#reader insert?

Urbain and Naveen

Two period cramp simulators rested on the coffee table, their wires like tentacles promising chaos. Urbain eyed his warily, nose wrinkled. “So… this thing just zaps you until you beg for mercy?” His laugh was half-mocking, half-nervous, the bravado in his voice wobbling at the edges.

You grinned, peeling the sticky pads and affixing them to his lower abdomen. “Only if you’re dramatic about it. But I’m in charge, so you’ll be fine.” Urbain’s blue eyes darted from you to the device, then back; he tried for a cocky wink, but his fingers fidgeted at the hem of his jacket.

Lida pressed the pads against Naveen’s skin with brisk efficiency. “You’ll be fine, too, Naveen. This is for science. And empathy! And content.” She punctuated that last word with a flourish, then shot you a thumb’s-up before clutching her own remote like a stage prop.

Naveen glared at Lida, his lips set in a stubborn line. “This is ridiculous. There’s no reason to—”

“You agreed,” Lida interrupted, sing-song, “and you’re the one who said you wanted to ‘understand the experience for your next design project.’ Don’t be a baby.”

Naveen’s cheeks colored, but he didn’t protest further. Urbain watched this with a nervous snicker, then flopped his arms wide, as if to say, “let’s get it over with.”

You and Lida exchanged a conspiratorial nod. The remotes buzzed in both your hands.

“Ready?” you asked, voice a low tease, thumb hovering over the button.

“Hit me,” Urbain said, with a bravado that sounded more like a dare than a challenge. You pressed the lowest setting.

A faint tingle sparked through Urbain’s core; he flinched, then forced a grin. “That’s it? Feels like a Joltik crawling on me.” He laughed.

Lida grinned and pressed Naveen’s remote. Naveen’s jaw tightened, but he merely exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowed in silent appraisal like he was dissecting an unfamiliar fabric.

“Now, that’s not so bad,” Naveen said, voice clipped, almost dismissive. “I thought this was supposed to be intense?”

Lida’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, you want intense? Level two, then!” She jabbed the button.

You matched her, bumping Urbain up a notch. This time, Urbain’s whole body jolted. “O—okay, that’s… that’s a little more than Joltik.” His voice cracked in the middle, and he pressed his palm flat to his stomach. “It’s like… like a wild Dedenne gnawing my guts.” He forced a grin, but sweat prickled his brow.

Naveen’s face remained composed, but his fingers twitched on the armrest. “It’s… manageable,” he muttered, but you saw his foot start to tap, a rare hint of nerves. Lida, ever the showman, leaned forward, grinning so wide her cheeks dimpled.

“Let’s bump it up again!” she chirped, finger poised.

You caught Urbain’s eye. He gulped, grinned wider, and nodded, as if daring himself to outlast the challenge. You pressed the button—level three.

This time, Urbain’s whole body bowed, legs jerking. “Hah—hah! Hnnn—oh, that’s… that’s, uh, wow, that’s not fun.” His voice broke into a pained giggle. “What is happening?” He doubled over, clutching his sides, his classic competitive spirit flickering in his eyes even as he grimaced. “Okay—oh, jeez, okay, I’m good, I got this. I got—ngh—this!” His breathing hitched, and he thumped the table with a fist, as if trying to psych himself up for a wild Pokémon battle.

Lida upped Naveen’s dial at the same time. Naveen stiffened, a sharp hiss escaping him. “Tch—okay, that’s… that’s very real.” His eyes squeezed shut for a beat, face pinched. “It’s like… like seven sewing needles in my gut.” He tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out thin and ragged. “Is this really how it feels? Every month? For hours?”

Lida patted his shoulder, but her eyes glittered with mischief. “Sometimes worse. We’re only halfway there!” She bumped the dial again.

“Wait—” Naveen started, but the next surge hit, and he bit down on a groan, knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his chair.

You matched her, not to be outdone. Urbain’s eyes went wide; he tried to keep up the act, but this time, the pain punched the wind out of him. “Hhhhhh—ah! Okay, wow, wow, that’s—” His words dissolved into a strangled whimper. He hunched over, sweat shining on his forehead, and for a moment looked completely, utterly defeated. But then, with a shaky exhale, he shot you a wild grin. “Bet I can last longer than him,” he wheezed, nodding at Naveen. “Team MZ pride, right?”

Naveen, for his part, was silent now, breathing measured and shallow. His eyes were glassy, but his jaw stayed set, and he glared at Lida like she’d just made him wear a Magikarp-print scarf.

“Still feeling rational?” Lida teased, dialing up the intensity one last time. He gasped, a wounded noise, but wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of a yelp.

Urbain, meanwhile, was a wreck. Every muscle in his body fought the current, his thighs trembling, his teeth clenched so hard you worried for his molars. “Gah—hah—nnnngh! Okay, okay, I’m—” He broke off, a high, embarrassed laugh bubbling up through the pain. “I give, I give, you win, you win! Turn it off!” He panted, sweat-soaked and red-faced, but managed a thumbs-up. “Respect. All the respect.”

Lida finally relented, clicking off Naveen’s stimulator. Naveen sagged in his chair, hair plastered to his forehead, a single bead of sweat rolling down his temple. “That…was a nightmare,” he rasped, voice hoarse. He glared at Lida, but there was something softer in his expression, the edges of understanding.

Urbain slumped sideways against you, limp as a fainted Pikachu. “That was brutal,” he groaned, but his grin still shone through the exhaustion. “I don’t know how you deal with that. You’re all, like, superheroes or something.”

Lida beamed, pride and mischief radiating from her. “You boys survived. Honestly? Better than I expected. But now you know—never underestimate a period, or a Team MZ girl.”

For once, Naveen didn’t have a retort. Urbain just laughed, the sound raw and real, hands still pressed to his sore belly. And as the room settled into the aftershock of the challenge, you caught the glimmer of new respect in both their eyes—a little less bravado, a little more awe.

Grisham

You sat with Grisham in the staff lounge of the old Lysandre Café, a battered table between you, a pair of period cramp simulators coiled like sinister utensils on a dessert tray. Grisham, ever composed, smoothed the cuffs of his pale gray shirt and adjusted his round glasses, eyes flaring with curiosity and a quiet, misplaced confidence. He perched on the worn bench, back straight, flame-orange ponytail catching the late-afternoon light, face betraying not a hint of nerves.

Across the room, Griselle lounged against the bar, arms folded, blue eyes glinting behind her modern frames. Her high ponytail bobbed as she watched, a smirk curling her lips, already plotting.

“This is only fair, Grisham,” you said, fixing the pads to his lower abdomen with gentle precision. “You’ve always acted like you’re immune to discomfort. Let’s see how you handle a taste of reality.”

He clasped his hands together, exhaling in a measured stream. “I’m certain I can endure whatever you set, mon cœur. I assure you, I’ve handled far worse in the pursuit of Flare’s legacy.”

You stifled a smile, thumb hovering over the remote. “We’ll see.”

The first jolt was a gentle ripple. A strange, alien discomfort blooming beneath Grisham’s shirt. His face barely changed, though his brow knitted minutely. “Interesting. Rather like…a persistent, dull stitch.” He adjusted his glasses, voice steady, though his fingers twitched against the tabletop. “Not pleasant, but manageable.”

Griselle snorted, swinging a leg onto a chair, her server’s skirt hiked indecorously high. “That’s baby mode. Crank it up, or he’ll be bragging for weeks.”

Your lips twitched. You nudged the dial higher. The simulator hummed, sending a deeper, more insistent ache twisting through Grisham’s core. His breath hitched this time, a faint tremor in his jaw. Still, he held his posture, the only giveaway a bead of sweat at his hairline.

“Ah,” he murmured, voice thinning. “That has…teeth. I admit, I underestimated the intensity.” He pressed a palm flat to his belly, the faintest strain in his eyes. “But I can continue, if you wish.”

Griselle rolled her eyes so hard you could nearly hear it. “You always say that. Try walking around, taking orders, and acting cheerful with that going on inside you.” She leaned forward, chin on her fist, grinning like a hungry Pyroar. “Take him to three.”

You hesitated, glancing at Grisham, his composure was slipping, a fine tremor running through his shoulders. Still, he nodded, pride and stubbornness shining behind the polite mask. You flicked the dial. The pain pulsed deeper, sharp and relentless as a Flamethrower, coiling in his gut.

“Hnn—” Grisham pressed his lips together, face paling as he hunched over slightly, hands gripping the edge of the table. “That is… considerably more intense than anticipated.” His voice was precise, taut as piano wire. “Is this—truly—what you endure, Griselle?”

Griselle’s laugh was all teeth. “Worse, you stuck-up bastard. And nobody lets me off dishes for it.” She slid closer, eyes alight, a wicked idea blooming on her tongue. “Come on, Gris. You always said I was too dramatic. Let’s see that old Team Flare discipline.”

You watched Grisham, his breaths coming shallow, sweat slicking his temple. His pride was unraveling, but he shook his head, refusing to tap out. “I…can withstand a little more. For science. For—solidarity.”

You reached for the remote, intending to spare him as the pain was etched in his every line now: knuckles white, bow tie askew, his entire body rigid with the effort not to whimper. But before you could turn it off, Griselle pounced, snatching the device from your hand with a triumphant cry.

“Not so fast!” she sang out, already jamming her thumb on the remote. The dial jumped to four.

Grisham convulsed, a strangled gasp breaking free—“A-ah!”—his composure shattering as his back arched, eyes squeezed shut, glasses slipping halfway down his nose. He doubled over, one fist pounding the table, breath coming in desperate, ragged gulps. “M-merde, Griselle—!” He bit down on the next sound, but it escaped anyway, a low, wounded moan: “Nnnnngh!”

Griselle was cackling, wild and unrepentant, the light in her eyes electric with long-nursed mischief. “Now you get it, huh? Think you’ll ever make fun of me for calling off a shift again?”

You circled the table, gently prying the remote from her grip, ignoring her protest. “That’s enough,” you snapped, cutting the simulator at last, kneeling beside Grisham as he collapsed forward, trembling and breathless. The color had drained from his face, hair sticking damply to his brow, but he managed to lift his eyes to yours—lost, stunned, and a little ashamed.

You smoothed his hair back, pressing a palm to his cheek, your eyes wide with concern. “Are you okay, Grisham?”

Grisham shuddered, swallowing hard, his breath still shaky. “I…never…I never understood,” he whispered, voice raw and open, the last of his pride swept away. “Griselle, I—my apologies. I was wrong.”

Griselle, still perched on the edge of the table, wiped tears of laughter from her eyes, grinning like a cat with cream. “Worth it. Next time you roll your eyes when I call out, just remember today, yeah?”

Ivor

The Fist of Justice Dojo was alive, members crowding close in a ring of grinning, eager faces.

Ivor’s amber eyes sparkled, a cocky grin showing the mole at his lower lip. “Alright!” he boomed, voice shattering the early evening hush. “Lay it on me! Hit me with your best shot! I’m ready for anything!”

You, remote in hand, knelt before him, affixing the simulator’s pads to the tough line of his lower abdomen. The girls pressed in, eyes wide, grins sharp, the anticipation practically vibrating the air.

“Ready, Ivor-sensei?” one of the younger black belts called, arms crossed over her gi. “Don’t faint on us!”

Ivor flexed, making a show of rolling his shoulders, his wild mane rippling like a proud Arcanine’s. “I don’t faint, I roar!” he declared. “Bring it on!”

You thumbed the remote to level one.

The device hummed. Ivor’s brows furrowed, just for a second. Then he blinked, golden eyes flicking down. “Huh,” he said, thoughtful. “Feels like…maybe I ate too much rice. Or maybe a Meditite’s pokin’ me. That’s it?”

The crowd tittered, a few of the girls giggling behind their hands. You nudged it to level two. The hum deepened.

Ivor shifted, face scrunching in mild curiosity. “Kinda tickles. Like a Shroomish headbutting my guts, but he’s still learnin’ how.” He patted his belly, grinning. “Is it supposed to get worse?”

You and the others exchanged incredulous looks. This was supposed to be the “justice” for every time he’d brushed off one of their complaints with a hearty “just do a lap!” or “be strong, like Lucario!” Some of the girls started chanting, “Up! Up! Up!”

You obliged, cranking it to level three.

This time, the simulator pulsed with a vengeance, the kind that’d doubled Corbeau over, and also brought Urbain to his knees. Ivor sat up, eyebrows rising, mouth forming a perfect “O.” He tilted his head, like a Machamp considering a puzzle. “Okay, that’s… new. It’s, uh, warm. Like a Growlithe’s tail on my stomach, but nothin’ bad.” He flashed his teammates a thumbs-up. “Guess all those sit-ups paid off, huh?”

A chorus of groans and laughter rippled through the crowd. Someone shouted, “You’re not human!” Another: “Sensei, you really can’t feel it?”

You gave him the benefit of the doubt, sending the dial to max. The simulator buzzed with the power of a thousand cramps, the sort that’d make even the toughest fighter see stars. Ivor’s eyes widened as he looked down, then back up at you, utterly perplexed. He scratched his head, wild golden tufts bouncing.

“Whoa, okay,” he said, voice still loud, but edged with genuine surprise. “It’s like… hmm… like after you’ve been punched by a Hariyama in the gut, but, you know, way after. It’s just… there.” He flexed his abs experimentally, then laughed, booming and bright. “I could go for a jog right now! Is this really it?”

The girls erupted in outrage—half in disbelief, half in admiration. Someone shoved him lightly on the shoulder. “You’re a freak, Sensei! We swear, you’re made of steel!” Another mimed fainting, mock-collapsing into the arms of her friend. “You mean to tell me you’d do warmups like this?”

Ivor grinned, sheepish and earnest, rubbing the back of his head. “Guess so! Maybe I’m just built different. Or maybe you’re all tougher than you think.” He beamed, the kind of look that could melt a Machoke’s resolve. “Hey—if you can fight through this every month, no wonder you all kick so much butt!”

The girls groaned, laughing and rolling their eyes, some tossing their headbands at his feet. 

“Sensei, you’re impossible!” 

“We’re telling Gwynn!” 

“Rematch—next time, we hook it up to your head!”

You couldn’t help but join in the laughter. Even if the simulator couldn’t humble him, the spectacle had unified the dojo in one thing: Ivor’s superhuman resilience—or was it obliviousness?—was just as legendary as his spirit. And for once, every member felt the tiniest bit validated, knowing their pain was something even the dojo master himself could barely comprehend.

Corbeau and Philippe

You stood at the head of his onyx desk, two period cramp simulators cradled in your hands, wires coiling like the limbs of some mischievous Rotom. Corbeau watched in silence from his throne of a desk chair, suit immaculate as always, his glasses glinting as he gave you a look equal parts curiosity and suspicion. Philippe stood at his left, arms behind his back, his bulk filling the room with quiet gravity. The golden knot of his tie gleamed above the massive plate of his chest, and he offered a single, silent nod. Permission, or perhaps resignation.

“Gentlemen,” you intoned, laying out the simulators, “for science, for empathy, for a little fun at your expense.”

Corbeau’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of amusement, quickly smothered. “I suppose you’ll be expecting composure,” he murmured, voice velvet and venom. “Do your worst.”

Philippe rolled his broad shoulders, steady as a Bastiodon. “I’ve endured worse than a machine on my belly, boss. Let’s get on with it.”

You fixed the sticky pads to their abdomens. Philippe’s skin was warm and taut beneath the layers; Corbeau’s cold, smooth as marble. The simulators awaited, red LEDs blinking. You reached for the dials.

First, the lowest setting.

Corbeau’s eyes narrowed, but he betrayed nothing, not even a twitch. Philippe grunted, and a muscle in his cheek jumped. You let it linger, watching the way Corbeau’s gloved hand curled, ever so slightly, atop the desk.

“Not so dire, is it?” Philippe rumbled, voice steady, chin lifted in challenge.

“Routine discomfort,” Corbeau replied, soft as a threat. “Barely noteworthy.”

You turned the dials up. Level two.

Corbeau inhaled, slow and controlled, his nostrils flaring just a touch, the only sign of strain. The air in the room thickened, as if a Weezing had drifted through. His gaze flicked to the window, then back to you. “A little more insistent,” he said, measured. “But pain is a matter of perspective.”

Philippe’s brow furrowed, a slow exhale slipping between his teeth. “Feels like some steel cable’s twisting in there,” he admitted, voice low, but steady as a freight train. His fists clenched, knuckles white, but he held his ground. “Not pleasant, but I’ve had meaner scrapes.”

You smiled, fingers tightening on the controls. Level three.

Now the simulators sang, a deep, grinding ache that pulsed in time with each heartbeat. Corbeau’s composure wavered, a tremor passing through his jaw. He pressed a palm flat to the desk, glass squeaking. His eyes, usually razor-sharp, glazed for a heartbeat as he exhaled through gritted teeth.

Philippe was silent, sweat beading along his hairline. He grunted, low and rumbling, but his stance was unchanged, feet planted and broad shoulders squared. “Heh. That’s a bit rough, boss,” he managed, voice hoarse. “Like a Magneton gone wild.”

Corbeau’s hand slipped beneath the desk’s edge, gripping tight. “This…is a novel sensation,” he hissed, breath thin. “You are quite thorough.”

You watched both, your thumb hovering. “Should I continue?”

Corbeau’s glare sharpened, pride and stubbornness flickering like poison in his veins. “Proceed.”

Philippe nodded, jaw set, teeth bared in a grimace that was half challenge, half grim amusement. “Bring it on. I’m no lightweight.”

Level four.

The simulators pulsed with a vengeance. Corbeau’s breath hitched as a low, involuntary sound escaping him, half snarl, half gasp. He hunched forward, the sleek lines of his coat wrinkling as his muscles tensed. His knuckles blanched, and he pressed his lips into a bloodless line, refusing to let a true sound escape.

Philippe’s eyes squeezed shut. He bent at the waist, sweat now rolling down the sides of his face, a shudder rippling through his bulk. “Nnnnnngh!” He exhaled hard, the sound raw, voice scraping low. “That’s—real nasty. Feels like a Skarmory’s clawing at my gut.”

Corbeau dared a glance at Philippe, pride flickering through the haze. “You…endure well, Philippe,” he managed, voice thin and brittle, as if spun from glass. He swallowed hard, blinking through the pain. “But I…will not yield.”

You kept the current humming, just a little longer, watching the struggle flare in their eyes. Corbeau’s composure was a mask slipping at the edges, sweat beading in neat lines along his hairline, jaw trembling as he fought not to double over. His breath came fast, shallow, but he never looked away, never begged.

Philippe, massive and unwavering, was panting now, cheeks flushed, shirt clinging to his chest. He braced both hands on his knees, body trembling, but still, he didn’t fold. “Hhhh—aaah, boss,” he gasped, voice ragged but proud, “I’m—still—here—”

Corbeau finally cracked. A sharp, shuddering exhale, a hiss of pain forced between his teeth. He gripped the desk so hard you feared for the integrity of the glass. “Enough,” he ground out, voice steel over venom, eyes burning with exhausted pride.

You cut the simulators.

Corbeau sagged back, chest heaving, sweat glistening on his brow, glasses fogged. He wiped a trembling hand across his face, regaining composure by inches. Philippe leaned back, chest rising and falling in massive, shuddering breaths, shirt damp with sweat, tie askew, a wild, battle-won grin splitting his face.

“Respect,” Philippe said, voice a rough scrape of admiration. “Didn’t think I’d see the day you’d sweat, boss.”

Corbeau managed a ghost of a smile, dark and wry. “We both… have our limits. But… I will not forget this.”

Philippe wiped a broad palm across his brow and let out a low grunt, shaking his head, a rueful smile flickering beneath his mutton chops. “I’ll tell you what though… If I’d known it was like that, I’d never have called any of the girls slackers for takin’ a breather.”

Corbeau’s lips parted; for a moment, he was silent, as if weighing the weight of this new, quietly devastating knowledge. He turned his attention to the far wall, gaze distant, then back to Philippe, voice low and deliberate. “Our women…our Syndicate’s strength depends on them as much as any man. We’ve expected them to endure—without complaint—what we just struggled with for five minutes.” His tone was measured, but the resonance of realization vibrated beneath it, like a bass note struck in a silent hall.

Philippe’s face sobered, the last of his gruff bravado melting away. “Truth is, boss, we never had a proper policy. Always figured if they could handle the street, they could handle anything. Never thought about… this.” He gestured vaguely at his own stomach, wincing at the memory of the pain. “Hell, we’ve probably pushed ‘em harder because they never said a word.”

Corbeau slid his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose—an unguarded gesture, rare as diamonds. “That changes now,” he said quietly, each word clipped and certain. “From this day forward, if any of our women are in pain—real pain, not some imagined frailty, they step back. No questions, no marks against their record, no judgment. If anyone in our ranks gives them grief, they answer to me.” He glared at the far wall, as if daring some invisible adversary to object.

Philippe nodded, the lines around his eyes softening, a new respect settling in his gaze. “I’ll see to it, boss. I’ll talk to the lads. Make sure they get it.”

Corbeau’s eyes met yours, and for a fleeting second, the mask dropped and he looked less like a syndicate kingpin and more like a man awakening to the unspoken battles fought in the shadows of his own organization. “We pride ourselves on strength,” he said, voice quieter now, almost confessional. “But if this is what they endure and still show up—” He shook his head, something dangerously close to admiration flickering in his eyes. “That’s a strength no man in this room can claim.”

Philippe managed a dry, shaky laugh, scrubbing sweat from his brow. “Next time someone calls any of ‘em soft, I’ll let ‘em try the machine out themselves. See how long they last.”

Corbeau’s mouth twitched, the faintest echo of a smile—wry, almost gentle. “Perhaps that’s the only training some of our members will ever truly understand.”

“Pantyhose,” said Dean, giving the thing he’d just been handed a puzzled look. “Pantyhose...filled with salt?”

“Well, this is just a prototype. I needed a material that breathed but was tight enough to hold in salt grains, and this was the first thing that came to mind. They’re pretty heavy duty as far as hose go, but still too fragile to just throw around willy nilly.”

Dean raked a hand down his face. Y/N had been talking nonstop since Dean walked in the door. It was a bouncy kind of talk that she tended to do whenever she was excited. Y/N was often excited, but she was always especially so when Dean finally got back from a long hunt. As nice as it had been to come home to the smell of freshly baked pie and a buoyant smile, Dean was still too lagged from the drive home to quite make sense of what she was showing him.

“Now, if we use rock salt instead of table salt, that would limit spillage if there's a run, but rock salt might also be more likely to result in a run. I don’t know. I haven’t made one of those yet. We’ll see.”  

Dean shook his head but couldn’t help but smile. “Slow down. Go back to the beginning. Why did you stuff a pair of pantyhose with any kind of salt?”

“Well, that should be obvious,” Y/N said, though Dean’s flat expression clearly stated that it wasn’t to him, and she huffed out a sigh. “It just seems like everytime one of you lays down a ring of salt, whatever it is you’re trying to keep out just--whoosh--blows some of it away. Almost isn’t even worth the trouble of making a salt circle in the first place, if you ask me. If the salt was contained somehow, though, the ghosties would have to do a hell of a lot more to break the circle than just fart on it. You can’t very well just stuff salt inside a hula hoop or something, though, and expect that to work. It has to be open to the air to be effective. So. I figured, if you cut off the legs of a pair of pantyhose and filled them with the right amount of salt, and you closed the loop in a zigzag pattern to allow the radiant effects of the salt to overlap at the seam, you might finally have an effective barrier. You’d have to be careful laying it out, of course, but you wouldn’t have to-”

Y/N’s explanation was cut short when Dean’s fingers curled around the back of her neck to pull her lips to his. Silenced, her arms immediately reached to wrap around his broad shoulders, and for a moment, Y/N melted into the kiss, returning it eagerly.

Dean knew he should be listening instead of attempting tonsil hockey, but he was almost too road weary to follow what she was saying. Besides, when she got carried away like this, she was just so fucking cute, he couldn’t help himself.  

The kiss was heady and lingering...And the instant it ended, she continued as if she’d never been interrupted.

“-be afraid of the circle breaking just because it’s fucking drafty,” she said, though breathlessly, still clinging to him. Dean gave a small chuckle and an endeared shake of his head. “I’ve been sketching out reinforcement patterns to apply to the surface which I think could work to give it more integrity without compromising its effectiveness, so you wouldn’t have to handle it so delicately. Though really, I’ll probably just end up finding a different material entirely.”

Dean finally gave up on kisses and drew back to show both her and the thing in his hand his full attention. “Yeah, no. It’s...it’s a good idea,” he told her with a nod. “Or, it’s the start of one anyway. Can’t honestly remember the last time me and Sam faced down a ghost, but y’know, it might be something we can hand out to other hunters,” he proposed, discreetly dropping Y/N’s ‘prototype’ back onto the table to free his hand to sweep up her back.

She returned his smitten gaze with a sigh. “Wanna know the truth?” she asked with a scrunch of her nose.

Dean knew she was going to tell him regardless, but he played his part dutifully. “From you? Always,” he winked, holding her closer.

“I really think the whole concept is a little flimsy,” she whispered, as though it were a secret, “and I don’t know if I’ll be able to manage anything practical. But I just kept imagining you using it on a hunt and having to bark at people to, ‘Stay inside the pantyhose!’,” she said, mimicking the man in her arms, right down to his gruff voice and scowl. Apparently the mental image still struck her as funny and she needed a moment to fight back her threatening laughter. “I just had to make at least one.”

Y/N’s smile was contagious, and Dean felt one lift his own cheeks in response. It hadn’t been a bad impression. “Hey, you don’t even wear pantyhose. Where’d you get all these?” Dean asked, spying the remains of several others littering the table behind her.

“The Gettin’ Place?”

“You went out and bought like thirty pairs of tights just to make a ghost-fart resistant salt circle?”

“Hose, not tights. Tights are too dense. And only about a dozen, I wanted to test the different kinds,” Y/N shrugged, placing both hands on Dean’s chest to back him into a nearby chair.

Her interest in the project seemed to have finally been spent. Y/N’s focus turned exclusively to Dean, and suddenly, cute was not the optimal descriptor for the woman looking down at him, spreading her legs to accommodate his knees as she inched closer.

“Y’know... pantyhose aren’t the only things I don’t wear,” she reminded him with a quirk of her eyebrow.

Y/N began gathering up her skirt, and Dean’s hand chased the hem of the fabric, devouring the skin being gradually revealed until it cupped her conveniently bare ass cheek.

“Why don’t we take this somewhere Sammy isn’t likely to stroll in?” Y/N said, combing her fingers through is hair. “I still haven’t properly welcomed you home, after all.”

Dean hummed in approval of this plan. “Honey, you are just full of good ideas today,” he said, grasping the backs of her thighs to hoist her legs up and around his hips as he rose from his chair.

She clung to him with a yelp and a giggle as he lifted her. “Looks like I’m about to be full of something else soon, too. Speaking of, I might have another good idea,” she whispered in his ear, “but it would require mounting some hardware to the ceiling of your bedroom.”