just watchin’ Jeopardy.” He’d said, not looking away from the screen. “You going to Dean’s?”

You’d tripped over nothing, and choked on the air.

“I- I don’t- I’m not- What-“

“Don’t insult me, kiddo.” He twists, giving you a flat look. “I ain’t blind and stupid. He had a hard on the whole night.”

“Um-“ You fidget with your fingers, unsure if you should run or just drop dead. “That’s- Maybe he was texting his girlfriend-“

“He never texts his girlfriend. He just texts you.”

You open your mouth, then close it. You’re dead. Dean’s dead. Your dad is going to kill him and you’re never even going to get to have sex, and that’s such a huge bummer because you’re just going to sit at his grave forever, and turn into a tree like some old myth, and then your dad is going have no one to talk to sports about. Everyone is losing in this scenario. It’s awful.

“Was it his fault?” You say, because it’s all you can think of. “That you realized?”

Your dad snorts. “Oh, yeah. I had suspensions-“

“Suspicions-“

“I caught you on a date.” He says your name dryly. “You said you were there alone, but his car was in the lot. He said he was datin’ a girl who worked in a bookshop. You’d been wearing his shirt to bed.”

Your mouth falls open, your cheeks burning.

“Oops.”

“Yeah. Oops.” Your dad sighs, turning back to the TV. “Realized when he let me call you on his phone. Dumbass opened the message thread for me and everything.”

Oh. Oh no.

Again, there wasn’t much outside of sex that you and Dean hadn’t done. Which, tragically, included sexting.

A lot of sexting.

Photos of you in lingerie and dick pics and voice memos and a lot of videos, and you’re going to throw up-

“You- You didn’t-“

“Saw more of Dean than I ever wanted to.” Your dad mutters, making a face like he’s also going to be sick. “Was about to punch him for sending that shit to you, but there was a voice memo with it. Listened for about ten seconds, almost got sick, realized it was at least mutual.”

You cringe. You remember that voice memo and photo, just as well as you remember your dad calling you on Dean’s phone because his was dead. You’d thought he sounded weird. You wished you hadn’t been so right.

“I’m so sorry-“

“He treat you well?”

You blink. You almost don’t understand the question.

“Of- Of course he does.”

“Hm.” Your dad frowns at the TV. “He gonna marry you?”

“Dad-“

“I’m just sayin’.” He shrugs. “If he’s puttin’ us all through this, he better hope he doesn’t break your heart. You know I was in the military.”

You almost laugh. “He was in the military-“

“I was ranked higher.”

“Dean was a marine-“

“You think I couldn’t kick his ass?”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “I think you don’t have to, because he won’t break my heart.”

For a second, you just stare at each other. Then your father huffs, and slumps back into the couch.

“Good.” He waves a hand. “Have fun.”

You nod, then go still.

Have fun.

That’s… Approval.

Your dad knows about you and Dean, and he—begrudgingly, but that’s the best you can hope for—approves.

So that should be the first thing you tell Dean when you get through the door. That you don’t have to keep hiding. You’re rehearsing breaking the news your whole drive over, mumbling the speech under your breath when you knock on the door.

But then Dean opens it, and suddenly there’s only one important thing in the world.

Greetings are forgotten, as Dean wraps an arm around your waist and drags you into his chest. You whimper as his mouth slams over yours, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him further down.

“Haven’t stopped thinkin’ about you since I left.” Dean groans, pulling your jacket off with scrambling hands. “Got in the car and wanted to turn around, sneak back through the window like a fuckin’ teenager- Jesus, you don’t know what you do to me-“

You surge up on your toes, throwing your arms around his shoulder and kissing him until you’re breathless and swaying.

“I- I know.” You whisper. “God, Dean, I know-“

He makes one of those deep, hungry, rumbling sounds, spinning you both around so he can kick the door close. You stumble closer, pressing him back against the wall as your pull his upper lip between your kiss. Dean grunts and crashed forward, grabbing your face between his hands and pressing back.

“Needy.” He mutters between open mouth kisses. “Needy fuckin’ girl, can’t even let me take a breath, can you?”

You tip you head back, your words breathy and high as Dean starts to kiss over your neck.

“You- You kissed me first.”

Dean hums, nipping at your throat. He’s dragging his hands down your sides, slipping one under your shirt to caress your spine while the other gropes at your ass.

“I did, didn’t I?”

“Mhm.” You mumble, lost in the heat of his mouth. He’s sucking on a sensitive pulse point, letting his tongue flick over the skin, and he knows what that does to you. “De- Dean-“

“Guess I’m the one who couldn’t wait.” He says, but it’s mostly to himself. “Been dreamin’ of this for so long, sweetheart. You here.” He kisses further down, pulling down your shirt to get access to the top of your chest. “’Bout to be in my bed.” He bunches up the fabric of your shirt, and only his arm around you is keeping you upright. “’Bout to be on my cock.”

He hisses the last words before rushing back up into a starved, sloppy kiss. He rips off your shirt in the same second, before smoothly unclipping your bra. You gasp as the cold air hits your nipples, nails scratching at Dean’s neck.

“Shit- Dean-“

“I’ve got you.” He scoops you into his arms, kissing your cheek.

“Do you-“ You swallow at his flat, amused look. “Sorry.”

His lips twitch, and he doesn’t break your gaze as he walks down the hall. “You know, you always get mouthy when you’re horny.”

You scowl. “I do not-“

“You do-“

“No, I-“

Dean cranes his neck, capturing your lips in a slow, lazy kiss. You respond in a second with a light tug of his hair, eliciting another pleased, low rumble from his chest.

He pulls back, and you chase him. Getting one more, quicker kiss that he melts into within a second.

“You do.” He rasps, nipping at your nose. “You turn into a real brat.”

You glare, ready to snap something that would only prove his point. But Dean grins, and suddenly you’re being dumped down onto his bed. You yelp at the sudden movement, wiggling and holding him tight enough to strange. Dean grunts, falling forward and barely managing to brace himself over you as you both crash down to the mattress.

“Jesus-“ He mutters your name, and you shove his shoulders.

“You surprised me-“

“You almost killed me-“

“Oh, you’re fine-“

“I’m old, that coulda broken my knees-“

“Shut up.”

You grab his face, pressing up for another stumbling, frantic series of kisses. You’ve kissed Dean pretty much everywhere—on his body and geographically—but this is always your favorite place. On his pretty mouth, under him in his bed. There’s nothing around you that isn’t Dean, and it’s intoxicating. The pine and spice scent of him, the heat of his body, the fact that he just lay here by himself sometimes. Thinking of you, the same way you think of him.

Dean wraps his arms around you, pulling you up off the mattress. You hook your leg over his waist, flipping you both over so you’re straddling his lap and kissing him everywhere you can reach. You grind down onto his sweats, and he moans shamelessly, his fingers digging into your hips.

“You- You’re not wearing your fucking panties-“

“I gave them to you.” You mumble, pressing your ass down against his thickness. The fabric scrapes against your bare pussy, offering perfect friction, and you start to hump him like you’re in heat.

 Dean drags his hand up your spine, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you up his chest. He lets you keep working yourself down on his bulge for a few seconds longer, moaning into your mouth as you tease him.

“Dirty, dirty girl.” He scolds, the mocking tone in his voice just spurring you on.

He knows you love it. That’s why he likes it.

“Walkin’ around in just a skirt.” He dips a hand under your skirt, palming at your bare ass cheeks. “Should’ve folded you over the couch to see it. Pretty fuckin’ pussy, bet it’s already nice and wet for me.”’e

He reaches further down, and you gasp as his fingers brush your cunt. He’s right. Of course he is. Dean might know your body better than you do.

“Shit- Dean-“

“Shhh.” He splits two fingers, rubbing them over the outer lips of your pussy before pinching them together.

You whine, trying to hump up into his hand, but he splays his palm on your lower back and presses you back down.

“Behave.” He grunts. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to fuck you how I want?”

He squeezes harder, his thumb grazing over your clit. Your whole body tremors, and you press your face into the crook of Dean’s neck.

“Ye- Yes.” You pant. “But- You’re not fucking me- You’re just- Oooh-“

He flicks his thumb this time, and it’s like a tiny electric shock. You don’t know how he always does this. It doesn’t matter if he’s got his hand between your legs or your pussy right on his face, he plays it like an instrument. It would make you scream if it didn’t feel so good.

“Well,” Dean muses, dragging his thumb in slow torturous circles as he starts to rub your pussy again. “I told you to behave earlier. And did you?”e

You shake your head, almost so overwhelmed from the attention on your core that you forget how to speak. “N- No.”

“That’s right. So I’m gonna fuck you,” he pulls his hand away for a second, landing a sharp slap on your ass before pushing it  back. “When you remember how to be a good girl.”

You whimper, but don’t argue. This is what you’d asked for, with all the teasing.

You’d just thought he’d give it to you rough. That’s what behave usually meant. An invitation for you to test the line, if you wanted him to pin your on his mouth and make you cum under you were begging him to stop. Once it meant lying over his lap while he fingered and spanked you, and you’d cum so hard you saw stars.

But that’s not what this is.

You’re melted over Dean’s chest, and he’s being lazy and mean. He keeps playing with your pussy like it’s a cute little toy. Just brushing it and rubbing your clit with barely any pressure.

“Mo- More.” You plead. “I need more-“

You almost sob, as he pushes one finger just into your entrance before taking it away. You hug him so tight you think it must hurt, but he doesn’t even grunt.

“Look at that.” He coos in your ear, smearing a little bit of your arousal on your thigh. “You’re making a mess on me, baby. Just from a little bit of touchin’.”

“Was- Was not a little bit-“

“Wasn’t much.” Dean muses, landing a sharp slap on your swollen pussy. “But it never takes much to get my girl wet, does it.”

You shake your head, tears pricking at your eyes again. You’d beg if you had the words, but right now you’re just trying to hold on.

“Everything makes you so horny.” Dean drawls, going back to rubbing his big, warm hand over your pussy. “Remember when we got ice cream? Had to fuck you in my car, ‘cause you couldn’t even wait to get to the damn house.”

“You- You were- You were wearing a really nice shirt-“

“Sure, princess. It was the shirt.”

“It was-“

Dean slaps your pussy again, and your words fall into a whine.

“You ashamed of the truth, princess?” He teases, right in your ear. “How you really wanted me to stuff you up, fuck you and fill you like the cumslut that you are?”

You keen, and you can’t stop yourself from humping his hand again. This time, Dean lets you. He knows you need it.

“That’s right, baby girl. I know you like that.” He bites your ear, and you wiggle your ass right onto his fingers, trying to force one or two inside you. “I remember how I came on your thighs. You almost got me to put it in that day. One more of those pretty pleases and I woulda caved.”

“De- Deeaan-“

“Kept those panties too. I got a whole drawer for them, just for when I miss you.” He kisses the side of your head. “And I always fuckin’ miss you.”

The tears start to flow, half from the debaucherous sweetness of Dean’s words, and half from desperation. If you don’t cum right now, you’re going to explode.

And you’re close. You’re so close. Your pussy is clenching around nothing, but you’ve gotten the tips of Dean’s fingers to press onto your clit, and the sensitive little button is going to be enough to get you over the edge. He grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls it up, forcing you to meet his eyes as you work down onto his fingers. You sob in desperation, lips quivering and tits bouncing. Dean groans, pushing up to kiss you as hard as he can. And you’re so close.

Then the asshole stops.

He pulls his hand away, slaps your pussy, and stops.

You make a strangled, broken sound of defeat, and Dean just chuckles. He makes you both sit up, massaging your ass and kissing away your tears.

“Nice try.” He smiles, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “You think you earned bein’ able to cum?”

“Ye- Yes.” You pout hopefully, and Dean chuckles.

“Aw, sweetheart. You ain’t even mouthy anymore.”  

You swallow. “I- I can be-“

“Jesus.” Dean laughs, and that pools right in you tummy, the embarrassment stoking an already raging fire. 

Dean’s rubbing your sides, kissing all over your shoulders as breasts as you just try to breathe. You earned this. You really did. But god, it’s a perfect torture. He’s just kissing and touching you, in a way that would almost be innocent if you weren’t soaked wearing just a skirt and leaving a stain on his jeans. 

“’M sorry.” You breathe out, wrapping your arms around Dean’s head.

He hums, taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Your eyes flutter, and it’s hard to stay focused. He’s so warm, his tongue dragging in little circles. You swallow, your voice getting higher as he starts to suck.

“I- I’m sorry I teased you, De- I- Pleaseeee-“

Dean moves away, grabbing your jaw and holding it back for him to inspect. You give him your best, pleading expression and pray it breaks him.

He taps your lips with his thumb. “Open.”

You obey in a second, and Dean’s lips twitch. He leans down, and spits right into your open mouth.

He’s done this before. It practically makes you gush every time. And it doesn’t help that he’s wrapped all around you, watching you with such teasing affection as you take it so easily. You swallow, and blink up at him with a fucked out, dazed expression.

“Good girl.” He mutters, and you beam up at him. “Yeah, I know. You like bein’ a good girl.”

God, you do. And from Dean’s lips, the words feel like a rush of adrenaline.

“But you’re not gonna learn, are you?” He drawls. “Gonna keep me on my toes, running around trying to find places to fuck you that won’t get us arrested.”

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But you like me like that.”

That makes him laugh again, before he pulls you into a shockingly sweet, slow kiss.

“Damn right I do,” he mutters, before pulling back way. “Alright. Up.”

You blink at him. “Huh.”

“Stand up.” He nods to the foot of the bed. “Take off your skirt, ‘n come back.”

“But- You’re- You’re still-“

“Trust me, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the tip of your nose. “If I keep these pants on longer, Little Dean is gonna suffocate. I’ll take care of it.”

You giggle softly, and obey the command. The air feels cold, without Dean there folded over you. It’s just further motivation for you to push down your skirt and wait for his next request.

And you’ve been naked in front of Dean before. Many times, to varying degrees. But you’ve never done it like this.

Just… Bare. Wearing nothing and standing for him to see so clearly, as he pulls off his jeans and shirt then settles at the headboard. He’s taken his cock in his hand, and started to stroke it slowly. Looking you up and down with a lazy grin. Your skin prickles with anticipation, and with anyone else you’d try to wrap your arms around your stomach or shrink back and hide. And the first time you tried that, he’d pinned your hands over your head and fingered you until you squirted.

So maybe you should try it.

“Don’t even think about it.” He growls, when you move. “Wanna see you, baby.”

You swallow, shifting on your feet. “You can see me.”

“Hell yeah, I can.”

Dean’s gaze is burning into you. And it’s the most impossibly sensual thing you’ve ever see, Dean’s massive cock in his hand. The way it twitches and jumps as he touches it, as he watches you. He grunts, his hand staring to beat harder, and you press your thighs tight together.

It’s just you, that’s making him all flushed and hard. You almost start to drool again, thinking about crawling down the mattress and taking him back in your mouth. How he’d probably let you, with how he’s got lidded eyes and making low, rough grunts.

It’s a powerful, beautiful feeling.

But unfortunately, not enough to stop you from scrambling forward the moment he stretches out a hand.

Dean laughs, spinning you around so your back is tucked into his chest. His hand that hand been on his cock hitches up your leg, and the other wraps around your stomach, his fingers grazing under your breast. You tip your head back against his shoulder, closing your eyes and getting lost in the feeling. Dean, wrapped so fully and completely around you, keeping you nice and warm in his massive arms.

“Look at you.” He kisses along your jaw, fingers dragging over your sensitive inner thigh. “Nice and stupid for me already. Ready to be a pretty doll and take this cock.”

“Need it.” You breathe out, grabbing his forearm. “Pleeease, Dean, I’ve been waiting so long-“

You moan as he parts the swollen lips of your pussy, letting his cock slip and rub between your folds.

“I know you have.” He mutters. “Been waitin’ longer. Almost lost my mind, knowin’ how tight and warm you were but not being able to fuck you. Fuck you right, fuck you properly, fuck you ‘till you ain’t ever gonna remember another mans name.”

“Just you.” You manage to whine out, pushing your hips up to get a little more friction. “Always just you, Dean, don’t want anyone else, never wanted anyone else- Fuuuck-“

He pushes inside. It’s slow and careful, deft fingers rubbing your clit to help you relax. It’s not like much help is needed, though. He’s so big you can’t close your fingers around him, but he slips into your cunt like a glove.

“Shit-“ Dean groans in your ear, lips hot and wet on your skin. “Greedy pussy swallowing me up, baby, knew you’d take me so good, take me perfect-“

He bottoms out, pressing against a gooey spot deep inside you body. Nobody’s ever really hit it before, let along split you open so well it gets a consistent, throbbing pressure. His tip kisses your cervix, his breathing ragged in your ear, and you both need a few seconds to adjust.

You turn your head, trying to chase his mouth, and find Dean already there. He kisses you slowly, open mouthed with his tongue mapping every inch of your mouth. His arms are fully wrapped around your stomach, and you cling to them like a seatbelt. You’re lightheaded in the best possible way. Dean hums against your lips, and the sound vibrates inside of you.

You mewl, tossing your head back and clenching down. Dean hisses, and pulls you further back into his chest.

“Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“

“Sorry.” You whine out, turning your face to hide in his neck. “Just- ‘S big, Dean. So big.”

Dean chuckles. It doesn’t help.

“Big, huh?”

“Don’t milk it.” You grumble, and he laughs fully.

“I don’t think I’m the one that’s gonna be doin’ the milking, princess.”

He thrusts up, and you whimper.

“Dean-“

“That’s right.” He repeats the shallow thrust, and your moan gets loud. “Sing for me, baby, show ‘em who owns this pussy.”

“Y- You.” You stutter out. Your head is empty. You don’t think you can fit Dean’s cock and thinking at the same time. “Dean- Deeean-“

He attaches his lips to your neck again, sucking and kissing as he pushes you further down on his cock.

But he stops thrusting. He just has you… sit there.

On him. So full you can barely breathe, every nerve in your body stimulated but being offered no relief.

“What- What’re you-“

“Wanna keep you’re here for a while.” He murmurs, his kisses slowing. Becoming lazy and over attentive again, without giving you what you really need. “Just like this. My perfect fuckin’ girl, look at you.”

He taps your clit, and you try to arch up into the touch, but his hold is too strong.

“Fuck- Dean-“

“Just a little bit, baby.” He coos, rubbing your clit with the very tip of his fingers. “Just hold it for me.”

And God, you try. You sit on Dean and let him tease and touch you however he wants. He drags circles around your clit until you’re panting and whining, then moves his attention back up to your nipples. Tweaking and rolling them between his fingers, kissing over your neck and shoulders as his cock twitches inside of you with every lewd moans of his name.

“You like that?” He murmurs, and you nod.

Then he stops it, kissing the sob out of your mouth and moving onto something else.

He’s done this to you before. Had you in his arms and teased you until you couldn’t take it, then let you cum. But he’s never done it while sheathed inside of you. It heightens everything, making it impossible to think outside of his hands and lips and cock. His thick cock, not pressing against your ass, but buried in your cunt and still hitting all those sensitive places.

You’re on fire, and Dean’s just letting you build and build and build up to an explosive pressure. There are spots dancing behind your eyes, when he starts rubbing your clit in fast, brutal circles, then stops just before you can fall over the edge. You claw at his arms, wrecked beyond words, sobbing and trying to get away and get him closer.

For a second, you make the mistake of bowing your head. Your eyes flutter open, and you get a full view of Dean’s cock settled inside you. His balls pressed right against your ass, the way he almost fit everything in, but there’s still a bit of his base that didn’t make it. It’s slick with your arousal, dripping right out of your pussy as you whimper.

“De- Deaaan-“ It’s all you’ve been moaning, for who knows how long.

You’re so overstimulated, time is starting to blur. Maybe it’s been an hour, maybe only five minutes. It feels like you’ve been here forever.

“Please- Please-“ You blubber, leaning back to look at him under tear-stained lashes, the words falling from swollen lips. “I- I’ll do anything, oooooh- Fuck-“

Dean gives a shallow thrust, and your whole body spasms. He’s watching under hooded, lust blown eyes. And if the starved, animalistic look in his eyes is any clue, if he doesn’t cave for your sake, he’s going to cave for his.

“You gonna be good for me?” He rasps, and you nod frantically.

“So good- Please-“

Dean kisses you again, but this time he shifts you in his arms. His arm wraps around your neck, pinning you fully to his chest in a headlock. Your eyes roll back, a dazed smile covering your face.

His movements are relaxed and controlled, but you can see the feral glint his eyes.

You won.

“Perfect fuckin’ pussy, making a mess all over this cock.” He grunts out, bending his knees so you’re fully folded into his lap. “Could die here, baby- Fuucckkk-“

He seems to lose his own voice, the second he starts thrusting up into you. A beautiful moan rumbles in your ears, and Dean presses his nose tight against the side of your head. You whimper, holding onto him tight, mostly to try and keep grounded.

Dean’s fucking into you at a rough, snapping pace, and this is what you’d expected, but it’s better than you could’ve dream. The feeling of every vein and inch of him being pushed though your cunt. The obscene sounds of his cock slamming into you cunt, his arm around you forcing your head back onto his shoulder, giving you a full glimpse of Dean as your pussy strangles and squeezes him.

He looks destroyed, panting broken praise in your ear as his lips droop and his mouth hangs open.

You push up a little, managing to get his attention with a whimper. He gives you a curious look, then understands in a second. His lips mold over yours, and you babble some cockdrunk nonsense against his mouth. You’re fully crying again, so lost in the pleasure that you can’t even find the shame to care. Dean’s drilling up, pushing every thought in your head away into a pleasurable haze.

He pulls your knees up higher, letting him hit even deeper than before. Each stoke is deep and rough, and you’d been worked up so well that your pussy is just weeping and taking him like you’re a fuckdoll. You feel like one, in the best possible way. Stuffed up and pounded with abandon, slicking Dean’s cock so that it drives right back into your like a toy.

You moan, letting your eyes close and drowning in the impossibly good feeling. You can’t believe you waited this long. If Dean fucks like this, you might never get off his cock again.

“That’s it,” he squeezes your breast before moving those sinful fingers back down to play with your clit. “Takin’ me so perfect, baby girl, just gotta cum for me- Cum all over my dick, show me how much you love it- Come on-“

That’s really all it takes. Dean’s everywhere around you, his cock bullying into that gooey spot, and your orgasms hits you so hard you think you black out. The heat that had pooled in your stomach explodes and floods all your senses, pouring out of your pussy as your hips buck and you squirm in his grip.

Dean groans your name, and his thrusts get tighter. Faster and more brutal as he chases his own release. It prolongs your own orgasm, forcing it to drag out as you vision dances with spots.

Dean slams home, turning your head to find another, bruising kiss, and now you might be ascending. He’s cumming deep, deep into your pussy, and the sounds get better as he fucks it back into you. Everything in you is so full, you think you might be about to burst with light.

You get a soft kiss on your brow, as his grip loosens around your neck. When he finally settles and tries to pull away, you fumble to grab his wrist, fixing him with a pleading stare. You don’t ever want to be empty again.

“Gotta take care of you, baby.” Dean mutters, kissing the back of your hand. “We can do more later. When you’re talkin’.”

You roll your eyes, and he chuckles, booping your nose. You wrinkle it, and he kisses the angry pout off your lips.

“Silly girl.” He murmurs, and just like that you’re melting again. “Like I could live with myself if I didn’t fuck you again.”

You flush, and roll over to hide it in the sheets. Dean laughs, kissing the base of your spine and slapping your ass before fully standing up.

And you learn another difference between boys and men. All the douchebags you’ve slept with before rolled off of you and started smoking or talking about something unimportant.

Dean gets you water, and coaxes it down your throat. He draws a bath and carries you into it, but not before making sure you pee. He changes the sheets and gets you clean clothing and brings you a snack, smiling at you and kissing the top of your head every single time.

“You’re like a maid.” You mumble once you’re back in bed, curled into his chest.

He laughs, grinning down at you. “Only for my favorite girl.”

“I’m your favorite?”

“Don’t be a brat.” He gives you an amused look. “Don’t think you’d be able to handle another round, honey.”

You sigh dramatically, flopping fully onto his chest. You prop your chin up, watching him watch you. There’s that quiet, unending adoration again. You wish you could see it every second of every day, instead of sneaking out and-

Oh.

“Shit.” You sit up, and Dean grunts, grabbing your waist to keep you steady.

“What, what’s wrong-“

“I- Um- You can’t get mad.”

Dean says your name in a low warning, and you swallow.

“My- My dad- He, um-“

“Sweetheart-“

“He knows!” You blurt. “He’s known for a while, actually, and it’s- It’s actually your fault, you showed him that dick pic and voice memo you sent me-“

“I what-“

“You did it by accident! But you still did it, and-“

“Which one did he hear?” Dean demands, and you cringe.

“The one about- About tying me up.”

Dean goes pale. He groans, tipping his head back and grabbing onto you like he thinks someone’s going to rip you away.

“God fuckin’- I’m dead-“

“No!” You grab his face with a smile. “You’re not! He’s fine with it!”

Dean blinks. “He is?”

You nod. “He- Well, he wants to know when you’re going to marry me, but- Um-“ You laugh nervously. Dean’s older. You just had sex for the first time. He probably doesn’t want to think about that yet. “You know. He’s chill.”

“He’s chill.” Dean echoes.

“Mhm. Except for- The marriage thing.”

Dean hums. He’s relaxed again, dragging his palms in slow circles over your ass. His lips pull into that lazy, satisfied smirk. You flush just from the sight of it.

“What?”

“Nothin’.” He squeezes your waist. “Just tell him to give it a few months.”

“A- Give what-“

Dean raises his brows. Your mouth falls open.

“A few months-“

“I know what I want.” Dean shrugs. And you can see it. Him watching you so, so carefully.

And you smile.

Because you do to.

“Yeah?” You whisper, leaning down to hover your lips over his.

“Yeah.” He mutters. “That alright with you?”

You answer with a kiss, and Dean grunts, immediately rolling you over. And this sweet, slow moment feels like it’s going to last forever.

You hope—you pray—that it does.

✦End note: honestly this might be one of my favorite i hope you enjoyed it.✦

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

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

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

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

That’s what makes you freeze.

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

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

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

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

But this.

This feels like a fever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?”

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

“No, I mean with Soldier Boy-“

“Ah, your sweet lil Ben-“

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

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

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

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

“Oh, fuck off, that’s all you do-“

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

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

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

“Butcher, I swear to fucking God-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you never fear Ben.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eating your- What?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck no,” Ben grunts, and you sigh.

“He doesn’t believe in the dryer.”

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

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

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

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

“What-“

“You’re not eating.”

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

“Why.”

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

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

“Um- The dryer-“

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

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

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

“But- Ben-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got something you wanna say to me?”

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

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

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

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

“You were sweating, Benjamin-“

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

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

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

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

“I- That’s not what I said-“

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

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

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

“I- You’re fucking- I hate you.”

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

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re a shit fuckin’ liar-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wha- What-“

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

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

“Ben, what’s- Shit-“

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

“I- Um-“

“Eat that,” he grunts.

You blink. “What?”

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

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

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

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

“Ben, what the fuck-“

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

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

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

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

“Jesus fucking- Ben-“

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

“Hi,” you breathe, and he grunts.

“You were supposed to eat the fucking apple.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hughie coughs from the dining table, and you blink at him. You hadn’t even realized he was there.

“What- What the hell was that?”

You shake your head, staring blankly ahead at the wall. “I- I don’t-“ You cut yourself off, then look back to Hughie. “You were on the mission.”

Hughie swallows. “I- Um-“

“Hughie-“

“What mission?” He says, moving to his feet. “I mean- We go on so many, it’s easy to lose track-“

You block his path out of the kitchen, and he swallows.

“Please don’t-“

“Sit,” you point back to his chair, and he obeys.

“I- I really- I think Annie’s calling me-“

“Talk,” you hiss, and Hughie swallows. “Now.”

Ben got hit with a chemical. Hughie doesn’t know what—none of them do—but you’ve got a theory.

It’s a fragile thing. The way he’s acting, how you could possibly deal with it. You walk into the kitchen in the morning and find that he’s made you eggs. The plate gets shoved towards you with a grunt. Ben doesn’t stop staring until you’ve eaten every last bite, and then he stomps away without another word. You do your laundry and catch him staring at your clothing with twitching hands. You shower that night and open the door to find him standing in the hall, his whole body tense and his mouth hanging open.

“Ben,” you say gently, and he takes another one of those stumbling steps back.

You sigh, as he vanishes down the hallway. He hasn’t had a normal conversation with you in three days. The last time you bothered to try, he’d pinned you down on the couch and stared until you whispered his name, and he ran again.

He spends most days locked in his room. He comes out to make sure you’ve eaten or follow you to the grocery store, pressing behind you in the milk aisle and glaring at anyone who comes too close.

“Do you want anything?” You ask him softly before you go to checkout, and he just stares at you. Some days he’s not even talking anymore. Last night Annie tried to walk past you both on the couch, and he snarled like a dog.

He leans down until his nose is pressed to your hairline. His lips drag over your brow, and you stare up at him, trying not to let your heart burst out of your chest. He inhales deeply, and a low rumble rolls through his chest. His hand finds your waist, massaging and kneading at the skin.

Your gaze drops down, and there it is again. The outline of his cock, tenting in his jeans. You bite the inside of your mouth. Your knees wobble, and your hand flies to Ben’s shoulder. He’s burning up, skin searing even through his shirt.

He yanks back again, eyes black and chest heaving. You sigh, and turn back to the grocery cart. You’re too used to it now. It makes you worry more.

You try to get a straight answer out of Butcher that night. It’s somehow more useless than last time.

“I know Hughie blabbed, ain’t no reason in tryin’ to talk to me-“

“You know what’s wrong with him,” you hiss, and Butcher shrugs.

“Maybe. Gonna make any fuckin’ difference to what you’re doin’?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m fucking asking-“

“Oh, like you ain’t figured it out yourself.”

You glare at him. He smirks back, challenge lining every inch of his expression.

“You gonna go put your money where your mouth is, doll?” Butcher mocks. “Or just keep whinin’ around about it?”

And you don’t have an answer. Because he’s right. You figured it out when Ben snarled at MM for offering you a cup of coffee, a boner pressing through his sweats that everyone pretended to ignore. It would take a true idiot, to not be able to figure it out.

“When did you know,” you mumble, leaning back against the counter. Butcher shrugs, watching you carefully.

“Moment it hit the fucker.”

“Where you there-“

“I was the only cunt in the room.” Butcher shudders. “He started moanin’ and gettin’ hard, it was the most disgustin’ thing I’d ever seen.”

You sigh, giving him an unimpressed look, and Butcher smirks.

“He was cryin’ for you, love. Almost had to put him back under to stop him just sprintin’ back to the house to take you. Like a fuckin’ dog.”

You blink. Your heart does a little flip that you refuse to acknowledge. “He hasn’t touched me-“

“Don’t know why,” Butcher mutters. “I thought I was gonna follow him inside and find him- Well, you know.” He winks, and you narrow your eyes.

“But he hasn’t. Which-“ You swallow, looking up to the ceiling and biting your tongue.

It’s fine. It’s fine if it’s not you he wants to do this with. Probably for the better. It helps you cling to that last shred of dignity. The sliver of an illusion, that you don’t think about him more than you think about yourself,.

“Do we think this- Can it hurt him?” Your voice is smaller than you want it to be. Butcher just shrugs.

“Ain’t gonna kill him. Probably hurts.” His lip curls. “Permanent fuckin’ blue balls. Hell don’t go deep enough.”

You sigh. “Well, what if we hire him like- a hooker-“

“Tried that,” Butcher dismisses. “Almost got punched through a damn wall.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “What? That’s- Ben wouldn’t turn down a hooker-“

“He did,” Butcher gives you a pointed look. “And it ain’t a hooker he’s makin’ eggs for, genius.”

You blink at him. “No, that’s- That isn’t part of it-“

“You willin’ to bet his life on that?”

And you aren’t. You’re not willing to bet anything. Because it hasn’t just been boners and staring. Ben’s been feeding you, following you like all illusion of not being your personal guard doesn’t matter anymore, refusing to let you do anything that might get you hurt.

“But- If it’s just a sex chemical,” you say slowly, and he cuts you off with a raised hand.

“I ain’t holdin’ your hand through this,” he says. “You talk to him yourself, and-“ He looks you up and down, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Bring protection. We don’t need soldier tots runnin’ around the house now, do we.”

“Butcher-“

“Not just a sex chemical,” he shrugs. “And you know it.”

You do. You wish you didn’t but you do.

A sex chemical would be easier. You could climb into bed with Ben, get railed into oblivion, then collect your heart off the floor and move on. But this is more. This is possessive and targeted and that means something. Something you don’t want to know. Something you have to know.

Butcher leaves you in the kitchen to collect yourself. You close your eyes, and try to control your breath, but it’s useless against your pounding heart. He turned down hookers. He moaned your name.

If this means nothing, you’re going to fucking kill him.

If it means something, you’re ready to deal with it. You don’t think you really have any other choice.

“Ben?” You knock on the door once, forcing your voice to steady. “Ben, can you please- We need to talk.”

He doesn’t answer. You weren’t expecting him to. The knock was more of a polite courtesy, then a question. You steel yourself, holding the doorknob with shaking fingers, and push into his room.

You barely make it a step inside, before all the will is knocked out of your body. It’s as if you walked into a wet dream. One of the private, dirtiest ones that make you wake up with the sheets bunched between your legs, that make reality feel like a slap to the face.

The room reeks of sex. Salty and heady, sweat and something rich that just smells like Ben. The sheets have been ripped and tangled on the floor, the pillows tossed off the unimportant corners of the room with piles of boxer and shirt and panties.

Your panties.

Ben sits, silent and dark-eyed on the bed, completely naked. One hand is fisting on of your panties, the other is wrapped tight around his thick, red cock. It’s veiny and so big it makes you sore just to look at. It throbs in his grip, and your cunt pulses in return. White pre-cum leaking from under his thumb, and his balls sit heavy between his thighs.

Your tongue darts out over your lips, and you force your gaze to drag up. Ben’s staring at you with a vein in his brow and that same burning intensity. The heat lingers in the air, humid and electric. Sweat falls from his neck, over his broad, flushed chest. His thighs are locked, his lips parted and eyes narrowed. 

You glance back to the panties in his hand and swallow. You suppose, at the very least, you were right.

“I lost those,” you breathe, and Ben grunts.

“I’ll give ‘em back later.”

You blink, then glance at the pile in the corner of the room. Ben doesn’t look away from you for a second, and a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. It sends a thrill up your spine, and you have to lean back against the door to stay upright.

“You here just to collect your panties, doll?”

You shake your head, looking back to him hopelessly. You’d had a whole speech, about how he needed you to fix this, how you knew it must hurt, how if he asks nicely, you’ll let him take what he wants. It’s misting into thin air, with every thin, fraying thread that had been holding your dignity. Ben doesn’t make it easy. His gaze rakes over your body, a strange, blurred line between worship and hunger etched over his handsome features.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to pretend like this. With all of him at your fingertips, only a few steps away. You’d prepared yourself to be a toy, but you’re a lamb to slaughter. An offering to a god who won’t take anything else, who holds your sanity like a delicate bird in his rough hands. He could destroy you, and you’re going to thank him. He could recreate you, and you’d never know a better blessing.

Ben leans back, something iron lining his words. “You should go.”

You shake your head, and his jaw ticks.

“Go.”

There’s a low, deep command in the word. You almost obey.

“Those are mine,” you breathe, nodding to the panties, and Ben sighs.

“Fuckin’ Christ- Go-“

“Why are they mine?”

The question is soft. You know he hears it, because he goes quiet again. You stare at each other for another long moment, and you take the smallest step forward. A low groan pulls from Ben’s throat. Your knees almost buckle.

“Don’t,” he gives you a look like it’s a command, but there’s something thinner under the word. Something soft.

“I- I know about the chemical,” you whisper, and Ben’s throat bobs. “You could’ve asked-“

“Ask what? For you to suck my cock? Like some limp-dick pussy who can’t handle his booze?”

Your lips twitch. “Your dick isn’t limp.”

Ben gapes at you. His cock jumps in his hand, and you take another step.

“You’re- Fucking unbelievable,” he grunts, and you laugh. “This shit ain’t funny, doll-“

“It’s a little funny,” you murmur, stopping right above him.

No part of you is touching. Every inch feels gravitational. He has to be the one to crash first.

“You turned down hookers for me,” you whisper, and Ben scowls.

“It doesn’t want hookers.”

You glance at his cock, then his tight face. “What does it want?”

He glares. You don’t back down. You never have before, and you’re not about to start now.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease-“

“Don’t be a dick,” you lean down. Ben’s legs part to make room for you. It’s an effort, not to just touch him. “What does it want, Ben.”

What do you want.

He hears the invisible question. His jaw works, and his eyes drop to your lips.

“I’ll fuckin’ break you,” he rasps, and you smile.

“No,” you say. “You like me too much.”

Ben’s gaze rips back up. You raise your brows, daring him to do it. To say it. To put you both out of your misery.

A low growl rips through his chest. “Go. Now.”

You don’t move, and watch as the last line of Ben’s control snaps.

He grabs you by the waist and drags you fully into his lap. You gasp as his lips smash against yours, the kiss rough and demanding. There’s so part of you that isn’t consumed by it, that doesn’t mold into his touch. Your legs spread so you can straddle his lap, and Ben grabs your ass with a grunt, forcing you up so his cock is pressed against your clothed cunt. You moan against his lips, and he presses his tongue into your mouth.

“Be- Ben-“ Your nails scrape at his shoulders, and he squeezes your ass with a grunt. “Fuck- Ben-“

“Already whining,” he mutters, dragging his free hand up to rest on the back of your neck. “Barely fuckin’ touched you are you’re already sayin’ my name like I fucked you.”

Your face burns, and Ben weaves his hand through your hair, gathering it in on fist and pushing it down to deepen the kiss. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself. His touch is hot and possessive, sending shivers through your whole body. His cock rubs against your underwear with every shift, and the pressure makes your legs spread wider. You start to grind down to chase the friction, and Ben moans, deep and low.

“That’s it,” he grunts, massaging your ass with shockingly gentle hands. “That’s a good girl. Show me what you’ve got, doll, prove that you’re gonna take this cock for me.”

You try to drag him closer, but he’s immovable. When you push, his hand moves from your ass to your lower back, pushing down so you can feel every inch of his dick, rubbing between your thighs. You make a strangled noise, and Ben chuckles. It’s an even rougher sound than before. His mouth has started to wander over your cheeks and jaw, pressing open, sloppy, kisses everywhere he can reach.

It’s almost like you’re being seduced into the same, sex-focused daze that’s taken a hold of him. The kisses light undying fires over your skin, spreading and spreading until you think you’ll die if he moves away. Ben’s started to lose focus himself, pawing at your ass like an animal and growling against your skin.

“Bennn,” you moan as his fingers graze on your inner thigh, turning your face to bury in his neck. “Mmmm- Ben- M- More-“

He growls again, and his hips slam up. It knocks the air from your lungs, and he’s not even inside you. Your arms wrap around his neck, trying to hold on as he starts to rut against your core, broken, desperate sounds falling from his lips.

You manage to lean back to look at him, and he’s thoroughly wrecked. He grabs your jaw, still rutting, and you try to smile. His nostrils flare and he kisses you again, the fervor only seeming to build as he chases his own orgasm. You hum against his lips, trying to make yourself pliant and soft, easy for him to use.

“Smell good,” he rasps against your skin, beard tickling against your neck. “Always smell so- So fuckin’ good-“

He cuts himself off with another groan, his cock twitching between your thighs. He shoves you further down, rocking his hips back and forth as he keeps trying to get there against your body.

“Gonna wreck you,” he mutters, mouthing at a pulse point. “Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, fuck you stupid, fuck you mine.”

You moan happily, dragging your hands down his bare, thick back. The muscles ripple under your touch, and Ben moans like that touch is almost enough to set him off. You kiss over his cheekbone and beard, along his jaw, and slowly guide his mouth back to yours. He lets you lead this kiss, mindlessly focused on trying to fuck himself against your body. He’s panting so hard you’d be worried about anyone else. 

He groans against your lips, clawing at your clothing with blunt nails. “Off- Get- Fuck- Get this shit off-“

He whines like a dog when you push on his chest, and you expect him not to let you up, but his grip loosens. You smile down at him, moving back to your feet, and he stares at you with a slack jaw.

“Get back here,” he growls, one hand still splayed on the back of your thigh. “Now.”

“I’m helping you,” you tease, slowly pulling down your shorts. “Say please.”

Ben’s eyes flash, and his jaw locks. You know he won’t beg. You don’t really want him to. This—the undivided, adoring attention, the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing he could ever possibly want in the world, when he’s spent a century of life indulging in sweet things and easier desires—is more than enough.

You sink to your knees, and he lets you. That hand on your thigh drags up to fist back in your hair, and he goes back to that predatory stillness as you rub his thighs with light hands.

“I ain’t beggin’,” he grunts, and you hum, letting your fingers brush against the base of his cock.

Ben’s hips jerk up, a moan ripping from his chest. You giggle, guiding his hand away, and he glares at you under hooded eyes.

“Something fuckin’ funny?”

“Mmm,” you shrug, wrapping your hand around his cock, and god, he’s even bigger than he looks. “I’m just… Learning.”

“Learning,” Ben echoes, the awe pushed through gritted teeth. “Jesus fuckin’- Christ-“

You lick a long, slow stripe up the length of Ben’s cock, and he tosses his head back like he’s praying.

“Holy- Fuckin’ hell-“ He tugs at your hair without actually trying to move it, biceps bulging as he tries not to overtake your mouth. “You’re- warm-“

You giggle again, pumping your fist as you kiss the tip. Ben makes a low, sinful sound, his free hand fisting at the sheets. You’ve never seen him in such control of himself. A living god that could skullfuck you until you sobbed, trying to let you lead your way. You think it’s something in the way he’s holding you like you’re made of lace instead of silicone. It makes an unbearable ache return to your core.

You take Ben in your mouth until he bumps against the back of your throat, and he groans your name so loud it must echo through the city. You work what you can’t fit in your mouth, sucking on his cock like it’s candy.

“Fuckin’- You can suck some fuckin’ cock, doll-“ He chokes out, hips bucking when you squeeze him near the base. “Best mouth I’ve ever felt- Son of a-“

His words turn to moans, and you look up at him under your lashes. He’s leaning back with a glazed eyes and veins pushing at his neck. His shoulders are tense, his abdomen flexing, and you can’t control your own hips as they start to chase relief against the air. Ben catches the movement, watching it as if he’s under a spell. His cock is heavy and pulsing in his mouth, and it just makes your cunt ache more, imagining the weight of him buried inside of you.

“Jesus, you’re a needy thing,” he mutters, his thumb dragging over the soft skin behind your ear. “You fuckin’ like this? Like choking on some proper dick?”

You whine, eyes rolling back as he presses back against your throat. You press your shoulder forward, forcing your tits further up for him to see. Ben jaw clenches, and you feel him try to not move. His pre-cum is getting thicker, and who knows how long he’d been going before you.

“Ben,” you pull off for a split second, dropping your hand to massage his balls as you kiss over the head of his dick. “Please.”

You drop back down, and he understands in a second. He uses you like a toy, pulling your head up before slamming it back down. You make your jaw slack, moaning around him with every single thrust. Your eyes roll back in your head, and the need builds and builds between your thighs.

You drag you’re hips forward shamelessly, grabbing Ben’s leg and angling your clit to rub against whatever it can reach. Ben groans at the sight, and the sound just floods between your legs.

“Shit, I can feel how fuckin’ wet you are,” he growls, and you whimper, watching him under glossy lashes. “Shit- Lookin’ at me like that, gonna make me-“

You moan eagerly, and Ben’s control snaps again.

It’s fun to see the edges of it. How the pit of his restraint is far deeper than you would’ve imagined a week ago. He tries to drag you off his cock as he cums, but you push yourself back down. It comes in thick, sticky ropes, shooting down your throat until you’re gagging and almost unable to breathe. You try to swallow, but there’s so much it falls out of your mouth like drool, dripping down your cheeks and onto your breasts.

“Jesus, thought you were gonna drown in it,” Ben pulls your dazed head off, grinning down at you. “Look at you, baby. Little fuckin’ trooper.”

You blink at him, still trying to lick the remains off your lips. You glance down to his cock, and it’s still hard. How the fuck is it still hard.

“Hasn’t been goin’ down since that shit hit me,” Ben mutters, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Needs it’s pussy.”

“It’s pussy?” You breathe out, and Ben sighs.

“Your pussy,” he mutters. “Needs you, smartass.”

“It needs me?”

You give him your best innocent look. He glares at you, and you just tilt your head, smiling like you’re made of honey. You sort of feel like you are. You’ve never been this gooey, just from sucking a guy off. You’ve never even liked sucking someone off.

But this is Ben. Rough everywhere, but made of tiny divets that go soft when pressed. The kind of man you can crawl into and never have a harsh hand find your body again.

He swallows, his thumb lingering on your lips. You kiss the pad of it, then the knuckle, before slowly wrapping your lips around him and sucking. Ben’s cock twitches, somehow getting harder. You don’t think you’re ever going to walk again.

Worth it.

“I need you,” he rasps, pulling his thumb away. “Feet. Now.”

He taps your nose, and you scramble up. You’ll fight him tooth and dirt when he’s fighting back. When he’s not, you can’t think of a single reason to deny him a thing.

Ben grabs the back of your thigh again, watching you with an expectant glint in his eyes. You swallow and pull your shorts down, trying not to fall over when he stares at your core like you’re showing him a treasure. His fingers dig into soft skin, and his free hand wraps around his cock, pumping slowly as you continue to strip in front of him.

You peel off your shirt, and Ben’s tongue darts over his lips. His grip on your thigh tightens, and he slowly coaxes you forward. You rest your hands on his shoulders, shoving down the bubbling, electric nerves in your chest.

“Ben,” you whisper, and he hums, dragging a massive, rough hand up your side. “E- Easy-“

“Oh, doll,” he coos, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your breast. “This is easy.”

Your legs wobble, your confidence quickly waning. The doubts start to pool like rainwater in a gutter, as Ben takes in your naked body. Maybe you weren’t the dream doll he had in his head. Maybe you pushed it too far with the teasing. Maybe he doesn’t really want you in the same, volcanic kind of way you want him.

He drags two fingers along your inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin as he mouths at your breast. You close your eyes, trying to just breathe, and Ben chuckles.

“And you wanted me to say please,” he drawls. “Look at you, all fuckin’ sweet for me. You gonna beg for me again, baby? Or that mouth only good for sucking my cock?”

You whimper, a gush of heat flooding between your thighs.

“Yeah, you like me talking,” Ben mutters, kissing over your sensitive nipple. “Like knowing you’ve got the only fuckin’ pussy in the world that makes me act like an idiot. Pretty girl, pretty fuckin’ tits,” he  sucks a dark spot on your breast, his thumb slowly dragging between the lips of your cunt. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy, wet like a whore in the summer for me.”

Ben thumbs at your slit, wrapping his lips around your nipple and sucking hard. His thumb drags up in the exact same moment, finding your clit and rubbing tight, unrelenting circles. You vision blurs and you stumble forwards, wrapping your arms tight around his head.

“Be- Fuck- Bennnn-“

He hums around your nipple, grazing his teeth over the perked bud. His mouth is warm and wet, his tongue flicking back and forth until you’re in a sex-addled frenzy. You press your face into his hair, gasping his name as he drags his thumb back and forth across your clit.

He wraps a massive arm around your body, fingers splaying over your back and cradling you close to his body.

“Feel that fuckin’ mess,” he drawls, kissing over your breasts. “No one else gets you this wet, do they?”

You shake your head, and Ben leans back with  narrowed eyes. He slaps your pussy with a harsh little tap, and a broken cry escapes your lips.

“Do they,” he growls, and you shake your head.

“No- No-“ You try to lean down, desperate to just kiss him, to get as close as he’ll allow. “Just you, Ben, just you-“

He smirks, slaps your cunt again, and goes back to making out with your nipples. You moan, slumping over his body as the tension becomes almost painful. You don’t know what he’s getting out of this until you feel his hips rocking beneath you. His cock rubs against his stomach and your thigh, already smeared with pre-cum again. You gasp and Ben moans around your nipple, the sensation vibrating through your whole body. 

“Oh- Oh my god-“ You squirm, the pressure getting unbearable. “I- I’m- Oh my god-“

You’re babbling, but you’re not sure what else there is to do. You cunt his clenching around nothing, the thick scent of Ben clouding your head as he works you like a toy. Ben nips at your nipple and pushes his thumb down hard. Your knees buckle, almost making you fall back to your knees on the carpet.

Ben’s arm around your back tightens, and he rolls you both over, tossing you back onto the mattress without even a grunt. You almost cry out at the sudden cold, the lack of Ben all around you. It only lasts a second before he grabs your ankle and drags you forward.

You’re lain on the bed, staring at Ben with an open expression. His jaw clenches and he rubs your thighs, slowly pushing your knees up to your chest. Your cunt is on full, open display to him, and your breath catches as he drags his thumb between the swollen lips of your pussy.

“Look at that,” he almost purrs. “Mine.”

You whimper when he flicks your clit again, but it quickly falls into a moan as he leans down and presses an open mouth kiss to your pussy. Your eyes roll back in your head, your hips arching to meet his chapped, full lips. Ben groans against your cunt, his grip on your legs tightening.

You’ve had men eat you out before. You’ve had them be good at it, and horrible.

Ben does it like it’s a job, and he’s never hated work a day in his life. You were already on such a thin wire that the first press of his tongue against your clit makes you snap, a cry falling from your lips and your hands flying wildly to catch a hold of something. Ben grabs them and pins them against your stomach, forcing you down into the mattress as his mouth keeps working against your cunt.

He’s open with it, moaning and sucking and pushing his tongue into your fluttering cunt as he rocks his face back and forth, dragging your orgasm out until you’re almost floating. The heat hasn’t stopped building. Every time you think you’re going to come down, Ben kisses your clit, and darts his tongue back and forth like he’s trying to get a high score of most orgasms in an hour.

Maybe two hours. You can hear the bed creaking in a steady rhythm, as Ben’s fucks down into the mattress, but then he drags another orgasm out of you, and the only thing in the world is Ben’s mouth against your cunt. The sounds he makes, the way he’s watching you under hooded, smug eyes, the way his massive back forces your legs further apart whenever you try to close them and exposes you to him further.

You writhe when your third orgasm hits, shoving at his head with weak hands.

Ben draws back, pinning your legs down to the bed and fixing you with a stern glare.

“Stay still,” he grunts, and you swallow.

“Too- Too much-“

“You want cock?” He snaps, and you nod frantically. “Only good girls get cock, baby. You bein’ a good girl when you whine?”

Your lip wobbles. Your face burns. Ben raises his brows, daring you to be a brat, and any other day you would. You’d stick your tongue out and mock him, you’d test his buttons, you’d see just what you could say, to get bent over his lap or tossed around the bed.

But there are tears streaming down your cheeks, and you’ve never been so totally aware of how empty you are. You really think the chemicals might be contagious. You really don’t fucking care.

“No,” you whisper, shame burning at your cheek and between your thighs. “I’m not.”

Ben hums, spits on your clit, and starts to rub it with a fast thumb. “You gonna be a good girl?”

You nod, and Ben smirks.

“Yeah. I know.”

He dives back down, and stars burst behind your eyes as another orgasm overtakes your body. You’re trembling and gasping for air, pulling at his hair and only earning another moan that makes your back arch. Ben laps at you through the orgasm, hips still slamming against the bed.

Then, one second, his beard his grazing over your inner thigh and his lips are pressed against the over sensitive, pulsing bundle of nerves. The next you’re face down with a thick arm around your stomach, dragging you back against Ben’s chest like a ragdoll. 

“Need to get in that pussy,” he growls, dragging his cock between the lips of your cunt. “Give you this cock real good, show you who the fuck you belong to, right now.”

Ben bites and sucks on your neck, the head of his dick bumping against your clit, but he still doesn’t push inside. Your nails dig into your forearm, the wet sound of him sliding against you filling the room, and you almost don’t know what the fuck he’s waiting for.

“Please,” you breathe out, dropping your head against his shoulder and giving him your best, sweetest eyes. “Please, Ben- Fuck me.”

Another one of those feral sounds rips from Ben’s chest, and his hand drags down to press two thick fingers against your clit as he slowly pushes himself inside. The breath is knocked from your lungs at the first inch, a broken sound escaping your lips.

Ben’s free arm wraps around your neck, the bulging bicep forcing your head back further so he can kiss over your open, drooling mouth.

“That’s it,” he coos, rubbing your clit back and forth as he presses deep into your cunt. “That’s a good little slut, takin’ just what I give you, come on-“

You whimper, and Ben deepens the kiss, pressing his tongue down your throat as he pushes another inch. You clench down around him and he groans, kissing you brutally as he bullies the last few inches inside of you.

He’s so big it makes sparks dance on the edge of your vision. You’ve never been this full, every single nerve in your body all too aware of the delicious split of Ben’s cock. Between the head lock and his mouth against yours, the tears can’t stop streaming down your face. Ben growls your name, kissing a stray one near your lips, his tone a warning you can barely hear.

“Christ- You’re fuckin’ tight- Gotta- Relax-“

You can’t. You’re overstimulated and so needy you can’t think, can’t move, can’t do anything but feel the smeared arousal between your thighs, the drag of Ben’s cock against your g-spot, the muscle and heat of his body wrapped all around you.

You clench down again, and the very last bit of Ben’s resolve snaps.

He cums inside of you suddenly, moaning down your throat as he ruts up in short, rough thrusts. The cum spills into your until you’re warm and stuffed, then runs down your ass and over your thighs. It’s so wet you think he’d slip right out of you, if it wasn’t for the headlock. You’re so full you don’t even remember how to breathe, until Ben squeezes just under your breast and groans your name.

“Don’t go out on me, doll, c’mon-“ He groans and kisses you again, his hand dropping back down to spread against your tummy. “Fuck- You feel so fuckin’ good- Better than coke, baby, Christ-“

You make another broken sound, your voice hoarse and small from the arm around your throat.

Then Ben starts to fuck you, and you think you might ascend.

He rolls his hips in long, deep thrusts, dragging in and out of your cunt like a machine. The sound of your cum mixing—sliding between your bodies with every single shift—is obscene. You’re being used like the most tended to, adored fuckdoll in the world. Ben cradles you like he thinks you’ll break, and fucking you like he’s trying to take you apart.

You feel him everywhere, with every single slam of his cock against your g-spot. Your vision swims, the tears falling freely, and Ben kisses every single one away with another, brutal thrust.

“Fuckin’ crying for me, babydoll?” He nips at your lower lip, and you whine a sound like his name. “Pretty girl can’t fuckin’ take it after begging? So sensitive you need to fuckin’ whine?”

You turn your cheek, giving him your best, pleading doe eyes. You can’t tell if his gaze sharpens or focuses. His thrusts become deeper, and his thumb finds your swollen, pulsing clit again. You sob, and he kisses the sound away with a hum.

“Bein’ such a good fuckin’ slut,” he mutters, pinching your clit and rolling it between his fingers. “Takin’ this cock like a pro, baby, like you were fucking made for me.

You babble his name again, and Ben smirks. This kiss is slower. Almost loving, and in a stark contrast with how he’s drilling into your gaping cunt.

The orgasm washes over you like a wave, and Ben moans your name as you squeeze down around him. Your vision goes white and you thrash, your body being wracked with so much pleasure you can only scream. Ben’s cock slams home against your g-spot, and rush of something wet and hot flood out of your pussy, and you think you might pass out.

At the least, you’re floating out of your body. Ben cums with rough, spat out praise, then slowly lowers you back down to the mattress. Weight shifts around. He rubs your back as you gasp for air, then slowly rolls you over and pushes your legs back open.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, the words far away, but his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Didn’t know you could get this fuckin’ dumb and quiet. Should’ve been fucking you every day.”

He laughs to himself, and your hand flies up, unsure what it’s looking for.

Ben catches it, twines your fingers together, kisses your knuckles, and presses it back into the mattress.

“Need more, doll,” he rasps, and you whimper. “I’ll go easy. Not tryin’ to break my-“

He cuts himself off. You don’t have the words to push him. You don’t have the energy to do anything. Ben kisses your stomach, then lower, then lower. You gasp softly, when you feel his tongue lapping at your pussy. It’s gentler than before. Slower, almost careful. He works you open, mixing your releases together and tasting it almost for the sake of tasting it.

Your eyes cross, as the soft, tickling sensations. They’re strangely relaxing, even if they make your pussy flutter hopelessly.

“Easy,” Ben murmurs, kissing over your clit. “Nice and fuckin’ easy.”

It is. You go limp again, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of his tongue. He’s not trying to make you cum, or get you ready. God knows you could probably take a fist in there right now, with how he’s left you soaked and open. You can hear his fist working against his cock again, and find the energy to look up again.

He’s almost art, above you. Hair mussed and tangles, dominating your vision, whole face wet and eyes blown out. You squeeze his hand in yours and smile. He blinks, and his jaw sets as he understands. 

This time, he doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He must understand by now, that you might be more depraved than even he can dream up. You’d sit on his cock for the rest of your life, if he let you. And there are worse ways to be worshipped, than with everything a man—a broken, titan of a man who’s made of more than he can understand—has to give.

You let yourself lose track of it all. Ben moves you into positions you didn’t know you could make, hauling you back into his lap, flipping you over and dragging your ass in the air, sitting you on top of him and guiding your hips back and forth until you’re mewling his name and shaking around his cock. The whole room might have to be burned, when this is over. There isn’t an inch of your body he hasn’t cum on, kissed, spanked, or grabbed.

He ends up on top of you again, holding your knees back against your chest with a single arm, fucking you slow enough to drag long, loud moans from your lips every time.

“That’s my girl,” he mutters, watching his thick, swollen cock slide in and out of your cunt, smearing and spreading hours of cum between your thighs. “My pretty fuckin’ doll.”

You moan, reaching up with shaking hands to cup the back of his neck. His gaze drags back to yours, and you smile. You don’t know where the delicate, flowering thing inside of you is coming from. You think it’s always been there, and Ben’s stripped you so bare there’s nowhere to hide it, no way to make it wither. With his hands so gentle on your hips and thighs, his gaze so clouded with adoration you think that—to anyone else—he wouldn’t look like the same man, there’s nothing left to do but let this bloom.

“I love you,” you breathe out, the first words you’ve said in hours. “I love you, Ben.”

His eyes go impossibly darker. His fingers dig into you, and he crashes forward with a groan.

Ben cums one last time, and you pass out at his kisses all over your face, murmuring words you feel more than hear.

He doesn’t say it back. You didn’t think he would. Ben coddles you like a child after, wrapping you in a shirt that somehow survived the damage and carrying out back to your room. You get a warm bath and glass of water. Your stomach rumbles, and suddenly there’s food in your hand. Ben rises you both off in the shower, his breathing heavy and his face pressed into the crook of your neck.

You can feel it with every single touch. That he’s trying to find a way to tell you. That it’s carving through his chest that he doesn’t know how.

And you’ll wait. Telling him he doesn’t have to will do nothing but make him more frustrated, and you’re happy to have whatever he can offer after… this.

He figures it out faster than you thought, though. He lays in bed with you, glaring at the ceiling and rubbing your side. You watch him, your head propped on his chest, and smile. You lean up and press a kiss to his jaw, and he grunts in surprise, his gaze dropping to yours.

You smile again. His throat bobs. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks back to the ceiling and lets out a slow, deep breath.

“Marry me.”

You blink at him. If you had an ounce of strength left in your body, you’d sit up. “What?”

“You heard me,” he grunts, glancing back down at you. “You mean what you said?”

“Of- Of course I meant it-“

“You sure?”

“Fuck you,” you shove his chest, and his mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure, asshole. But-“ You point a stern finger. “I’m not marrying you.”

That makes him really, deeply frown. “Why not.”

“Because I’m not crazy.”

“That ain’t crazy, doll, you love something, you fucking marry it-“

“Marry it?” You snort. “What, are you gonna marry the fucking TV?”

“No, you brat, I’m marrying you.”

Your mouth falls open. Ben glowers at you, his fingers digging on your hips again, like he’s worried you’re going to run. “Me?” You whisper, and Ben grunts.

“Don’t see me fuckin’ proposing to anyone else, do you.”

You laugh weakly. “But this is- Ben, this is a bad proposal-“

“It is not bad-“

“It’s horrible-“

“You’re going to say yes,” he snaps, and you sigh, tracing over the line of his pecs.

There’s something raw under that demand. Something you don’t want to mock or poke at. That you want to nurture, to get him to show without barbing it in a defensive wire.

But you’re also not marrying him after one sex marathon.

“I want dinner,” you say, and he frowns.

“I’ll get you a fucking ring-“

“No.” You lean down until your noses bump. “Dinner.”

Ben glares at you. You glare back, rubbing his chest, and he slowly relaxes under your touch.

“Dinner,” he mutters, and you beam, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

He grabs the back of your neck, holding you above him. “You’d say yes, though,” he rasps, and god help you, you would.

You just kiss him instead. Long and slow and deep, telling him in a language you know he prefers to speak. And you can feel it, under every single touch. How much he really, truly means it.

Five dinners, you tell yourself, but if Ben keeps holding you like this, you know. You’ll only last until he asks you again, and then—just like before—you’ll all too happily give in.

✦End note: theory answered: yes he can ✦

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

He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough  and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.

What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.

You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.

“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-

You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.

He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.

But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-

“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“

You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.

“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“

You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-

“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“

Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.

For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.

Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.

“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.

You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.

“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”

And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.

When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.

He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.

Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.

And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.

You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.

You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.

“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.

“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”

“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.

“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”

“That was unrelated.”

“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”

You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.

“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“

“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.

It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.

You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time. 

You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.

Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep. 

“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“

Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-

“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”

Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.

But you did it. You held the line.

And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.

Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.

And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.

And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.

“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.

“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”

You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”

“Uh huh.”

You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.

“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.

“That’s what I said.”

“Dean-“

“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.

Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.

“Uh- Hey, Dean-“

“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.

“Dude-“

“Shut your face-“

“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“

“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”

Sam sighs. “Dean-“

“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“

“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.

He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.

Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.

“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.

“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.

“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“

“Henry’s?”

“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”

“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.

“Whatever you want.”

God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.

“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.

The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.

The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.

He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.

“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”

“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”

“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”

You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”

“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“

“No, you don’t.”

He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.

It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.

“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.

“You?”

“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“

“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“

“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”

“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”

“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”

“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs  had you learned to play?”

Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“

“I think we do.”

“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“

“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”

“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”

“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.

“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“

“You could teach me.”

“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”

“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.

“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”

You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“

“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”

You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”

Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.

You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.

“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”

You blink. “What?”

“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”

“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”

“Yeah. I know.”

You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.

“You alright-“

“Yep. I- I’m good-“

“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“

“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.

“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.

“You are old.”

“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”

Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-

Hold the line.

“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.

“That all I am to you? Some wine?”

“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”

“Good cheese, huh.”

“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.

When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.

“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“

“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”  

“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”

You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.

Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.

His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.

But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.

It just feels different.

“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.

If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.

For once, you decide not to try.

The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.

He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.

“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.

“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.

“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”

You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.

The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.

Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.  

Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.  

You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.

Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.

“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.

“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”

“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”

“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”

Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.

“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.

“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“

“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”

You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.

“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.

You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-

“Hey.”

You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.

“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”

“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.

“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”

“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.

The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”

And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.

So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.

Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.

“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.

He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.

“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.

“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”

Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.

“Dean-“

“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.

“Oh- Okay.”

Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.

“Get your book.”

You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“

Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”

He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.

Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.

Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.

A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”

You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.

“Shit- Dean-“

“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.

You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.

But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.

“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”

You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.

“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”

You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.

“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“

“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“

“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

“It doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it does-“

“Nah.”

“Dean-“

“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”

Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.

“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“

“Would you care?”

Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.

“Would you care-“

“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”

Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.

“What-“

“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”

Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”

“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“

“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“

“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.

“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”

He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.

“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.

“You were-“

“Sweetheart-“

“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”

Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.

“Dean-“

“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”

You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-

“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.

“What’d you mean, are we dating?”

“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”

“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“

“What the fuck is necking?”

Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”

Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.

“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”

You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.

He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.

“Did you… Not think we were dating?”

You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.

“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”

“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.

“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“

“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.

“’Bout three months.”

“Three months?!”

“That’s what I said, baby-“

“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”

Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.

“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”

“How would I have known-“

“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”

“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.

“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“

“Sam was there-“

“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.

“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.

“Yes, it was-“

“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”

He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”

“Friends do that-“

“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.

“Um- Maybe?”

Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“

“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“

“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.

“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”

“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”

Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”

You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.

“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”

You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re nice to me-“

“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.

“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“

“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”

You swallow. “Help you?”

“Yeah.”

“With what-“

“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”

You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.

Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.

You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.

“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”

His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“

Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.

And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.

You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.

But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.

Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.

You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.

“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”

That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.

“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“

“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.

Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“

“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”

And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.

You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.

“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”

“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“

You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.

“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.

You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.

“Doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“

Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.

“Look at  you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”

“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“

“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”

You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.

“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”

“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.

His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.

“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“

“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”

You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.

“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”

You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.

“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“

“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”

Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“

“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”

Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.

Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”

He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.

Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.

“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”

“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.

“Isn’t it?”

You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.

But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.

“De- Dean-“

“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.

“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“

You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”

That’s what does it. My girl.

The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.

Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.

“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”

“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”

“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.

“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”

He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.

You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.

“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.

“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“

“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“

“Dean-“

“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”

You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.

Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.

You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.

And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.

Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.

He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.

“I’m serious, baby-“

“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.

And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.

You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.

“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“

You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.

“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“

You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.

And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.

Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.

“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”

You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.

“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“

“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”

You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.

“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”

Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.

He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.

“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.

“’M sorry-“

“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“

He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.

“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”

You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.

Dean is going to take care of you.

He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.

“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.

“N- No.”

“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”

You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.

“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”

“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”

You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”

Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.

His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“

He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.

But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“

He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.

“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“

He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.

Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.

You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-

You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.

But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.

“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”

Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.

“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“

He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.

Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and  you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.

You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.

Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.

“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.

“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”

“It- It’s your stupid rule-“

“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”

You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.

“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.

“Dean-“

“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”

You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.

“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”

You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.

“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”

You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.

“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”

And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.

“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”

“I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.”

You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.

He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.

Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.

“Sorry-“

“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”

A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.

“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.

“You’re big.”

He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”

You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.

“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“

He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.

“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“

You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.

But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.

“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”

You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.

“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”

“Fu- Fuck you-“

“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”

Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.

“Please-“

The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.

“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”

You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.

You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.

Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.

“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”

Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.

The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.

It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.

“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“

You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“

Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.

“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.

You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.

“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.

Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.

“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."

✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦

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

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

THE BRIAR U HOCKEY HOUSE WAS BUSTLING WITH MUSIC AS USUAL. Hundreds of people were packed inside, dancing, drinking, celebrating the latest win. Every room was overcrowded with bodies and noise. The floor trembled beneath your feet from the bass, laughter echoed from somewhere upstairs, and every few minutes someone would erupt into drunken cheers that spread through the house like wildfire. It was chaos in the way only a hockey house could be.

And of course you couldn't skip it. Not when Dean Di Laurentis was going to be there.

Maybe that was the real reason you kept showing up to these parties. Certainly not for the beer, and definitely not for the endless stream of hockey stories you had already heard a hundred times before. No, you came because these parties gave you an excuse to be around him without raising suspicion. They gave you an excuse to sit in the same room, exchange secret looks, and pretend nothing was happening between you.

Which was funny considering there had been plenty happening between you for months now. Garrett would lose his mind if he ever found out. That thought almost made you smile.

The thing between you and Dean was going on for nearly a year now. Dean had somehow become your favourite secret. What had started as harmless teasing after practices and team dinners had gradually turned into something much more dangerous. Late-night texts became private conversations. Private conversations became stolen moments when nobody was paying attention. And stolen moments became sneaking away from parties together, lingering in empty hallways, wandering hands whenever Garrett wasn't near.

It wasn't exactly a relationship. At least neither of you had ever called it that. But it was impossible to pretend it meant nothing anymore.

Now you were sitting comfortably on one of the living room sofas surrounded by members of the Briar U hockey team. Logan was arguing animatedly with Tucker about some play move from tonight's game while your brother occupied a yellow plushy armchair nearby with Hannah curled up on his lap.

You watched them for a moment and immediately regretted it. They were being disgustingly sweet as always. The kind of sweet that made everyone around them want to throw something. Your attention drifted away before you could witness another round of heart eyes to something more interesting. Turned out the most interesting thing for you was Dean.

He sat across from you in another armchair, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who had just spent the last twenty minutes pretending you didn't exist. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, one arm draped casually over the backrest like he owned the place. That lazy look made you want to simultaneously slap him and climb into his lap. But the place was already occupied. 

Some girl was perched on the arm of his chair.

She was tall and beautiful in that effortless, glossy way that was reminding you of those models from expensive magazines. Dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, long legs crossed and uncrossed with practiced elegance. She leaned in close to whisper something into his ear, her painted red lips brushing the shell of it, and she laughed – a soft, melodic sound that was clearly meant to charm.

Dean barely reacted.

His head tilted slightly, acknowledging her presence the way one might acknowledge a fly buzzing around a window. His lips didn't curve. His eyes didn't soften. He gave her nothing because he was looking at you.

His gaze met yours across the crowded room with such familiarity that your stomach immediately tightened into a knot of heat and irritation. It was infuriating how quickly your body was reacting to him now. One look and suddenly you were back in the shadows of his bedroom, his hands on your waist, his mouth trailing down your throat. One look and your skin was remembering the deep blue silky bedsheets against your back, his breath hot in your ear, the way he'd murmured your name like it was the sin and the blessing at the same time.

Your body remembered everything. Every secret touch beneath tables where nobody could see. Every stolen moment in hallways while parties were going on on the other side of the door. Every whispered promise that ended with both of you grinning like idiots, breathless and giddy and drunk lying on his bed, tangled in the deep blue sheets.

The girl beside him said something else. Her hand landed on his shoulder, fingers trailing lightly up to his neck, a possessive little gesture that made your jaw tighten. Dean nodded absentmindedly but he still was watching you. Tentative, full of something you both couldn’t acknowledge right now.

Your eyes narrowed. You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, that familiar burning fire inside that you felt when Dean was with someone that wasn’t you. Maybe it was jealousy, or maybe it was just pure, undiluted annoyance at his absolute nerve.

Dean caught you gazing at the girl and his mouth twitched.

“Asshole” you mouthed, pulling a red solo cup closer to your lips, taking a sip of your drink. 

The amused satisfaction on his face only grew, spreading across his features like he was savoring every second of your discomfort. His eyes dragged over you slowly, deliberately, a lazy inventory that made your breath catch despite yourself. He knew exactly what he was doing. He always did.

And then, almost like he wanted to see how far he could push you, he let his hand settle casually on the girl's thigh. Just rested it there. Palm flat. Fingers loose. A casual, intimate gesture that made the blood boil in your veins.

You scoffed loud enough for him to hear, and the sound turned a few heads nearby. You didn't care. Your blood was simmering now, a hot, prickling awareness that made your fingers curl into the armrests of your own chair.

The bastard actually looked pleased with himself. As usual. His eyes glittered with dark amusement, and that infuriating little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth like he'd just won a game you didn't even know you were playing.

The girl shifted, clearly misreading his hand as encouragement. She leaned in again, pressing closer, her fingers sliding up into his hair. Dean let her. He didn't move, didn't react. His hand stayed on her thigh, motionless, while his eyes held yours across the room with an intensity that made the air between you feel thick and charged.

You could feel that invisible thread that connected you across the room, taut and humming. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingered and then rose back to your eyes. And in that single, silent exchange, you understood exactly what he was doing.

He wasn't interested in her. He'd never been interested in her or any other girl lately. He was using them to see if you still wanted him, to see if you'd break first. To get a reaction and know if that fire in your eyes was just irritation, or something deeper, something that kept you up at night the same way he kept you up at night.

Your throat went dry.

His hand squeezed the girl's thigh once, lightly, a deliberate flex of his fingers that was meant for you. And your own thighs pressed together in response. You hated how your body always answered him before your brain could catch up. And you hated even more the desire to walk over there, pull his hand off her, and place it on your tigh instead.

You didn't. You stayed rooted in your chair, jaw tight, pulse pounding. But your eyes never left his. And his never left yours. 

"God, why do you look so miserable?" an irritating ramble was heard before the sofa dipped sharply and Allie collapsed beside you with absolutely no regard for personal space. 

Allie threw one arm around your shoulders and draped herself across the cushions. Her cheeks were flushed pink from alcohol, her lipstick smudged at the edges, and several strands of hair had escaped her perfectly arranged bun, curling loose around her face like she'd just rolled out of somewhere far more interesting than a hockey party.

You laughed despite yourself and let your head fall onto her shoulder, the warmth of her presence a welcome anchor in the noise.

"I don't look miserable"

"Sweetie," she tilted her head, examining your face with theatrical intensity. "I've known you for years. You absolutely look miserable. You've got that little crease between your eyebrows, the one that appears when you're either deeply annoyed or deeply horny. And since Garrett's not currently lecturing you about anything, I'm going to go with the second option"

You shoved her. She laughed.

"Briar just won," she continued, counting on her fingers with exaggerated precision. "There's free alcohol, free food, and Garrett is too busy making out with Hannah to bother you. By all logic, this should be your ideal night."

"Those are incredibly low standards,” you belly laughed, throwing your head back on the sofa. The ceiling was getting a little blurry. 

"They're realistic standards. There's a difference," Allie rolled her eyes and pursed her lips, but there was a slight smile playing on her lips. You like this girl so much.

You chuckle and took another sip of your drink as the noise swelled around you. Someone was shouting in the kitchen. A group of freshmen near the keg had started chanting someone’s name loudly. The music pounded through the floorboards, bass vibrating up through your feet and settling somewhere deep in your chest. The whole house was caught in that giddy moment between victory and disaster.

Allie watched the chaos fondly. You watched Dean fondly. And unfortunately, Allie caught that immediately.

"Oh my God," she exclaimed, bumping your shoulder with hers.

You groaned before she could even finish the thought. "What?"

"There it is"

"There what is?"

"That look," she wiggled her fingers toward your face like she was casting a spell.

You straightened, schooling your features into careful neutrality. "What look?"

"The Dean look," she whispered his name like it was a dirty secret. Which, you supposed, it was. "I've had to watch this nonsense for almost a year, and I know that look intimately."

"There is no Dean look," you protested, trying to avert your gaze to something else but it still returned to Dean. 

"Oh, please," she snorted. "I've watched you two orbit each other for months. There's absolutely a Dean look."

Heat flooded your cheeks, creeping up your neck. Across the room, Dean was pretending to listen to whatever Logan was saying. But the idiot had glanced in your direction at least seven times in the last five minutes. Not that you were counting. You absolutely weren't.

"Stop smiling," Allie ordered.

"I'm not smiling," you muttered hiding behind your cup.

"You are. It's that little one. The one that makes you look like you're remembering something very specific."

Your face burned hotter, "I hate you."

"No, you hate him," she nodded toward Dean. "Or at least, that's what you keep telling me. Usually while making that exact same face."

You covered your eyes with one hand, groaning into your palm.

Allie laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink on your dress, her shoulders shaking against yours. The unfortunate thing about confessing your secret during a wine night was that she never, ever let you forget it. From the moment you'd whispered Dean's name across her kitchen table, she'd made it her personal mission to torment you at every possible opportunity. Allie'd kept your secret faithfully, but she'd also weaponized it with surgical precision.

"You know," she continued, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur that was somehow still loud enough to be heard over the bass, "if I didn't know you two were hooking up, I'd still think something was going on"

Your eyes widened, "Allie!"

"What?" she looked at you and raised her eyebrows. 

"Volume," you hushed, looking up, checking that no one was paying attention to you two.

"Oh please," she waved a dismissive hand. "Nobody can hear me over this shit of music. I could scream 'Dean Di Laurentis is fucking my best friend every night' at the top of my lungs and nobody would notice."

"Allie"

"Okay, okay," she held up her hands in mock surrender, but her grin didn't fade. "I'm just saying. The man looks at you like you're the last woman on Earth. And the way he was watching you walk across the room earlier? I felt like I needed a cold shower"

You shoved her again, but you couldn't quite suppress the laugh that escaped you.

"Seriously," Allie pressed, leaning in closer until her breath was warm against your ear. "Does he do that thing everyone's been talking about? The thing with his tongue?"

Your face went nuclear, heat flooding up from your chest to the tips of your ears. "I'm not answering that"

"That's a yes," Allie giggled, biting her lip like she'd just won the lottery.

"That's a no comment," you rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt.

"That's absolutely a yes," she looked positively delighted, her eyes dancing with unholy glee. "Okay, next question. Has he ever…"

"Allie!" The warning in your voice was sharp enough to cut glass.

She laughed, raising both hands in surrender, but the mischief in her eyes remained undimmed. "Fine, fine. Keep your secrets," she leaned back, taking a slow, theatrical sip of her drink. "For now"

You risked another glance toward Dean. Bad idea. Because he was already looking.

The second your eyes met, the corner of his mouth lifted into that familiar, lazy smirk. The one that said he knew exactly what he did to you. It made your stomach flip and your thighs press together and your brain short-circuit all at once.

Asshole.

Your body immediately betrayed you. Heat pooled low in your belly, a familiar ache that had become embarrassingly predictable whenever he looked at you like he was already counting down the minutes until he could get you alone.

Allie noticed. Of course she did, "Oh, that's pathetic."

"Shut up"

"You're pathetic"

"I'm not," you mumbled under your nose.

"Oh, you so are. And mentally, you're already making out with him in a closet somewhere," she tilted her head, studying you with mock concern. "Or more than making out, based on that little shiver you just did"

You shoved her shoulder hard enough to make her wobble. She giggled, spilling her drink on the yellow couch. There will probably be a stain in the morning.

For a few moments, you let yourself relax on the couch. The alcohol hummed pleasantly beneath your skin, warm and loose. The music blurred into a pleasant thrum. Garrett was laughing at something Hannah said, his usual intensity softened by something that looked suspiciously like affection. Logan and Tucker were bickering about something pointless and completely stupid. Dean was still across the room, still looking entirely too pleased with himself, still watching you with that dark, knowing gaze that made your pulse stutter.

Then Allie sat bolt upright, her eyes lighting up with the kind of enthusiasm that had never, in the history of human civilization, led to anything good.

You narrowed your eyes immediately, "No"

"I haven't even said anything yet,” she pouted, looking offended.

"You have that look,” you pointed out, turning your head on the couch to look at her.

"What look?" her voice was innocent and full of mischief. Oh, that wasn't good.

"The one that always gets me into trouble"

Allie gasped in mock offense. "I am offended by that accusation"

"Good. Be offended. Keep being offended. Don't say whatever you're about to say."

"Drink or Dare!" she announced, practically bouncing as she said the words to the entire room.

A collective groan echoed around the group. Logan dropped his head back against the couch like a man who'd just received a death sentence. Tucker muttered something obscene and looked ready to flee the country. Even Garrett paused mid-laugh, shooting Allie a warning look that she completely ignored.

"Come on," she whined, drawing the word out. "We're celebrating. Briar won," she shot you a pointed look, "We should be having fun"

"We're sitting," Tucker said flatly, not bothering to hide his lack of enthusiasm.

"Exactly. It's depressing. I'm depressed. You're all depressing me!"

Before anyone could stop her, she snatched your cup from your hand and disappeared toward the drinks table, weaving through the crowd with the single-minded determination of a woman on a mission.

You watched her go, dread and affection curling in your chest. "That's never a good sign"

"Never," Tucker agreed solemnly.

A minute later, Allie returned carrying a suspicious, shimmering mixture that seemed to contain at least three different types of alcohol and a bottle of liquor in her other hand.

She placed the cup proudly into your hand and put the bottle on the table, "Suit yourself"

You stared at it. Then at her. Then back at the drink, "You want me dead"

"I want you entertaining," she leaned in, voice dropping to a playful whisper. "And maybe a little looser. You get very honest when you're drunk. I want to hear more about what Dean does with his tongue"

Heat flooded your cheeks again, "You're the worst friend in the world."

"I'm the best friend in the world. I kept your secret, I never told Garrett, and I've been emotionally supporting your situationship for months. The least you can do is get drunk and give me details"

A reluctant laugh escaped you, warm and helpless. That was the problem with Allie. She was absolutely impossible to refuse when she looked this delighted with herself, her eyes bright and her grin so wide it crinkled at the corners. She'd kept your secret faithfully, never once judging, never once slipping. She just... tormented you. Mercilessly. Beautifully.

With an exaggerated sigh, you accepted the cup and dipped your head in surrender, "Fine"

Allie's grin immediately turned victorious, sharp and wicked.

Across the room, Dean leaned forward in his chair, his lazy indifference replaced by sharp, focused interest. His eyes found yours across the crowd, dark and knowing, and the corner of his mouth curved into something that looked almost like anticipation.

The game started innocently enough.

At first, it was just an excuse for everyone to keep drinking. Allie had to chug half her cup because she refused to reveal her celebrity crush, emerging red-faced and sputtering while Tucker howled with laughter. Logan was dared to call one of the assistant coaches and profess his undying love, which ended with the entire room wheezing as Logan tried to explain, through tears of humiliation, that yes, he was drunk, and no, he wasn't dying, he just had feelings.

Even Garrett got dragged into the chaos at some point, forced to let Hannah answer a question on his behalf. She revealed a secret about his obsession with organizing his sock drawer by color and it has sent the hockey players into a spiral of mockery. Garrett's ears went red. Hannah looked utterly delighted. The rest of the room collectively lost their minds.

The atmosphere grew louder with every round, the initial awkwardness dissolving into something looser and more reckless. People shifted closer together on the couches, bodies pressing into one another as space grew smaller. Drinks were constantly refilled, the clink of bottles and the slosh of liquor becoming a familiar rhythm. 

You found yourself laughing more than usual. Mostly because Dean wouldn't stop staring at you.

Every time you looked up, his gaze was already there – waiting, patient, dark with something that made your stomach flip. The worst part was that he wasn't even trying to hide it anymore. A few months ago, the two of you would have been careful, stolen glances disguised as coincidence, eyes darting away before anyone could notice. Now it almost felt like a game. A dangerous one, considering Garrett was sitting less than ten feet away, oblivious and laughing at something Tucker said.

Dean caught you looking again. The corner of his mouth lifted into that familiar, infuriating smirk. You immediately flipped him off.

His grin widened, slow and pleased, like you'd just given him exactly what he wanted. His eyes dropped to your lips. Lingered. Rose back to meet yours with deliberate slowness.

"Okay!" Allie clapped her hands loudly enough to silence several conversations at once, her grin sharp and wicked. "Your turn"

Your head snapped around. "Mine?"

"Yes, yours," she said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, her eyes glittering with barely contained mischief. A chorus of agreement rose from around the room, scattered voices urging you on, Logan banging his fist against the coffee table in encouragement.

You groaned dramatically and sank deeper into the couch, the cushions swallowing you whole, "Fine"

"Dare or drink?" she singsonged, tilting her head and fixing you with a pointed look.

You glanced at the suspicious mixture sitting in your cup, that vaguely radioactive cocktail Allie had so lovingly prepared. Whatever was in there, it was going to taste terrible and hit hard.

You looked at Allie. At her knowing grin. At the way her eyes flicked briefly toward Dean before returning to you.

Your pulse quickened.

"Okay, dare," you said, sinking deeper into the couch cushions and stretching your legs out before you. 

The alcohol had settled beneath your skin like honey, warm and slow, leaving you pleasantly loosened at the edges. For a blissful, ignorant moment, you forgot that agreeing to a dare at a Briar hockey party was historically a catastrophic decision. Your gaze drifted across the room and landed on Dean almost automatically, drawn by some gravitational pull you'd long since stopped fighting.

He was already looking at you. Of course he was.

"Read your last text message. Out loud." Logan's voice pulled you back to reality like a bucket of cold water.

The smug grin on his face immediately made your instincts flare. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, looking far too pleased with himself, like he already knew exactly what was waiting on your screen and was simply savoring the moment of revelation.

You narrowed your eyes at him, "You look way too happy about that dare"

"Just read the message"

A chorus of agreement rose around the room. Groaning dramatically, you unlocked your phone and thumbed open your messages. At first, you weren't worried. Your group chats were full of nonsense. Hannah sent you TikToks every day without fail. Allie texted you so often that half your conversations consisted entirely of voice notes and chaotic emoji strings.

Then your eyes landed on the latest message.

And your heart stopped.

For one horrifying second, you simply stared at the screen, convinced the alcohol was making you hallucinate. Maybe if you blinked hard enough, the words would rearrange themselves into something innocent. Something that wouldn't destroy your entire evening. Something that didn't make your stomach drop straight through the floor.

Nope. It was still there.

Because of the booze and the chaos of the party, you had completely forgotten who your latest conversation had been with.

Di Laurentis. Fucking Dean Di Laurentis.

And it wasn't innocent. Not even close. The message glowed up at you like a confession, the kind of words that could only be interpreted one way. Your thumb hovered over the screen as if you could somehow erase it through sheer force of will.

Slowly, very slowly, you lifted your eyes from the screen and scanned the room. Everyone was waiting. Logan was grinning like the cat who'd caught the canary. Allie was bouncing impatiently in her seat, practically vibrating with anticipation. Tucker looked deeply entertained. Dean looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

The bastard.

You cleared your throat and glanced back down at the phone, praying the words had somehow changed while you weren't looking. They hadn't. You were absolutely, completely screwed.

"If G leaves you alone for five minutes, meet me in the kitchen ;)"

The words hung in the air for barely a second before the entire room fell silent.

It was the kind of silence that only happened when something had gone very, very wrong. You could hear your own heartbeat thudding in your ears. You slowly turned your head toward your brother.

A minute ago, Garrett had been completely uninterested in the game. He'd been too busy with Hannah curled up in his lap, his lips pressed to her cheek, whispering things that made her laugh. Now he was staring directly at you.

No. Not at you. Through you. Into your soul. His jaw was tight, his eyes flat and unreadable in that terrifying way that meant he was already cycling through various methods of murder and trying to decide which one was most appropriate for the occasion.

The thing about Garrett was that he had always been ridiculously overprotective. Growing up with him meant growing up with an unwanted bodyguard, a shadow that materialized whenever a boy so much as looked in your direction. If Garrett was around, potential suitors simply ceased to exist. During his first year at Briar, when you were still finishing high school, he somehow managed to intimidate every guy who had ever shown interest in you despite living hours away. To this day, you had no idea how he did it. His methods remained a mystery, but his results were undeniable. Your dating life had been a complete disaster because of him.

Things only got worse when you arrived at Briar.

You still remembered the first night he introduced you to the hockey team. Everyone had been friendly, warm, welcoming. Until Garrett casually placed a hand on your shoulder and announced in the coldest, most unyielding voice imaginable, "She's my sister. She's off limits."

The entire team had immediately nodded their agreement like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Well. Almost the entire team.

Your gaze flickered toward Dean for the briefest moment. Just a fraction of a second. Barely long enough to register.

His mouth twitched.

You hated him.

"WHAT?" Garrett practically roared, returning your gaze back to him.

Hannah nearly slid off his lap when he shot upright, his body going rigid in an instant. His arm immediately wrapped around her waist and pulled her back against him, but his eyes never left your face – dark, furious, the kind of look that had made grown men back away slowly. One hand gestured sharply through the air as though he couldn't decide whether to point at you or simply strangle whoever was responsible.

"Repeat it," he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

You nearly choked on your drink. Every muscle in your body tensed at once, a reflexive flinch that you barely managed to suppress. Under normal circumstances, you probably would have folded immediately. You would apologise, make excuses, deflect until he forgot. But the alcohol buzzing through your veins had loosened something in your chest, giving you a reckless, dangerous amount of confidence.

"It's just a text, G," you said, trying for casualness and failing miserably. "Don't overreact"

The room erupted.

Logan laughed so hard he nearly rolled off the couch, his face going red as he wheezed into his cup. Tucker buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. Even Hannah pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a smile she couldn't quite suppress. Across from you, Dean suddenly became fascinated by the beer bottle in his hand, turning it over like it held the secrets of the universe. The devilish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth completely ruined the act.

"Who sent that?" Garrett asked.

His voice was quieter now. Which was somehow much worse. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as he leveled that cold, sharp gaze at you. It was the voice he used before a game, before a fight, before he did something that would end up on someone else's permanent record.

"No one," you said with a shrug, taking another sip of your drink.

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. Or maybe you wanted to kill Dean Di Laurentis. Honestly, either option sounded appealing at this point. Your fingers tightened around your cup as you prayed for a distraction. Something like a fire alarm, a power outage, a sudden natural disaster that would rescue you from this nightmare would perfectly suit you.

"Someone sent it," Garrett pressed, his jaw tight.

"No one important"

"Someone" he stepped forward, and you felt the weight of his suspicion pressing down on you like a physical thing.

You pressed your lips together and said nothing.

Garrett stared. You stared back. The room watched the silent battle unfold with open amusement, nobody daring to break the tension. You could feel your resolve crumbling, could feel the confession building in your throat like a physical weight. You were already seconds away from breaking when Hannah finally decided to intervene.

With the patience of a woman who had clearly dealt with this nonsense before, she slipped out of Garrett's lap and took his hand firmly in hers. "Come on," she said, her voice soft.

"I'm not done," Garrett's eyes didn't leave your face.

"Yes, you are," she tugged his arm gently.

"Hannah…"

"Garrett"

Something in her tone made him stop. The sharp edge of his anger seemed to falter, replaced by something softer that he tried very hard to hide.

The entire room watched in fascination as the captain of the hockey team allowed himself to be dragged away like a misbehaving child. He followed her reluctantly, his feet dragging, but not before sending one last warning look in your direction.

The message was clear. This conversation was far from over.

A few seconds later, they disappeared into the kitchen. The door swung shut behind them, and the room exhaled collectively.

The silence lasted exactly three seconds. Then every single pair of eyes in the room turned toward you. And somehow, that felt even worse than your brother's fury.

“Gosh, you're all so noisy,” you complained, pushing yourself off the couch before the inevitable avalanche of questions could come crashing down on your head. There was no chance you were surviving another minute in that circle. Not with Logan looking so pleased with himself, Allie practically vibrating with energy, and half the hockey team staring at you like they had just uncovered the greatest mystery in Briar history.

You grabbed the last sip of your drink and finished it in one swallow. Everyone was smiling. Every single one of them.

“For God's sake,” you muttered, shaking your head. “A girl can't even have fun anymore”

The laughter that followed only made you roll your eyes harder. Honestly, you hated Dean. You hated him so much.

With as much dignity as someone fleeing a crime scene could manage, you slipped away from the lounge area and disappeared into the crowd. The music grew louder as you moved through the packed house. Bodies brushed against your shoulders, conversations blended together, and somewhere in the kitchen someone nearly dropped an entire tray of drinks.

Your heart was still beating too fast. Partly because of Garrett. Partly because of the entire room hearing that text. Mostly because of the infuriating smirk Dean had been wearing the whole time. The image refused to leave your head.

He hadn't looked nervous. He hadn't looked guilty. If anything, the idiot had looked entertained. And the worst part was that it had affected you far more than it should have. A year later and Dean Di Laurentis still had the ability to completely derail your thoughts. Sometimes you wondered if it had all been doomed from the start.

Maybe from that very first party during your freshman year, when you had shown up determined to prove to Garrett that you could survive college without his supervision. You had drunk too much, laughed too loudly, and somehow ended up alone in a hallway with Dean. One minute he had been making fun of you for trying to outdrink hockey players. The next he had been standing too close, looking at you in a way no one ever had before.

Everything after that had happened so quickly. And yet not quickly enough.

One stolen kiss had turned into another. Then into secret meetings. Late-night texts. Hidden smiles across crowded rooms. Months of pretending nothing was happening whenever Garrett was around. The memory alone was enough to make your stomach twist.

You escaped through the front door before you could think about it too much. Cold November air immediately wrapped around you. The contrast almost made you gasp. After the heat and noise inside the house, the porch felt strangely peaceful. The music became muffled behind the walls, reduced to a distant thump beneath the sound of the wind. For once there was nobody outside. No smokers. No drunk freshmen. No couples looking for privacy. Just you and the freezing wind that seemed determined to go straight through your clothes. 

You rubbed your arms and exhaled slowly. A small cloud formed in front of your face before disappearing into the darkness. 

A second later something heavy landed across your shoulders. Warm. Familiar. Your eyes dropped to the jacket immediately. 

The scent reached you before anything else. Salty cologne that always reminds you of the sea , clean laundry, and something that always seemed uniquely Dean. You smiled despite yourself and you didn't need to turn around to know the person standing behind you.

Dean had a way of making his presence known before he even spoke. Maybe it was confidence. Maybe it was habit. Maybe after a year of sneaking around together your body simply recognized him before your brain did. Whatever it was, you always knew when he was near. It was irritating. And comforting. Which pretty much summed up your entire relationship with Dean Di Laurentis.

“I think I said meet me in the kitchen,” his voice came from directly behind you, low and rough from laughing and drinking all night. The warmth of his breath brushed your ear and a shiver ran down your spine.

“I think,” you replied, unable to stop the smile pulling at your lips, “you were too busy entertaining your latest addition”

Dean laughed softly. The sound was warm and familiar.

A moment later he stepped closer and slid an arm around your waist, pulling you back against him with an ease that spoke of long practice. The movement felt natural now. Familiar enough that you leaned into him without thinking.

“Jealous much?” he asked. The smugness in his voice was unbearable.

You rolled your eyes and finally turned in his arms.

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpanned, circling your arms around his neck. “I've never been more threatened in my entire life”

“Good”

The yellow glow of the porch light softened his features, casting warm shadows across his face. His blonde hair was more disheveled than usual, probably because of that girl running her finger through them all night. His eyes never left yours, moving slowly over your face as though checking that you were really there.

“I hate you. God, I hate you so much, Di Laurentis,” you groaned, pushing at his chest. 

The gesture carried far more frustration than actual force and Dean knew it. Judging by the way his grin only widened, he was enjoying every second of your suffering. The humiliating text, Garrett's near heart attack, the entire hockey team staring at you like you had just revealed state secrets – somehow all of it had become entertainment for him.

“You keep saying that,” he observed lazily, catching your wrist when you tried to shove him again. His fingers wrapped around it for only a second before loosening, but the touch lingered anyway, warm even in the freezing November air. “And yet I can't help noticing that your actions never really match your words”

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, “Please don't start acting like you're some kind of relationship expert. You sent me a text that nearly got us both killed”

“Nearly,” Dean repeated, emphasizing the word as though it somehow worked in his favor. He leaned back against the porch railing, looking entirely too relaxed for a man whose life had just flashed before his eyes courtesy of Garrett Graham. “See? That's the important part. If your brother was actually going to murder me, I'd already be dead.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped you. “The only reason you're still alive is because Hannah dragged him away before he could finish processing what he heard and understand that you were screwing his sister”

The memory alone was enough to make your stomach twist. Garrett's expression had gone from confused to suspicious to outright homicidal in less than ten seconds. You had spent your entire life dealing with his overprotective tendencies, but seeing that look while knowing that you were fucking his best friend was really terrifying. 

Dean must have noticed the change in your expression because some of the amusement faded from his face. Not completely, nothing ever removed that infuriating smugness from Dean Di Laurentis, but enough that his gaze softened as it moved over your features.

“You're overthinking again”

“No, I'm being realistic”

“You're definitely overthinking”

“Dean, my brother practically declared war in there”

“Your brother declares war every time a man breathes in your direction”

“That's not the point”

“It kind of is”

You opened your mouth, fully prepared to argue, but the words disappeared the moment he stepped closer. The distance between you had never been particularly safe. It didn't matter how many months had passed or how accustomed you had become to his touch, there was still something unfair about Dean when he looked at you like that. The porch light cast a warm glow over his face, highlighting the familiar curve of his mouth. For a ridiculous moment, all you could think about was how many times you had kissed that mouth and how little you regretted any of them. Which was incredibly inconvenient considering you were trying to be angry.

“See?” he said quietly, clearly reading your thoughts far more easily than he should have been able to. “That doesn't look like hate to me”

“Oh, shut up”

His laughter immediately filled the space between you, low and warm and entirely too familiar. It was the kind of sound that had become dangerous over the past year because your body reacted to it before your brain could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he could make you laugh when you wanted to stay angry. You hated how comfortable it felt standing here with him while the party continued inside without either of you. Most of all, you hated how natural this had become.

A year ago, Dean had just been your brother's best friend. Now his jacket was draped over your shoulders, his hands were resting on your waist, and your first instinct after embarrassing yourself in front of an entire room had been to kiss him senseless.

“That's exactly the problem,” you muttered under your breath.

Dean frowned slightly,“What is?”

You shook your head and let it fall against his shoulder with a dramatic groan. “The fact that I should hate you after tonight and somehow you're still making me smile”

For a second neither of you spoke. You could hear the muffled music coming from inside the house and feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. Then Dean's arm tightened around your waist, pulling you a little closer against him.

“Good,” he said simply.

You lifted your head enough to glare at him. “Good?”

“Yeah” The corner of his mouth curved upward as he looked down at you. “Because I'd be pretty offended if one stupid text was all it took to take you away from me”

“You're impossible,” you muttered instead, though there wasn't nearly as much conviction in your voice as there should have been.

Dean only hummed softly, as if he found your answer perfectly acceptable. As if being impossible was something he had accepted about himself a long time ago. The corner of his mouth twitched with amusement, but there was something else in his expression too, something quieter beneath the teasing confidence he wore so effortlessly. For a moment he simply looked at you, his gaze moving slowly over your face as though he was memorizing it. Then his hand lifted and his thumb brushed lightly along your jaw.

The touch was gentle. Dangerously gentle.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But you love it”

Your breath caught somewhere in your throat. “Dean…”

You never got the chance to finish.

His lips met yours before the rest of the sentence could leave your mouth, stealing the argument before it had fully formed. The kiss wasn't rushed or demanding. It wasn't the desperate kind born from impatience. It felt almost unfairly confident, like he already knew exactly what effect he had on you. Like he knew every protest was doomed the moment he touched you.

The worst part was that he was right.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as you kissed him back, all the irritation and embarrassment from earlier slowly melting away beneath the warmth of his mouth. The memory of Garrett's interrogation, the laughter from the hockey team, the humiliation of reading that text aloud – none of it seemed nearly as important when Dean was standing this close.

When he finally pulled back, he barely moved away. His forehead remained close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin.

“Still hate me?” he asked quietly.

You narrowed your eyes in an attempt to glare at him, but the effort fell apart almost immediately.

“A little less,” you admitted. A smile tugged at your lips despite yourself as you rose slightly onto your toes and brushed your nose against his. “You can try again, though. Maybe you'll have better luck this time”

The laugh that escaped him was warm and satisfied.

"Careful," he warned, voice low and rough against your ear. "You're giving me encouragement"

"Maybe you need it"

"Sweetheart," he murmured, and the word curled like smoke between you, "I definitely don't"

You barely had time to scoff before his mouth was on yours again and this time, there was nothing careful about it.

Dean laughed into the kiss, low and breathless, and pressed harder, as if he wanted to fold you into him entirely. You breathed into his mouth, a soft, yielding sound, and when your lips parted just slightly, he took the invitation without hesitation. His tongue swept in, slow at first, then deeper, more certain, and your hands found their way beneath his shirt without thought. Your nails dragged across the hard planes of his stomach, over the ridges of muscle, and he smiled against your lips.

His palm slid down your spine, over the curve of your waist, and settled firmly on the plush of your ass, squeezing with a possessiveness that sent a shiver straight through you. You moaned into his mouth, breath catching, and your fingers curled against his skin.

"Up," Dean muttered, and before you could register the shift, he had turned, lifted you with an ease that made your head spin, and set you down on the railing.

The wood was cool beneath your thighs. You squeaked in surprise, but the sound dissolved into something needier as you hooked your legs around his hips and pulled him closer until there was no space left between you.

His lips found your neck, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. His teeth caught the thin strap of your dress, tugging it down your shoulder with agonizing slowness. You laughed feeling ticklish under his touch but it died the instant his mouth found the tender spot just behind your ear. 

You moaned, your head falling back, giving him better access to you neck, your breath coming faster now. The tension inside you coiled tighter with every brush of his lips, every graze of his teeth, every shift of his body against yours. It was building, relentless, a pressure that bordered on unbearable.

Dean shifted between your thighs, rolling his hips against yours in a slow, deliberate motion, and you felt him hard and wanting, straining against the denim of his jeans. The heat of him seeped through the thin fabric of your dress, and your mind went hazy, thoughts scattering like smoke.

"I think…" you breathed, the words tumbling out between shaky inhales. "Fuck… Dean… I think we need to find a better place"

But he hadn't stopped. His lips were already tracing their way back up your jaw, brushing against the corner of your mouth, teasing. His hips kept rolling against your heat, making you feel dizzy but this time not from the alcohol but from Dean himself.

"One more minute, baby," he mumbled against your skin, and then he kissed you again, deep and consuming, and your brain went completely dark.

His lips were like a drug, something you couldn't leave and get enough of at the same time. Your hips bucked instinctively toward him, and he pressed forward in response, a low sound rumbling in his chest. You felt the damp heat of your own want soaking through, a mess you'd be embarrassed about later, but right now… right now, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

The only thing that existed was him. The weight of his hands. The warmth of his mouth. The way he said your name without saying it at all.

And you wanted him. That was all that mattered right now. 

Dean's hand slid up your body, palm flattening against your chest, squeezing through the thin fabric of your dress. His fingers found your nipple through the layers, rolling it between thumb and forefinger until you gasped into his mouth. He smiled against your lips. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, pulling him closer. His free hand gripped your thigh, squeezing hard enough to bruise, and he hitched your leg higher around his hip. The movement opened you up, pressing your core against the ridge of his jeans, and you both groaned at the contact.

"Fuck," Dean breathed, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and glistening. "You feel that? Feel what you do to me?"

You nodded, breathless, because you could. You could feel every inch of him straining against the denim, hard and wanting and so deliciously close.

His hips rolled against yours, slow and deliberate, and your head fell back with a moan. The railing dug into your thighs, the cool wood a sharp contrast to the heat of his body pressed against you. Dean took advantage of your exposed throat, latching onto the pulse point that fluttered wildly beneath your skin. His teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you whimpered, nails raking down his back.

"Dean," you gasped, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

"Say it again," he growled against your neck, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your dress. His fingers found the damp heat between your thighs, tracing you through the soaked fabric of your panties. "Say my name like that again"

"Dean," your hips rocked into his hand, desperate for more friction. "Please."

"Please what?" his voice was a dark murmur, his fingers pressing harder, circling your clit through the thin fabric. "Tell me what you want, sweetheart"

"You," your voice a broken whisper. "I want you, I want…"

His mouth cut you off with another kiss, swallowing your words as his fingers finally slipped beneath the fabric. He found you slick and ready, and the sound he made was almost reverent.

"So wet for me," he breathed against your lips. "This all for me?"

"Who else would it be for, you idiot?" you broke the kiss and looked at him irritatingly.

He laughed again, but it was strained, barely there, because his fingers were sliding through your folds, circling your clit with devastating precision. Your hips bucked into his hand, chasing the sensation, and he obliged, pressing harder, faster, until you were a trembling mess in his arms.

"That's it," he murmured, his forehead pressed to yours. "That's it, let go for me. I've got you"

The heat in your belly was growing, unbearable and intoxicating, spreading through you like wildfire. Dean's mouth captured your moans, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that mirrored the movement of his hand. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your hips rocking desperately against his fingers as the pressure built and built and built and….

"What the fuck?!" Garrett's voice cut through the haze like a bucket of ice water, and you jerked back so fast you nearly lost your balance on the railing. 

Your heart slammed against your ribs as your eyes found him, standing in the threshold with Logan and Tucker. Garrett's face was a thundercloud, jaw tight, nostrils flared, the vein in his forehead doing that thing it only did when he was about three seconds from committing a felony.

Behind him, Logan had his hand clamped over his mouth, shoulders shaking, but he wasn’t impressed at all. Tucker wasn't even trying to hide it, he was laughing, full-bodied, tears-in-his-eyes laughing, the traitor.

“Fuck,” Dean’s hand quickly left your core, circling your body and pulling you closer. His head fell on your shoulder and you felt Dean's breath hot against your ear, low and steady despite the disaster behind his back. "On the count of three, we run"

You nodded, barely, your pulse hammering so loud you could barely hear yourself think.

One.

Dean's hands found your waist, lifting you down from the railing with a slowness that felt almost mocking given the circumstances. Your feet hit the floor. Garrett took a step forward, and you felt every muscle in your body tense. His face was stone. The kind of face that said I'm going to bury my best friend in the backyard and no one will ever find the body.

Logan wheezed behind him. Tucker whisper-shouted, "Oh my God, he's going to kill him"

Two.

Dean's fingers laced through yours, squeezing once – tight, reassuring, maybe a little apologetic. His palm was warm and solid, and you clung to it like a lifeline. Garrett was coming closer now, slow and deliberate, the way predators did before they pounced. His jaw worked like he was chewing glass.

"Dean," he said, and his voice was eerily calm. That was worse. That was so much worse. "I'm going to give you five seconds to explain why your hands were under my sister’s dress"

"Five seconds?" Dean called back, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "That's generous"

"Dean," you hissed.

Tucker lost it completely, doubling over and slapping the doorframe. Logan was crying now. Actual tears.

Three.

"Bye, G!" Dean shouted, and then he was running, dragging you with him, your feet barely finding purchase as you launched off the porch and into the night.

Garrett's roar echoed behind you. You didn't look back. The cold wind whipped your face, biting at your cheeks and tearing through your hair, but you couldn't stop laughing. Breathless, hysterical, giddy laughter that mixed with the pounding of your feet and the thunder of your heart. The party lights blurred behind you, growing smaller and smaller as you rounded the corner, the music fading into a distant thrum.

Dean didn't slow down. He pulled you into the shadows of someone's house, pressing you back against the rough brick wall, his body caging you in before you could even catch your breath. His mouth found yours and he kissed you like you hadn't just committed a crime against his friendship with your brother.

"Now he's actually going to kill you," you breathed against his lips, but your hands were already fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, because apparently you had zero survival instincts.

Dean pulled back just enough to look at you, and the sight of him almost undid you – hair wild, lips swollen, that stupid, goofy grin spreading across his face like he hadn't just made an enemy of his best friend for life. His nose brushed against your cheek, soft and tender in a way that felt almost ridiculous after the chaos.

"Worth it," he whispered, and his voice was so warm, so certain, that your chest ached with it.

Then he kissed you again, deeper this time, and you forgot entirely about Garrett, about the run, about the cold. Because God, it was worth it. Every single, reckless, disastrous second of it.

thankx for reading <3

I've been rereading and editing this work for two days now, so I really hope it's alright and doesn't contain too many spelling or grammar mistakes. also, I haven't actually read the book, so my perspective on every character is mostly based on the vibe I got from the tv show. and if anything feels off, that's probably why. I hope you enjoy it anyway!

alright, I'm off to sleep and take a little break. I'll be happy to wake up to any dean requests in my inbox! as usual, comments and messages are always welcome. your words keep me going, even when I really should be sleeping. so please, let me know what you think of this one. it means the world to me :3

– your santi 🪐