fxckingjo

[fxckingjo]

Waiting Game

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel Miller has mastered the art of self-control in all areas except one: not fucking his friend’s daughter. A cross-country road trip home from college takes a hard turn when he’s forced to share a motel room with you.

Warnings: 18+. Protected p-in-v. Praise. Overstimulation. Sweet, possessive, slightly obsessive and pussywhipped Joel. Daddy kink. Drug use. Angst. Accidental creampie. Joel fucking you while on the phone with your father.

Word count: 13.1k

Read on AO3

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad presses. A hint of concern rises from his end of the line.

At length, Joel grips both of your legs and brings them up over his shoulders, and he grins before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.

“Yes!” you yelp as you crush the phone to your ear, hoping your father can’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”

Aside from the fact that he smoked like a chimney and bumped far more Billy Joel than any man ever should, Mr. Miller was an A-OK friend—your father’s best friend.

All you needed was a ride home for the holidays.

From the second you’d set foot in his old Ford Bronco, you sensed this trek wouldn’t be an enjoyable one—thirty-hour road trips rarely ever were—but you leaned back in the passenger seat, propped your feet on the dashboard, and bopped along to ‘You May Be Right’ for the fifty-fifth fucking time that morning and smiled.

Joel frowned.

“Dogs off the dash,” he muttered, swatting at your bare, polished toes before you kicked his touch away.

“Shotgun puts her feet up, driver shuts his cakehole.”

That wasn’t even how the saying went. Oh well.

Joel slowed the car to sixty in the right-hand lane and smacked your ankles even harder. You yelped.

“Hey! You can’t hit a woman!”

“I’m not hitting a woman, I’m hitting a little gremlin,” Joel tried not to grin as he delivered another tart slap to your foot, and you almost jerked into the passenger door.

He momentarily righted the car before it went veering into the lane beside it, seized one of your feet, and tried to forcibly shove it off the dashboard, to no avail. As soon as he moved one limb, the other would glide right back up to take its place; Joel’s hands were big, but they weren’t massive enough to grab hold of both of your legs at once and make you stay the fuck there, Christ’s sake.

You liked to see him flustered. Brought a whole new hue to his tough, stubbled cheeks that folks rarely got to see. You squirmed in your seat when he reached for your side.

“Wh—NO! No tickling!” you cried, trying your hardest to roll away.

But the man was nothing if not a lover of cheap shots and filthy antics. He’d never played a clean game in his life and wasn’t about to start now.

His gaze darted from the road to your writhing form, pinned against the door and begging him to stop, while he pressed his foot harder on the gas and smirked.

“Too much?” he teased, “Say pretty, pretty please.”

In other words: give up. You would do no such thing. Your elbow jutted out to the side and clipped his fingertips sharply, and right before he could reach for you again, you were heaving yourself up and leaning almost halfway out the open window, trying to shy away from his touch.

“You fuckin’ nuts?! Get down!” he yelled.

“But it just may be a luuuunatic you’re lookin’ for!” you sang along to your old friend Billy Joel and pretended not to see, or hear, Joel Miller twisting desperately across the center console to take hold of your belt loops.

“Get—I swear to God, kid—DOWN!”

Joel had just managed to finagle a loose, feeble grip on your denim waistband as he tried to keep the car from soaring across three lanes of traffic, was just about to yank you back inside and give you a red-faced, fatherly lecture of a lifetime, when a sound startled you both.

A siren, and a set of flashing blue lights behind you.

You scrambled back in your seat and swallowed a lump in your throat the size of a peach. You turned off Mr. Long Island.

“Great! Good fucking going,” Joel griped beside you as he flicked on his blinker and started to pull off the road.

Dogs no longer on the dash—and a very pissed off cop pulling up behind your car on the shoulder of the road—you got the feeling this would be a long couple of days.

You hadn’t even made it outside the city limits of Boston.

Somewhere between Richmond and Roanoke, the two of you turned off the highway to find a place to sleep.

Joel had sat and stewed and ignored you for the customary duration of about two hours before choosing to re-engage in conversation, but deep down, you knew he was still kind of irked by that reckless driving citation he’d received. You couldn’t help but feel responsible.

Though it had been pretty funny when the state trooper had approached the car and pointedly asked, “What the hell was your daughter doin’ danglin’ outta this thing?!” Joel was nowhere near as amused as you, but he managed to roll with it and told the cop you were just trying to wave to the cows in the fields passing by.

The police officer hadn’t bought it.

He probably would have arrested you both if you hadn’t been such a coquettish flirt and somehow managed to persuade the man to let your ‘dad’ off with just a ticket.

You had hoped that would temper Joel’s anger some, but if anything, the sight only seemed to make him more mad at you. You weren’t sure why.

Presently, you pulled up to Balmaceda’s Mountain Lodge and cast a bleak look at the front office before you.

This looked nothing like the snug, homespun mountain retreat you’d been picturing in your mind. Ahead of your car, there stood a single-story concrete slab of a motel, tilted to one side and consumed almost entirely by the dark of night and wide open wilderness. A big block letter neon sign displaying the owner’s name in red now barely flickered above a muddied, pinkish glow. You groaned.

But before you could complain to your travel companion, Joel was already stepping out of the car and heading toward the main office. Hastily, you followed after.

“No way, Miller. No fucking way are we staying in Murder Motel,” you hissed.

“Bal-ma-ceda’s,” Joel intoned with a maddeningly accurate lilt, ignoring your protests, “I think that’s a Chilean name.”

He swung the door wide for you to enter and pretended not to see you shoot him a glare as you strolled in.

“Needin’ a room?”

The lady behind the counter barely graced your entrance with a look.

“Yes ma’am. Whatever you got,” Joel replied, smiling.

“Smoking or non?”

“Smoking, please.”

Of course he would. You could already feel the fetid stench of American Spirits wafting up to your nostrils.

“King or two Queens?”

“Queens,” you and Joel answered in unison.

At first, the woman nodded, flicked through a rolodex on her desk and nosed through a couple yellowed pages in front of her. Then, frowning, she looked back up.

“Sorry. All the Queens are took up. Rest of the rooms are being fumigated but the one—” she tapped a manicured nail on the motel map, “—and it’s got a King. That okay?”

No. No, it was not. You opened your mouth to speak but were shortly cut off by the woman before you could.

“Of course, if you don’t want dad hoggin’ up all the sheets, there’s a pull-out sofa for him to sleep on.”

The sixty-something desk clerk offered a smile, and you likely would’ve returned the favor if you hadn’t been so deeply nauseated at the thought of everyone around you assuming that Joel was your father. You chanced a look at the man, who seemed equally uncomfortable as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. You sighed.

“Alright.”

Defeated, but marginally pleased that you wouldn’t have to share a bed with your ‘old man’ that night.

Joel paid and signed the papers without another word, or look, to you or the woman. By the looks of it, he just wanted to book the room and get the hell out as fast as possible, his brow pinched inward and lips zipped tight.

He’d turned to leave so quick that he was almost approaching the door when the lady called out,

“Mr. Miller! You forgot your keys.”

You hardly needed to steal a glance in Joel’s direction to see that he was flushed. Even blushing a bit.

You strode over to the counter and intercepted the keys she was dangling for someone to take, then politely, finally, were able to manage a smile and a thank-you.

You turned back to Joel.

“Here you go, Daddy.”

In a blink, the small silver set was pelted in his hands, and the man nearly dropped them—and lost his balance. By some miracle, Joel managed to catch them between his big sweaty palms and step aside just in time for you to saunter past him, straight through the door.

“I’m starved,” you announced, then, averting your face to hide your smug expression and lower your voice a bit, “Feed me, Daddy.”

In that moment, Joel thanked every last one of his lucky stars that his pants were made of denim, and that the denim itself was thick. And that the woman at the front desk was swift to turn her attention back to her tabloid magazine, away from you two, and didn’t look up again.

If they weren’t, and if she hadn’t, it would’ve been plain as day to see that Joel Miller was sporting a hard-on.

A huge, swollen hard-on that made it almost impossible for him to walk and haul luggage and try to keep apace with your steps as you sailed along the gravel drive. So big the man had to will himself not to limp, not to make it known how stiff he was, until he eventually failed at both.

Once you’d grabbed your bags back at the car and made it up to your place, you entered Room 102 with a lightness you hadn’t felt all day. Joel slogged behind with all of the baggage and a boner beneath his jeans that probably could’ve cut sheet metal, if needed.

He was fucked. No doubt he’d have to enlist in the Witness Protection Program after your real father found out that his best friend had gotten visibly bricked up for you, his one and only daughter. How awkward holiday dinners were bound to be from that point on; how humiliating it seemed to him to pop a chub at a thing as dumb as saying ‘daddy’; how batshit insane it was that he hadn’t gotten laid in almost a year, and you were still, somehow, the only one he wanted to break the dry spell.

Joel was better than this. A fucking pro at self-control and all things dirty old guys didn’t do. He could chill out.

He just needed to rub one out in the bathroom, fast.

So, while you flopped down on the bed, Joel dropped every bag and made a beeline for the toilet. Slammed the door so hard he probably could’ve knocked the thing off its hinges, but he didn’t care. He was wrestling his belt, button, and zip off in a second. Then haphazardly turning on the sink to mask the sounds of all that was to come. No pun intended.

He yanked his thick, throbbing, rock-hard member out of its confines and had to hiss through his teeth to keep from moaning. The sensitivity he felt was unbearable, the front of his boxers already painted with pre-cum.

Gingerly, Joel wrapped one hand around his cock and raised the other to anchor himself against the sink. He slid his palm, which he’d just barely lubricated with some spit of his, up and down the shaft and groaned. A welt of pleasure formed in his chest, and he rubbed even faster. And, in spite of his legs feeling a bit like jelly, he stood there and fucked his fist and wished with every bit of himself that it was your warm, lush folds opening around him instead. Stifled a groan and would’ve paid any sum of money to hear your moans spilling out while he thrusted. The act here was more mindless and reflexive than anything else—jerking himself and soaking in the sharp, fiery sensations that shot up through his body.

To him, at least, it was all purely physical. Mechanical.

Nowhere near as euphoric and otherworldly as it would have been with your hand actually curled around him.

Or your lips. Or your tongue. Or your tight, wet cunt.

Fuck, he needed a shower.

Blindly, Joel moved inside the tub to his left and yanked the curtain shut over a space almost two times too small for his frame. He turned on the water and made it hot. Then he fisted his cock again, pressed his head to the shower wall, and pumped himself as fast as his forearm would allow him—trying all the while not to think of you.

You, with all your wily, shrewd ways were still the daughter of the man who guzzled down IPAs with him at the local dive bar every Thursday night over jalapeño poppers and buffalo dip. The man who clapped him over the shoulder and shook his frame with the kind of good-natured sneer that only a best friend could make, ‘A man as suave as you oughta get some tail every now and then. Go find you a gal and fuck her brains out, Joel!’

But the only ‘gal’ Joel wanted to rail was the one who called that man ‘dad’—and just called him ‘daddy’ for the first time that night—and he hated himself for it.

Sparks of pleasure continued to ignite across his lower half as he jerked himself in the shallowest, short pumps. He flicked his hand back and forth, circled the tip with his palm, and felt a groan start to claw at his throat. He tried to picture any face but yours but failed miserably.

All he could think, see, or breathe was you—imagining your lips enveloping the head of his cock, jerking him softly, taking him down to the back of your throat and bobbing that pretty little face up and down his length.

That sweaty, desperate fist of his just wasn’t cutting it.

For the first time, Joel couldn’t make himself cum.

Now even more pent-up and pussywhipped than he’d been when he first started, he slammed his palm against the wall and flung the shower handle in the opposite direction—turning the water as cold as it could get.

Five minutes passed, and the icy spray had scarcely left a dent in his raging erection. Joel stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips, and stood in front of the mirror to see that he was still very hard.

Fuck this.

He bunched his strewn aside clothing together and held it over his crotch, discreet as he could, and waddled out.

And, either the temperature inside had just jumped fifty degrees or the world outside had just caught fire, but Joel’s face was flooded with heat the second he exited.

You were sprawled across the bed wearing nothing but a thin white tank, shorts, and fuzzy socks—and a scowl.

“Sofa’s broke,” you said.

Joel blinked.

“Broke?”

You nodded toward the busted sleeper couch at the far end of the room, torn to pieces and kicked a half-dozen times since you’d tried unfolding it in Joel’s absence.

The jaws of the old steel frame had simply refused to give way, and now the sofa was so out of sorts and misshapen that you had no hope of putting it back the way that it was. You sank further in the bed and pointed to the floor.

“You can sleep there.”

Joel eyed a flat sheet and a pillow laid across the carpet, visibly coated in dust and grime. He turned back to you.

“You’re smokin’ crack if you think I’m doin’ that.”

“Be grateful I’m not making you sleep in the car, daddy.”

Again with that fucking name. Joel tightened his grip on the clothes he was holding over his dick and tried to fight a thousand dirty thoughts threatening to seep back into his head.

Unfortunately, the dirty thoughts had hands—and were beating his ass to a bloody pulp when he first caught sight of your nipples poking up through your shirt. Just when the man might have started to drool or else begun humping that pile of clothes, you snapped your fingers.

“Miller Lite. Eyes up here.”

Fuck.

“Got a…stain on your shirt,” he grumbled in his defense.

“Shut up. Now, we can flip for the bed if you want.”

By turns, Joel’s focus was slowly coming back, and the man was trying like hell to find a place on your face that didn’t arouse him to no end—to help ease the intrusive thoughts and all. So far his search had yielded nothing.

“Like, uh…coin?” he asked. Endearingly stupid.

“Heads, I win,” you said, nodding, “Tails…”

Joel swallowed.

“Tails, what?”

“Tails, you tell me what was going on in your head when you were jacking off to the thought of me just now.”

Your words came out in a hurry, almost too quick for Joel to comprehend. He still heard them, though, and nearly choked on his spit when he tried to swallow again.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” you bit back, “I heard you moan my name.”

Joel didn’t remember that. Joel didn’t remember much of anything that had taken place in that bathroom apart from being implacably horny and unable to bust a nut. You stepped off the bed to stand in front of him.

“What? Cat got your tongue all of a sudden?” you sneered, “Think I’m just gonna run off and tell my da—”

“Don’t,” Joel’s response was immediate, insistent. Then, setting his jaw in a way you knew too well, contemplating about fifty different thoughts in the span of two seconds, he pressed the clothes pile to his crotch even tighter and sighed, “Don’t…do that, please. I’ll take the floor.”

You raised both brows, mildly amused.

“I said we could flip for it. C’mon,” you said.

“Ain’t got any coins.” Joel was already retreating to his makeshift sleeping pad on the floor, eyeing the shag carpet for any traces of blood, piss, or rodent droppings. Before he made it too far, you reached for his arm.

Joel tensed under your touch.

“We can try something else.” Your voice was cloying, almost too sweet to be trusted.

It had just dawned on you then how bare the man standing before you was. Clad in only his towel, every taut, toned inch of Joel’s body was there on display—coated with sweat and a fine sheen from the shower, his skin practically shone in the glow of the bedside lamp. You watched him shift in place and saw the towel around his hips stir along with it. He never let those old clothes in his hands move an inch away from his groin, though.

“What game?” he asked.

“Something my roommates showed me,” you began, “‘Too Hot.’”

“Too Hot?”

“You heard me.”

“What, like— like Spin the Bottle, or some bullshit?”

Joel could just picture it: a gaggle of your college pals huddled around an old, empty bottle of Bud Light as you watched it turn circles again, and again, and again on the dorm’s linoleum floor. You tugging at the sleeve of some oversized man-child from a frat Joel couldn’t name, leaning in and beaming like the insatiable flirt he knew you to be, asking that boy if he wanted to sneak off somewhere and let his tongue take a tour of your mouth.

The thought made Joel’s stomach turn.

Presently, you wrinkled your nose up at him.

“Spin the Bottle? That’s rookie shit,” you made another face reminding Joel, once more, how little he knew of the life you lived 1,900 miles away from Austin, at college.

He still couldn’t shake the thought of those boys.

“No, Joel,” you shook your head, drawing your syllables out for effect, “‘Too Hot’ is just…edging your opponent.”

Joel’s throat tightened, and he tried not to let his eyes widen too much, but he was almost certain they had. Before he even knew the words he was saying, the thought of your father taking his fist—or a shotgun—to his face made him blurt out in response, stammering,

“We can’t— I can’t— can’t lay one finger on you, darlin’, you know that. Your dad would murder me.”

To his surprise, the smile on your face only widened.

“Bingo,” You stuck one pretty finger in his face like he’d made the world’s finest discovery, “You can’t touch me.”

“Huh?”

“That’s the whole fuckin’ game, Miller. We can kiss, but we can’t touch each other with our hands. First one to crack and grope the other player loses the game.”

Your expression now was something just shy of sadistic. Watching him with keen, narrowed eyes and a wicked little grin, it seemed you were half-expecting him to fold on the spot. No way was this a game your college friends taught you; you just wanted to play him. Make him lose.

And Joel was a man who couldn’t stand to lose, no matter the stakes.

You watched that failure-averse glint eclipse every shade of lust in his eyes, at least momentarily. Suddenly, Joel didn’t look so fearful of your father’s wrath or what lurid implications this night might bring—he just had to win.

“You suck, you know that?” he said, at last, dropping his makeshift shield from the front of his towel and knocking you flat on the bed with a single push.

“You wish I would,” you grumbled, heart still jumping up in your ribcage all the same. You scooted back.

“I bet you will.”

The man was a menace when he had the will to be.

At length, Joel crawled over your body and made room for himself snug between your legs. The bulge that he’d been trying to hide all this time was now heavy on your center, pressed tight to your stupid-thin shorts and the panties you’d conveniently forgotten to wear. He grinned.

“Are tongues allowed?” he hummed.

“Everything but hands,” you shrugged.

Try as you might to play it cool with him, though, every fibre of your being was alight with desire for the man on top of you. You flitted a look between his soft brown eyes and slightly parted lips and could’ve melted in that bed had Joel not lowered his head and dove right in for it.

His mouth was far gentler than expected. Reverent, even. He slotted his lips between your own and made a fine, delicate showing of just how tender and adept he could be while imparting his slow, sweet kisses. Skirted his tongue across your bottom lip before driving it inside, coaxed your mouth open to him in a matter of seconds. He was graceful. And patient. And lithe with that tongue.

Joel Miller was showing off for you—the bastard.

“Sweet little thing,” he groaned against your mouth, “Ain’t felt a tongue this shy on mine in a long time.”

Of course he’d try taunting you, too. Same old Joel.

“What’s it been? Two years since a woman let you touch her?”

“Twenty since I felt one this good.”

You would’ve liked to reach around the back of his head and seize a clump of that thick, dark, grey-speckled hair. But you couldn’t. Your hands remained plastered to the duvet beneath you, and then, just slightly, your fingers started to curl inward. Joel’s palms laid flat on either side of your head.

It felt weird; mashing lips, teeth, and tongue with a man who’d been alive about twenty years longer than you and went further back with your father than you could even remember. What felt even stranger was the fact that you couldn’t touch him, or take him between your two hands.

Joel’s tongue continued roaming every contour and crevice of your mouth like he had an ache for this taste that he just couldn’t quench. Your tongue tried keeping up, too, but frankly, you were too preoccupied by a pulse between your legs—your parts and Joel’s practically throbbing in time with one another—to work just as hard.

Even through the towel, he felt huge.

You whined when Joel started to grind up against you, and shortly, those fingers of yours that had just been grazing the sheets before were gripping them. Tight.

“Earlier…” Joel murmured between kisses, hips working a vicious pace against you, “You said you were hungry.”

“Yeah?”

“Sorry—starved,” he corrected himself, and you almost could’ve smacked him for being so smug about it.

“What’s your point, Miller?” You were fisting the sheets beneath your palms and gyrating your whole body to meet the motions of the man currently dry-humping you.

All of a sudden, Joel’s movements stopped.

He peered down at you with a curious look.

“I could go for something to eat, too,” he declared.

You blinked. Stared. And just when you’d opened your mouth to say, well, maybe you should’ve grabbed us a bite to eat when we passed that Burger King on the way in, dipshit, Joel’s torso started to move down your own. Slow and painstaking as ever as he made sure not to graze one inch of your skin with his hands while he did.

You leapt back against the headboard, almost cracking your skull on the wood.

“Joel— Joel,” you hissed as the heels of your feet dug into the mattress below, and Joel just sank even further.

Then he was slowly, scrupulously pinching the fabric of your shorts between each index finger and thumb, gaze trained close on your lower half to make sure he never touched you, and he started pulling it down.

“This isn’t—” you started again, only to be offered a soft shush and an even quieter rustle of the cotton material sliding down both your legs.

You dropped your head on a pillow and probably could’ve burned a hole in the ceiling with the wide-eyed look you fixed on one spot, in utter disbelief of what he was doing.

“No panties, huh?” Joel observed. Gentle puffs of his breath were now fanning across the whole bare expanse of your lower half, and your pyjama bottoms were shortly discarded. His face was just hovering there, and you could tell that he knew you knew by the way he lowered his voice and brought his head to have only the tips of his chin stubble grazing your abdomen, “You needed this.”

Some lone remnant of ire flashed in your eyes.

“I don’t need shit from you, Miller. You need me. And you’re gonna lose this.”

Even though your gaze was still trained to the ceiling, you could feel him grin against your delicate skin.

“Hey,” he mumbled, “You said tongues are fair game.”

Fuck me, you wanted to keen the second his lips made contact with your…lower ones, and Joel swiftly got to kissing you there just as he’d done to you above. Hot, soft, and tender as the first rays of morning sun heralding a new day, he sponged his lips across the seam of your heat and made as if to massage the place, gently.

You could hear as well as you could feel that effusion of desire leaking out of your cunt and pooling around the man’s mouth. How eager he was to lap it up with his tongue, to grace your ears with those delectable squelching sounds, he caressed every inch between your folds and only sank deeper when you whined above him.

“Joel.”

Right now you couldn’t look down. Not with the way your legs were already trembling around his head, your chest heaving with the fastest, most frenzied breaths. You’d sooner die before you watched him unravel you like this.

“Darlin’, you’ve got a man soaked.” Some sound almost resembling a chuckle reverberated between your thighs and sent a brand new shockwave of pleasure in its wake, “You like it when daddy uses his mouth on this needy, wet cunt, don’t you?”

Yes, yes, you did. But your answer was nonverbal: a sharp curl of your toes and a grip between your fingers so tight across the sheets that he saw you veritably could’ve torn the linens in two.

Neither of you had laid a hand on the other.

Joel was perfectly content to make do with his mouth for now.

“Got those sheets all balled up, you’re fixin’ to rip ‘em.”

“My tongue make ya feel that good, honey?”

“Poor thing can’t even breathe it feels so nice, right?”

So he’d seen you hiccup, try to steady your breaths, and fail before succumbing to a string of lewd moans. Joel saw you, and knew how you felt, as if he’d had his own secret gauge for how good his mouth was doing you in.

Surely, he could’ve sensed the words before they ever came out of your mouth.

“Touch me, Joel, please.”

His tongue was just then making a lazy circuit around your clit, mouth saturated in your juices, when he smiled.

“Nah.”

Curt and cruel as ever. Then:

“No matter how fuckin’ perfect this pussy is, I ain’t losin’.”

He completed the arc with his tongue and took your bud between his lips, sucking in. You almost screamed.

“Motherfucker.”

“Miller, baby, Miller. Close, though.”

And just when you thought he’d had his fill of cheeky games, Joel sucked your clit even harder and flicked the tip of his tongue against your bundle of nerves until you were writhing, crying on the bed above him,

“JoelbabypleasebabyfuckmefuckohfuckitfeelsoGOOD.”

It was a bit tough to decipher through your strangled, desperate moans, but Joel got the picture. Heeding your requests, he kept at that pace above your clit and slid his tongue back and forth, over and over, lapping up your honeyed glaze like it was the finest thing he’d tasted. Scruff harsh against your thighs, lips soft in a perfect suction, Joel Miller had your head swimming in desire and your better judgment dissipating before your eyes.

At the first sign of bliss, your muscles clenched, and the last linchpin of your resolve crumbled right along with it.

You carded your hands through Joel’s hair and grabbed hold of those locks with a full-throated moan, using his head for shameless leverage to buck and rut your hips into his face as you rode out the peaks of your high.

And, ever the gentleman, Joel fought like hell to keep his lips and tongue connected to your core while you writhed above him—this time at liberty to work his arms under your thighs and hold them since you’d given up the game. He would’ve smiled if he weren’t so narrowly preoccupied, seeing you thrash about and moan out loud and fuck his face like it was the last thing tethering you to earth. He liked seeing you come undone beneath him.

A bit too much, if he were being completely honest.

While you made the languid descent from ecstasy and your breaths were still slowing in your chest on the bed, Joel was back on his feet. Padding toward the bathroom door, slamming it shut behind him as he had before. When he returned in a minute or two, he was clothed. He fished for his keys in the pockets of his snug, stonewash Wranglers and made a face. He didn’t look at you.

“I’ll be back,” he said, starting toward the door.

“Back?” You sat up, perplexed, “The hell ya goin’?”

“Out.”

This motherfucker.

“Did I miss something? Were we not just seconds away from getting down to some how’s-your-father?”

Joel visibly grimaced at your choice of sex slang. Under the circumstances, you would concede it wasn’t ideal.

“O-kay, sorry,” you returned, crossing your legs out in front of you, “I mean…don’t you want me to get you off?”

Again, Joel’s expression twisted into something just shy of overwrought, weary, and repulsed—a look that you couldn’t begin to understand, for the life of you—and you watched him flit his eyes from the bed to the door, again and again, seeming to be pining for the sweet release of leaving your shared motel room as soon as possible.

You’d been with your fair share of emotionally avoidant fucksticks, but most of them didn’t ghost until after they’d gotten their nut and felt no reason to stick around. Joel’s exit seemed premature. Strange.

“So you don’t want to fuck?” you asked, deadpan. You’d never been one for beating around the bush.

“Can’t,” Joel shook his head, bringing one hand to rest on his hip while the other fiddled uncomfortably with his car keys, “Your dad…that’s just— that’s crossing a line.”

“And being nose-deep in my cunt isn’t?”

You stared him down, incredulous.

So now he decides to claim the moral high ground, after coaxing you to soak every inch of his beard and cum all over his tongue? How very fucking charitable of him.

“That’s different,” Joel retorted, rubbing his knuckles in a nervous tic, “That was a game. I won. We’re done.”

You set your jaw just tight enough to keep your tongue in check and refrained from firing off a brash, unsavory remark. It wouldn’t do either of you a lick of good.

You let him leave. Joel had told you that you could keep the bed, he didn’t mind, and then he slipped out the door without another word. Leaving you cold and alone on the soiled, tawdry floral bedspread of Room 102, wondering what the hell had gone so wrong in the span of the last five minutes. From the center of the bed, you could see Joel’s Bronco pull off into the silent, frigid night.

You were still hungry as shit.

Rolling onto your side and rummaging through the bags at the end of the bed, you found nothing even remotely edible—save for, literally, one of Joel’s brownie edibles—and you groaned out loud. You threw your shorts back on, stepped into your old Luccheses, and did a quick circuit around the room to find your jacket before you left. As it turned out, you’d forgotten it back in Joel’s car.

You dropped to your knees and went back to tearing through luggage, searching for some suitable outerwear.

By the end of that second suitcase foray, though, you found you had nothing of your own that was hefty enough to brave the below-freezing temperatures outside, so you had to settle on a dark brown, fleece-lined coat from Joel’s bag. It was durable enough but about four sizes too big—and reeked of cigarette smoke.

You trudged outside, not really knowing where you were going or what you were hoping to find. Your stomach growled, and a few cool gusts of wind came to lap at the bare skin of your thighs where Joel’s spit was still drying.

You stepped a few feet out and turned toward the road.

Bal-ma-ceda’s, you read the seedy neon sign and heard Joel’s enunciation of the name ring between your ears.

What you wouldn’t give for the greasiest, girthiest, barely-FDA-approved 7-Eleven corndog to kill your thoughts about that sleazy little fucker right now.

You started toward the convenience store across the street but quickly found that it was closed—along with every other establishment on that stretch of road. You glanced toward the front office and caught a glimpse of your old friend dozing behind the counter. The speakers outside were playing a tinny rendition of ‘Piano Man.’

Just as you tried not to barf in your mouth at the sound and silently primed yourself for a long, long trek through the boonies to the nearest gas station, you stopped.

In a compact little breezeway that cleaved the motel in two, you saw light pool around an old vending machine.

You almost fell over yourself trying to get to it.

Never mind the fact that there were about half a dozen ragtag teens decked out in camouflage and comically tattered denim cutoffs crowding the area. All absently smoking and blowing o’s, or else sipping on cans of beer in the cramped, concrete passage, they looked bored. A couple lazy smiles broke out upon seeing your approach.

You nodded back and sidled up to the snack dispenser.

Then you zeroed in on the first sugar-packed products you could find: a pack of sour gummy worms and a bottle of Sprite—no, Mountain Dew—and a chocolate bar. Maybe a bag of Cheetos or Fritos thrown in for good measure. All of the snacks were probably stale as shit and hadn’t seen a replacement since dinosaurs roamed the earth, but you didn’t care. You were prying singles out of your wallet and salivating before you could think.

“Gotta kick it a couple times ‘fore it’ll spit anything out,” one of the boys lounging around you piped up.

You’d just inserted a couple bills and were waiting for the machine to dispense your gummy worms, when the thing appeared to stall. Stuck in its tracks, like he’d said.

You raised a brow and tapped the toe of your boot to the appliance, turning toward the one who’d addressed you,

“Like this?”

“Nope. Nuh-uh.” The redhead got up and strode over, where his much bigger, square-toed boot delivered a kick to the vending machine that almost toppled it.

A bag of Trolli Sour Brite Crawlers dropped out.

The kid—who actually happened to be nineteen years old and a student at some college a few states away, along with his whole group of friends—was kind enough to repeat the same ritual for all of your treats. You’d just gathered your stuff together and were about to thank him for his services, when the guy presently stuck a hand in your direction and introduced himself as Connor.

Then Blake. Then Micah. Then Wyatt. Then Trent. All traveling with their team for a tournament that weekend.

Then a beer was held out to you. You declined. A little homemade deer jerky? No, thanks. How ‘bout some Oreos? I’m good on snacks, really. Well, shit, you seem a little high-strung, why don’t you take a hit right here? And Connor pulled his dab pen out from his pocket.

Well.

You hadn’t smoked in a minute. You might’ve decided to take a bite out of Joel’s brownie back in the room, but you hadn’t known how strong it was—or where the fuck he’d gotten it. The pen this stranger was offering you was one that looked similar enough to the kinds you’d seen passed among your friends a hundred times before that you felt comfortable taking one hit, maybe. Two max.

You felt stupid as soon as you’d sucked in every breath, but you ended up taking four hits in total.

You hacked and sputtered and blinked up at Connor, who was grinning big.

“Alright, hardass,” he chuckled, taking back the device.

“Daddy know you smoke?” Wyatt cut in with a sneer.

Daddy?

There was no fucking way Joel looked that old for everyone to think he was your father. You inwardly cringed.

“Y’all been spying on us?”

“Ain’t shit else to do around here.” That was Blake.

You tried to swallow but found your throat much drier than it had been before. And not just from the weed.

“He doesn’t care,” you said, managing a shrug.

It wasn’t entirely false. Joel did give no fucks about you.

“Dude looks like a— a fuckin’ DEA agent or something,” Micah said, amused.

“Like that guy from Narcos,” Trent snickered.

You’d never seen the show and didn’t particularly care to know what law enforcement archetype Joel appeared to embody—in fact, you didn’t want to discuss him at all.

Just as the first fuzzy beads of warmth began to roll into your head, you were already planning your exit strategy. Thank Connor for his selfless assistance and cannabis, bid the group a good night and the best of luck in their upcoming lax tournament, and be done with this shit, ASAP. You were still trying to steady your tongue in the bone-dry cavern that had become your mouth when one of them kicked at a near-empty case of beer at their feet.

“We’re about out.” Micah announced.

Seconds later, Connor was turning to you.

“Wanna…restock in our room?” he asked, the corners of his lips twisting into a smile as he looked down at you.

You crinkled your nose and shook your head. Connor leaned his whole weight against the vending machine between you, seeming unconvinced by your answer.

“I don’t believe you,” he said, “I think you wanna come.”

“Do I?”

You only entertained the backtalk because your brain was currently swimming in a far-off, pleasant void of contentment and indifference. Every sharp edge dulled in your mind, to an extent, and your body at ease. You didn’t have to be home to anyone, anytime, and Joel was probably halfway plastered at a dive bar down the road. You didn’t move back when Connor stepped forward.

He wasn’t even that close. You could leave whenever you pleased.

“For sure. I think you’d enjoy our shitty beer and even shittier company. We can smoke some more, too.”

The man certainly had a way with words. He muscled in a bit closer.

“You think so?” you hummed.

“I do. I really do.”

“And you’re willing to risk the wrath of my dad if he finds out where I am?” You made it sound like a challenge.

“Wyatt can fight.”

Connor motioned toward his friend, who was mindlessly chomping on deer jerky in his lawn chair off to the side, glossy-eyed and hammered. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Okay, but make sure he’s ready. I can only stay for five.”

Connor seemed wounded as he put a hand over his heart in mock dismay.

“Only five minutes?” he griped, “Why not ten? Or twenty?”

“Six.”

“Fifteen at least.”

You folded your arms over your chest and felt an opaque haze beginning to settle over your brain. It wasn’t quite a high, just a lightness of being that drove tender little streaks up your spine. Like Joel, tickling at your sides while you writhed around in the front seat of his car.

This time you took the beer Connor offered and cracked it open. He seemed pleased—and taken by surprise—to see you down the drink in spite of the overflowing foam.

“Ten,” you returned once you’d swallowed it all.

“Twenty.”

“Honey?”

The last voice didn’t belong to anyone in the group. You turned on your heels and almost coughed up your beer.

It was Joel, of course.

Standing at the threshold of the breezeway like a surly, disconcerted parent, of all things, watching you like he’d just caught you red-handed in the most horrific of acts.

Clutched in one hand was a Burger King takeout bag.

“Daddy. Hi,” you breathed.

Apparently your attempt at casual came across more slurred than anything else, because Joel stepped closer.

‘Let’s go’ was all he said. No accusations, no threats, no outward displays of emotion found anywhere on his face. Just a gruff ‘Let’s go,’ and a free hand reaching for yours.

Instinctively, you recoiled.

“We’re just talking,” you said, gesturing behind you. If you could have seen the uniform looks of discomfort and agita, damn near treading on fear, among them all, you probably wouldn’t have bothered.

“Good. Now you’re leaving,” Joel supplied in a moment.

He was blissfully indifferent. Asserting his will in a space where, less than one hour ago, he couldn’t bear to share a room with you, much less impart a shred of dignity or care to your condition. He had nerve, that was for sure.

“I’m not leaving,” you said, a touch more venom in your voice than you intended.

Joel raised both eyebrows.

“No?”

His expression, directed to you, was infuriating.

“Fuck no,” you answered.

A few of the guys behind you sucked in a breath as if to say, ‘Okaaaaay, time to go!’ but then Joel pressed,

“For someone who wants to be treated like an adult—”

“Adult?” you scoffed, “You treat me plenty like an adult, Joel. Just whenever the designation suits your needs, huh?”

No one moved.

Well, Joel flinched a bit. Then he squeezed your wrist.

Truly, you never failed to underestimate the man’s brute strength when it came to carrying you off at will—but there you were, being yanked behind the big, bad Joel Miller as he hauled you off to who-knows-where. You scowled but didn’t bother to steal a glance behind you at the beer, boys, or vending machine treats you were being forced to abandon. All you could do was stare a hole through Joel’s skull and tug back—largely ineffectually.

“You’re an ass,” you spat, digging your heels into the gravel terrain as he pulled you along.

“You’re a brat,” he fired back.

In a minute, the exterior of Room 102 was coming into view; Joel was practically toting your ass like a knapsack.

“You just abandoned me back here, Miller. You— you don’t get to pretend like you give a fuck now.”

“I was getting you Burger King, for Christ’s sake.”

Joel was fiddling with the lock now. Simultaneously juggling your hand, the paper bag, and a set of keys that didn’t seem keen on cooperating, he huffed, disgruntled.

“Even got you those—” Joel grunted, thrusting his shoulder into the door, “—fuckin’ curly fries you wanted.”

Your jaw slackened. That was supposed to make it okay?

“Joel, FUCK your curly fries!” you cried, “Are you seriously still trying to play good guy right now?”

“If that’s what you—”

“No. You don’t get to tonguefuck your friend’s daughter and buy her a goddamn Double Whopper and act like it’s all good. Sure as hell don’t get to dictate who I talk to.”

Like he had before, Joel cringed to hear your crude language—particularly as it related to what he had done to you but didn’t seem capable of owning up to just yet. You couldn’t bear another second of that look.

“Fuck this. I’m sleeping in the car,” you grumbled.

You thrashed your arm out of Joel’s hold and started off in the other direction. Picked up your pace when you heard the bag of fast food drop to the ground and Joel trotting after you. Calling your name.

Even at your most brisk, you knew you couldn’t outstrip those big, beefy legs of his. He gained on you in seconds.

So you took off running.

Joel gripped his side, thinking, ‘Aw, hell’ before breaking out in a sprint just as fast.

You were pissed at how far he’d parked this time around. You caught sight of the old Bronco perched a ways away from your room and almost opted to change course on the spot, to the front office—maybe dive behind the counter and beg that poor old woman to give you another place to stay—but you kept at it, anyway. For once, you were glad to have had Joel beat by so many years, because the man’s endurance was, evidently, shit.

“Hey, s— stop!” Joel shouted after you.

Fat chance, Miller.

You closed in on the car. Joel rarely ever locked it.

Your hand secured a grip on the door and jerked it back. It swung right open.

Just as Joel was pulling up the rear, you had the driver’s side slammed shut and your palm laid flat on the door lock knob—shoving the little black lever down each time Joel tried to unlock the car.

It was a fruitless endeavor, you knew; you couldn’t keep the man out all night so long as he had the car keys in his hands. You could piss him off some more, though.

“You won the fucking game, just take the bed!” you said, straining against the door with your weight pressed hard on that knob. Joel was furiously working to get it open.

“I mean it, Joel, I-I don’t wanna sleep in there wi— shit.”

You leapt back in your seat as Joel flung the door wide open. You scrambled across the center console, made a desperate grasp at the passenger door to climb out the other side, but your ankle was taken between two hands. Just as you tried to slink out on the opposite end of the vehicle, Joel pulled you right back in. Flipped the center console up so you were sprawled flat across the bucket seat at the front of his car and pinned underneath him.

Then he pulled you over his lap.

Not into it—nestled on top of his crotch, with your ass pointing up in the air. Joel’s big ass Carhartt jacket was bunching up around your torso, collar crowding you up to the chin. Your twisted just far enough to meet his gaze.

“What do you want from me?” Joel demanded, “What?”

You stared up at him, poring over your options in the span of what seemed like two milliseconds. Wondering, silently, why he wasn’t touching you anywhere.

“I want you to fuck me, Joel,” you replied at length.

Seated between driver’s side and shotgun, Joel looked perfectly unperturbed, raking a hand through his silver-flecked hair and letting his gaze trail up to the ceiling, as if considering something of grave importance.

“And what after that?” he asked, still staring at the roof.

Before you could reply, though, he was forging ahead,

“What happens when I can’t even look your dad in the eye knowin’ I’ve been balls deep in his little girl, and every fuckin’ time I’m over at your house or you’re over at mine, I’ll be thinkin’— no, dreamin’ of what it was like to have you wrapped around my cock, screamin’ my name and takin’ it so deep inside you like I know ya want it?”

You paused a beat. Had to bat your eyes a couple times to rid your head of those filthy thoughts he’d planted.

“We could, uh— fuck…then…too,” you ventured quietly.

Joel grinned at the spot he was watching, humorless.

“That easy, huh?” he mumbled.

Again, before you could speak, Joel continued,

“I can’t even cum with you on my mind,” he said, and for a split second you thought that might mean he wasn’t attracted to you in that way, when he swallowed hard and closed his eyes, “I’ve tried beating off twice today—in the bathroom and as soon as I left earlier—and I can’t…even get close with you here. You fuck with my head.”

You fuck with my head.

Without meaning to, your hips stirred over his, and Joel audibly groaned. At last, he dropped a palm to your ass and gave it a taut smack, and your whole lower half reverberated with the sensation—and a welt of pleasure.

“You think I want it to be like this?” Joel said, voice strained, fingers kneading over the flesh he’d just struck, “Think I enjoy havin’ the biggest set’a fuckin’ blue balls known to man whenever I’m around ya, honey?”

You winced when you were spanked again, letting out a whimper into the seat’s charcoal-colored upholstery.

“I can help with that,” you hissed, feeling him massage the spot once more. You arched your back into his touch.

“No. You’d make it worse,” Joel shook his head, “Once I get a feel inside this sweet cunt I’ll never wanna stop.”

At the soft rumble of his words, you felt yourself growing aroused. Noticeably so. Your skin broke out in broad swaths of gooseflesh every place he touched, and in the wake of those hands grew a pool of dull warmth. Sticky, slick, soak-straight-through-your-shorts sort of warmth.

Joel’s hand hovered about an inch from the source.

“We’d get bored eventually. It’d be fine,” you said, words crawling off of your parched tongue with some difficulty now. That faint, heady feeling from before had become a high, finally, and it seemed every sense you possessed was ablaze with desire. You were barely able to breathe, much less speak, but there you went, rambling anyway,

“Soon enough, you’ll get over the thrill of screwing me, and I’ll find a nice, polite, age-appropriate boy to spend the rest of my life having nice, polite sex with, and we can both pretend like this never happened. Deal?”

It was quite possibly the dumbest offer you’d ever made.

Joel slotted his hand between your legs to rub against that dampened patch of fabric. You almost jumped.

“Yeah? Just fuck around and forget about it?” Joel spoke, and you truly couldn’t tell if it was a sneer or real sincerity, as your eyes were squeezing shut, “Is that all you want from me, sugar?”

His fingers slipped beneath your shorts and made swift, easy contact with your heat. You buried your face in the seat and tried to muffle the sounds that were clawing their way out of your chest, while your hips tilted up.

“Please, Joel,” you whimpered.

By now, your head was spinning, in a daze, that you almost didn’t notice him tug your shorts down your legs. Or take them off at your ankles. You did get a sense of when he was breaching your folds—taking two, meaty fingers and trailing them up the slick glaze of your cunt.

“Doesn’t seem like this pussy wants ‘nice and polite’ to me,” Joel murmured, eyes gradually fastening to that lovely, exposed spot pointed up to him. He wet his lips, “Needs somethin’ else, doesn’t she, darlin’?”

Speaking of your pussy in third-person wasn’t something you ever thought could be hot, but coming from Joel? While his fingers traced up and down the seal of your entrance, tips circling your tight, hot, throbbing hole? Arousing didn’t even begin to cover it.

You pushed your ass back, and Joel chuckled above you.

“Wanna fuck daddy’s fingers? Is that it?” he taunted.

No, no, no—you wanted his cock buried inside you. But now you just needed reprieve from that ache, and your senses were practically on the fritz trying to get it.

Your hips rocked back and forth over his fingers—sliding the two digits in and out of your cunt with each motion—and, as much as Joel would’ve liked to make you beg and wait a little, your desperate pleas as you fucked his hand were more than enough to satiate him. He worked his free arm under your body and pinched hard on one nipple, eliciting a soft moan of ‘Joel’ underneath him.

“Oh, baby,” he breathed, watching you rut your hips for more friction, “That’s it, baby, fuck daddy’s fingers. Use my hand to make yourself feel good— that’s my girl.”

At the last, you probably could’ve cum on the spot, and Joel could tell by the way you clenched around him. He nudged a third finger between your plush, sensitive walls and heard your moans take on an even higher pitch.

“Hurts,” you whimpered, with no real indication of pain. You just felt stretched out, stuffed, and aching again. The only ‘hurt’ was not having even more of him in you, “Need more of you daddy, please. It hurts.”

Joel wanted to see you cum on his fingers. He really did. But when you got down to begging and pleading for his cock like that, the man’s whole heartbeat throbbed in his jeans, and he simply didn’t possess the resolve to refuse.

He hoisted you upright in his lap so you were straddling his hips. The fabric of his jacket hung loose off your frame and both of your arms as you latched around him.

“Are you high?” Joel asked, voice evening out all of a sudden to pin you with a serious look.

“Yeah.”

“How high?”

“I can consent, Joel.” Your thighs tightened around his sides, and your hips had already begun to stir.

“Not just can consent—do consent. Do you want this?” Joel’s hands moved from the small of your back to cup your face. You gave him a squished-together pout.

“Yes, I want this,” you managed through pinched cheeks. When Joel released you, you lowered your own hands to the buckle of his belt.

It felt foreign and familiar at once—this age-old ritual of fumbling for each other’s clothes and wrestling to get them off, like your bodies might catch fire if you didn’t act fast enough. Joel was a tad more graceful as he shrugged his jacket off of you, peeled your tank top off, and helped you maneuver your bare limbs around him. You, on the other hand, felt half-feral and every bit the wide-eyed novice while you stripped his body garment by garment and wordlessly told him just leave the jeans, I can’t wait another fucking second. Joel bit back a grin and had to steady you above him, feeling his cock twitch against his tummy but still slowing down enough to remind you, shhh, shhh, honey, it ain’t goin’ nowhere.

You had a tough time remembering that as you rubbed your wet centre over his shaft. Feeling so good you feared the feeling might escape any second, you whined.

“I know, baby, I know,” Joel cooed as your head fell in the crook of his neck, “Still hurtin’ somethin’ awful, hm?”

The tip of his cock just barely grazed over your clit and you buried your face even deeper, nodding furiously; Joel leaned forward to grab some item out of the glove compartment behind you and braced your body to him.

He tore something with his teeth. You craned your neck just slightly.

“Don’t laugh,” Joel muttered, voice momentarily stifled by bright, metallic wrapping.

“Is that…” You straightened up enough to cock a brow at him. Joel’s tongue rolled across the inside of his cheek.

“Cobwebs and all.”

Beneath your gaze was the flimsiest, dust-ridden, damn-near vintage condom—a decade old, at least.

“You buy that before or after the Great Depression?” you teased.

“Shut up.” Joel was already working it onto his dick.

“So Prohibition-coded.”

“I can find something to shove in that mouth, y’know.”

You were having too much fun at the old man’s expense, blissfully unaware that Joel was about one Gen X joke away from making you suck three of his arousal-soaked fingers. When you opened your mouth to speak—to try another wisecrack or else question the integrity of this ancient relic of a rubber—Joel crashed his lips against yours and made you mute with his tongue instead.

At the same time, he slowly eased himself inside you.

Your mouth fell open when you sank down on his length, fully, but no sound came out. You just gripped Joel’s shoulders and peered into his face as if to say, ‘Shit.’

No way any man was ever meant to feel this good.

No shot your walls were fitting his cock like a glove.

Joel soaked in your gaping, wordless stare with a nod.

“Good?”

“Great.”

You’d give all eight inches of the man a goddamn standing ovation if your legs weren’t feeling like jelly. Joel let out a small grunt when you clenched around him.

“Nice and…easy,” he said, as much to himself as to you. He pinched your hip in one gigantic hand and held you there, “Let ya take a second and adjust, alright, darlin’?”

“But Joel—” you whined, already trying to slide back up.

His grip kept you impaled on his dick, anchored in place. With the other hand, he brought a thumb to your clit.

“Just feel me, sweet pea,” Joel said, slow and languid as molasses while he touched you, “Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

You couldn’t be sure if the man was a sadist or the world’s biggest fan of cockwarming—or just polite.

The bare, slightly-less-sexy truth was that Joel hadn’t done this in a very, very long time. Even the sex he’d had, close to a year ago, was something more of a flashbang than a bona fide carnal experience; he’d just bent a perfect stranger over the bathroom sink and drilled her. This was a fever dream, a first to end all firsts, and at present, Joel felt himself toeing a razor-thin line between self-restraint and bliss by just your presence alone.

In short, he didn’t want to fuck it up by busting too soon.

When you rolled your hips and squeezed your eyes shut above him, well, Joel almost fell into a panic.

Think of golf. Differential equations. The weather in Kuwait. Anything to get his mind off of how tight your pussy was holding him in, how lithe your body worked to grind above him while he sat there, so helpless and—

“Big,” you whined, stretched to the fullest you’d ever been. Unable to bounce up and down like you wanted but still squirming for more friction, “So big, daddy.”

Hockey. Geometry. Wind patterns around the Maldives. He held you even tighter, but your motions were growing desperate. You had to start moving.

“Joel, please,” you begged him.

“Baby, I’m—”

About to cum. I am two seconds away from cumming.

“Need you now, need you so—” your voice broke off in a moan as you sank your nails into his muscly shoulders, “So bad, daddy, please, please, please—”

On the seat beside you both, your phone lit up, buzzing:

Dad 💙

Fuck.

FUCK.

Your eyes locked on Joel’s in a shared look of panic and horror, and for once, your bodies stopped, perfectly still.

You knew your dad too well. Just as much as Joel did.

Your father wasn’t the type to call late at night unless something was up. And he wouldn’t stop calling until someone picked up.

“Should we…?” That whisper came from you.

Joel was frozen in fear, eyes now glued to the screen.

“Just…give it a sec,” he breathed, “Might be nothing.”

But his tone couldn’t mask the dread behind his words. He gritted his teeth and watched the phone ring.

It stopped.

Then started again.

The pair of you clung to one other in the old Ford’s bucket seat like your dad might veritably hear the two of you having sex from 1,300 miles away if you moved.

It stopped once more.

The screen stayed black.

You let out a small sigh and felt your eyes start to close.

Then the trill of a ringtone under Joel’s ass started up the second they’d fluttered shut, and suddenly your gaze was wide, and frightened, and freaking the fuck out when you realized that your dad was trying to reach Joel.

“Answer,” you hissed.

“What?!” The whites of Joel’s eyes were bigger now than you’d ever seen them.

“He’ll know something’s up! Just—” you slipped your hand under Joel’s rear, completely devoid of any sexual insinuation this time, and yanked his old iPhone 6 out of his pants, “Answer it. Now. Be cool.”

Joel’s expression was still paralyzed with terror, but he brought the ringing phone to his ear anyway. Gingerly tapped ‘answer’ once you’d smacked him on the bicep.

“He-e-y man.”

You were so fucking dead.

Your face hovered mere inches away, and you could almost hear the warble of your father’s voice on the line.

“Great,” Joel answered, stilted as a puppet with someone’s hand up its ass, “So good. How are you?”

A beat.

“She’s good, she’s good.”

For a moment, Joel’s gaze flitted to the spot where your bodies were still connected and you saw a flash of desire, followed by guilt, then his head tip back to close his eyes as he tried to concentrate on the conversation at hand.

“In the bathroom…Uh-huh…Phone must be dead…”

“No, she’s been a trooper—just fine…”

“Somewhere just shy’a Bedford, I think…”

You listened to Joel drone on and clench his jaw, and every now and then you’d feel a squelch in that tiny space between you two when one of you moved, and it occurred to you then that it probably was not in your best interest to stay seated on his dick while he talked. You shifted your legs underneath yourself to get up.

When you started to slide up Joel’s shaft—the first time you’d ever really moved, mind you—you felt a knot in your tummy start to tighten. The friction was to die for.

You sank back down and heard a hoarse little cry spill out from your lips before you got the chance to swallow it.

At the same time, Joel groaned. Then stopped himself. Then coughed—profusely.

“Sorry, just got a little—” Suddenly, a fiery set of eyes were searing holes in your head, angry as they were desperate, “—tickle in my throat is all.”

You ignored the strained Southern drawl and the eyes that looked ready to put a bullet between your own, and you rocked your hips again. The sensation was just too good. Your body practically acted of its own accord, and suddenly you were bouncing up and down in Joel’s lap.

The man beneath you looked enraged. Aroused.

Ready to wring your neck and maybe spit in your mouth.

“World’s movin’ too. damn. fast,” Joel seethed, trying to communicate to you semi-covertly while you rode his cock, “She’s one hell of a— firecracker, man, I’ll tell ya.”

You heard your dad’s laughter on the other end. While the sound subsided to chuckles, Joel grabbed your neck. He covered the mouthpiece for a second, then, in a murmur,

“This is not a fucking game.”

He squeezed your throat so tight you probably could’ve lost all circulation going to your head, but you smiled.

In spite of the hot, glowing embers of pleasure taking shape at the pit of your stomach and the coil that kept twisting and swelling inside, you grinned down at him. Then you mouthed, softly, ‘Yes, it is,’ and you rocked your hips against him even harder.

Joel drew in a breath through his teeth and watched you ride him with bleary, half-hooded eyes—keeping one hand on your carotid as the other hand cradled the phone to his ear. The man was transfixed.

By the pinch of just one set of fingers, you knew you were done for. A dwindling supply of oxygen, combined with your high and the hundreds of nerve-endings being brushed by Joel’s cock every other moment, you were spiraling toward release and didn’t know how to stop it.

When Joel pursed his lips and lifted his hips to start fucking up into you, you had to let go. Couldn’t hold on. You grabbed hold of his forearm, still hovering across your throat, and you moaned as the bliss washed over you. You slid your needy lower half back and forth, squeezed that tanned, tough arm practically bulging with veins above you, and you came around Joel’s cock. You whimpered his name, again and again, feeling him stroke your walls and fuck you through a euphoric high.

The next thing you felt was the seat cushion behind you—and the shift of Joel’s body weight pinning you down.

His cock hadn’t slipped an inch when he flipped you over; his grip was still secure on the phone.

The only thing that had changed was that look: malicious and vindictive with the hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Joel felt you pulse around him, starting to come down from your high, and he just decided to fuck you even harder.

“Shouldn’t be much longer now…” Joel hummed aloud, lowering a hand to your throbbing clit and muttering a soft ‘Uh-huh’ to your father while you clawed at his wrist.

“Joel,” you choked.

Now the feeling was too much. You were still so wet, raw, and sensitive that the pad of his thumb almost drew a shriek from your chest when he moved his finger in circles. You heard them chat about football. Joel shared a short, strained laugh with the man on the other end and pretended not to hear your whines as he continued to rail you senseless in the front seat of his car.

With the diversion of the phone call keeping his own climax at bay, Joel was free to fuck you as rough as he pleased—and couldn’t be more in awe seeing you veer close to the edge, again.

“Please, daddy, please,” you beseeched him, tears springing to your eyes as Joel’s thrusts kept shaking you.

He just shook his head and smiled as if to say, ‘Hold still.’

“It’ll be fine,” he said, “Mahomes is next-level. Best they can do is keep their heads down and take it, y’know?”

Your own soft, aching hole was taking the beating of a lifetime, and somehow, you managed to meet Joel’s gaze with a look that almost struck him as loving. That blissed-out, cockdrunk look of pure debauchery crossing your eyes in a way he hadn’t come to find in ages, if ever, was intoxicating. He felt the first fluttering pulses of your orgasm squeeze around him again, and suddenly he was pumping you faster, drilling you harder, gripping your throat and starting to sense his own climax draw near.

He couldn’t finish off like this.

Not talking shop and Super Bowl to your father—no.

Joel had to do something you might rightly hate him for for the rest of your life, and never forget, or forgive.

He lowered the phone, and right before he did, said,

“She just stepped outta the bathroom, actually. No, yeah, she’s right here. Wanna say hello?”

Your heart skipped a beat and nearly jumped into your throat. You tried to shake your head—fast—and even went so far as to try and dodge the phone when Joel brought it down to your ear, but that motherfucker had a grip like you couldn’t believe and wouldn’t stop stroking inside you or holding you down. You hated that you found Joel’s total dominance and control…kind of hot.

You flashed him the most nasty, bratty, ‘I’ll get you for this, Joel’ look you could muster anyway, and when he pressed the phone to your cheek, you mouthed a few more silent expletives before changing your air entirely:

“Hey, dad!”

Joel knew he was cooked from the second you said hello. Something objectively malevolent inside him got a rush to hear you speak to your dad in such a contrived, high-pitched tone of voice, knowing the unspeakable things he was doing to your body the whole fucking time. He could focus, now, with no need for any strained civilities of his own, but deep down, he knew it wouldn’t last long. He would not last long.

Might as well make it fun while it lasts.

“He…did,” you hummed, flitting your eyes up to Joel when he brushed your lower lip with his thumb—still holding the phone up for you while he rutted into you, “No, nuh-uh…Mr…Mr. Miller didn’t mind, no sir.”

Shit, the sound of you saying ‘sir’ was something that made Joel’s whole body lurch with pleasure. He made a mental note to have you call him that later and stroked your lip once more.

You tried to turn your face away—telling Joel, wordlessly, that you couldn’t keep up this conversation with your father if you had a thumb in your fucking mouth, but Joel didn’t care. He watched you pause for a moment, let just the tip of his finger press into your tongue, then, battling your better judgment, wrap your lips around the digit almost cautiously and suck. He knew you liked it, too.

He knew it by the way you bobbed your head, hummed, and nodded every time he thrust inside your aching walls and dragged his cock back out. The way your teeth clamped hard on his thumb whenever he grazed a particularly sensitive spot and how your lips held him in like a gag, or some other thing to keep you quiet amidst the moans and the whimpers bubbling up in your chest.

Suddenly, Joel was at your other ear, lips grazing skin and tongue praising your every move.

“My sweet girl.”

“Doin’ such a good job stayin’ quiet.”

“Takin’ daddy’s cock so well, aren’t ya, darlin’?”

From that point on, every single one of your father’s words over the phone fell on deaf ears—all you could hear was Joel. All you could feel was Joel. Your lips parted as if starting to speak, but all that would come out were small puffs of air, perfectly in sync with each one of Joel’s thrusts.

“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad pressed. A hint of concern rose from his end of the line.

At length, Joel gripped both of your legs and brought them up over his shoulders, and he grinned before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.

“Yes!” you yelped as you crushed the phone to your ear, hoping your father couldn’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”

The sick, smug fuck currently wedged eight inches deep inside you almost burst out laughing. If you weren’t so perilously close to your fourth orgasm of the night, you would’ve told Joel to take a long walk off a short bridge.

“Just worried about grades a-a-and all,” you stammered.

Joel leaned forward and almost tore a scream out of your chest—his tip was kissing the edge of your cervix now.

“Yes, sir. I will.” You tried your hardest not to whine and almost let out a sigh, “I’ll…ask him about it, for sure.”

As bone-crushingly fun as this all was, Joel was close.

He could feel it in the furthest recesses of his stomach; he was about to blow his load.

So, leveraging his weight to strike just the right angle and pushing his thumb in to stifle your moans, Joel sped up and drew even closer, face-to-face, so he could see your every expression from a hair’s breadth away.

He was so near he could hear your dad’s droning voice. See you struggle to take cock the closer you got to your release. You hadn’t cum in such quick succession…ever, really. All but one of the guys you’d let between your legs before seemed like amateurs compared to Joel, and to be honest, you weren’t sure if you could make it to four.

You popped his thumb out of your mouth and mumbled some ‘Sure, okay’ or other to your dad before casting a pleading look up at Joel. His hips were working up to a ruthless pace.

You covered the mouthpiece.

“I can’t, Joel.”

“Sure you can, sugar.”

“Joel,” you hissed, and tried to grab his wrist, when you felt your stomach start to cave. Every exposed inch of skin gave way to waves of heat, and your toes curled in. Worst of all, Joel was letting out sounds you hadn’t ever heard—short, ragged breaths that broke off in low groans—and it felt as though he were cradling your head. Holding you to him. Your eyes were locked on one another, your mouths practically panting in time, and what parts of you had not yet become commingled with him were practically coated with sweat. And shaking.

Then, in tones that rang like music to your ears:

“Alright, I’ll let ya head to bed, then. G’night, pumpkin.”

Your dad hadn’t even fully hung up the phone before you flung it across the car. Heels dug deep in Joel’s back.

“Cum for daddy,” Joel coaxed, “Cum all over this cock.”

You didn’t need much more instigation than that.

You came. He followed.

And it probably split his eardrum in two having his name screamed so fucking loud, but frankly, Joel hadn’t seen a reason for going deaf that he could’ve enjoyed so much.

Then, he didn’t sink so much as simply collapse on top of you while you both kicked back and let the waves of ecstasy roll over you. You adored his warmth in spite of the heat practically suffocating you both in that car.

Until it was in you.

Sticky, sweet dripping inside you.

You pushed Joel hard in the shoulder.

“Did it…”

“What?”

“Joel!”

You flipped your legs down and tapped his abdomen furiously, telling him, pull out, pull out right fucking now, and Joel gently obliged. Dragged his cock three-fourths of the way out when a frail, tattered condom came loose around the head of his cock and almost fell off entirely. That damn prehistoric rubber had broken inside you.

“JOEL!”

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I— fuck.”

Joel scrambled to get his cum-drenched cock and what remained of the condom away from your body, but the damage was done. You started throwing on clothes.

“I’m ovulating this week, I am so fucking fucked!”

Joel swallowed, shimmying his boxers and jeans back into place and scoping the front seat for his shirt.

“What’s…ovulating?”

You wanted to tear your hair out at the root.

There was no way this man had survived half a century on earth and didn’t understand the menstrual cycle.

“It means I can get pregnant if we don’t get a Plan B up in this bitch immediately. Let’s GO!”

That part seemed to click. Joel almost fell over himself trying to find his keys, while you slid out of the Bronco.

“Where are you going?!”

“To— to try and get some of this shit out of me first!”

Joel bounded after you, and within the first steps, you were sprinting across the parking lot. Your sweaty, half-naked companion tried—and failed—to slow you down.

“Are you not on birth control?” Joel huffed.

“Are you not capable of buying condoms more than once every fucking decade—or three?” you snapped.

Your strides were growing wider and more frantic by the second. Joel clutched his side and struggled to keep up.

“I’m…sorry,” he grunted, more embarrassed and worn-out than anything at the moment, “I’m sorry, darlin’.”

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t get your cum out of me, daddy.”

Your words couldn’t have gotten any more caustic or merciless—or inopportune—if you tried.

As it was, you were passing by the breezeway where all the bored lacrosse players were still lounging around, cracking cold ones, and craning their necks to see what the fuss outside was all about. The sounds of your feet racing fast on gravel and you and Joel’s raucous, bickering back-and-forth had caught their attention, and shortly, Connor was sticking his head around the corner. His expression—along with all the faces behind him—had twisted with horror. Confusion. A visible look of disgust.

Joel had just slowed down to catch his breath. He doubled over and braced both hands on his knees.

“I’ll fuckin’…duct tape my dick next time I hit it, honey!” he wheezed, barely loud enough for you to hear but perfectly audible to all the terrified guys around him.

Joel turned his head and almost groaned.

Then he was straightening himself back up, starting to retreat from the group who had him pinned with genuinely frightened—and nauseated—looks.

Joel normally wouldn’t care. This time, though, he threw his hands up and thought, fuck it, I’ll clear the air.

Over his shoulder, he grinned, yelling back to the guys:

“I’m not actually her dad!”

All of them stared back. Half-jealous, half-awestruck, Connor stood up, raised his beer, and called after him:

“I SURE FUCKIN’ HOPE YOU’RE NOT!”

[fxckingjo]

𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙢𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙨

MOC!Dean/Girlfriend!Reader SMUT ;)

He’s on edge. Angry.

You can see it in the way he carries himself, the brutality he leaves behind on hunts. He’s become a perfect monster, and while you know John would be proud of his ruthlessness, you can’t bring yourself to be anything but worried.

You climb into the Impala after ridding a town of a small colony of ghouls. It was a brutal fight, and even if the hunt went about as well as any monster quest can go, you're covered in black tar, formaldehyde, and what might be half-digested body parts. And sweat from the humidity of hurricane season. You'd have preferred a hunt further north or west from the swamplands, maybe even both, but Dean's a machine seeking the soonest kill. You haven't been back to the bunker in two weeks.

Sam is back at home, pretending he's not chasing a cure for the Mark of Cain, or a lead on where the bastard himself is. It's just the two of you, which would normally mean sing-alongs and air guitar solos. Burger stands and Dean sneaking sips of your Diet Coke. And sex. Lots and lots of loud sex without the looming threat of Sam in the next room or the shower or wherever else he might walk in on you.

You don't speak. You pick at the edge of your black nail polish on your thumb, where it's already chipped and peeling away. The rain lashes against the windows, the wipers squeaking against the glass. They need to be changed out, along with fresh oil, but Dean's been distracted. That's why Baby's less clean than usual. You try to tidy up, but Dean's constantly on the move.

He barely sleeps. He drinks more than he eats, but at least beer has enough calories to keep him from losing too much weight. You try to get him to have a sandwich every now and again, but he's so far away.

Right now, he's covered in blood. It's coating his hands, his face, his stubbled jaw. There's monster goo on his boots, and it's probably being tracked into the car after him.

"You okay?" you ask.

He grunts.

"Dean, can we pretend to be normal people for two seconds and talk to each other? Couples do that."

"Nothing to talk about."

Not the way he mangled Abaddon's body after brutally killing her. Or the way he's dropped bodies left and right. No, Dean doesn't want to talk about that. You can see the cuts on his knuckles healing from last week, after he'd punched a man's face in and cut himself on the guy's teeth. Why? Because he'd whistled at you outside of the bar.

You were scared Dean might kill him. He would've, if you hadn't stopped him. For a good minute as you stood between him and a bloodied drunk lump, you couldn't recognize him. His eyes were black, like a fucking shark.

He sighs, rubbing his temple. "I can hear you thinking from here."

"Just... worried about you."

He scoffs. "I'm golden, baby. Just fuckin peachy."

"Is that how we're gonna do this? Pretending? Because it's not working, De. Not anymore."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I just want to know you're still..." Your voice cracks. Dammit. The tears are leaking from the corners of your eyes now, streaking paths in the blood and graveyard dirt on your face.

Dean hates it when you cry. It makes him soften immediately. His voice lowers, affectionate, gentle. Ready to make everything okay again, just to see you smile.

"I'm right here," he says. "Not going anywhere."

He drives you back to your motel, and you mourn the loss of him in the shower with you as you wash your hair. You're not used to showering without him. Ever since you got together, he's been begging to crash your showers, and now he's just... absent. Sitting at the table cleaning his gun.

When you emerge, clad in one of his flannels—red and black checkered, his favorite—and a lacy pair of panties, he doesn't blink. Just ruffles your hair absently and shuts the bathroom door behind him.

And he stays, for an abnormally long time. You approach the door carefully, knocking on it gently. "De? Baby?"

He doesn't answer. You try the knob, and it swings open.

He's in the shower. You can see his silhouette through the curtain, bracing himself against the wall. You realize he's crying.

"Dean?"

He sniffs. "Yeah. Just give me a second. I'll be out soon."

"Are you okay?"

His voice comes out so, so small. "No."

You pull back the curtain and look at him, your hand gentle on his cheek. "Come on, baby. The water's getting cold."

He nods. He climbs out of the tub and wraps a towel around his waist, scratching at his stubbled jaw. His eyes are rimmed with red, and his hands are bruised and scraped, but they're so gentle on your face.

He stares.

"What?" you ask, your cheeks hot. "You're staring at me."

"You're beautiful," he whispers.

You blush deeper.

"Sometimes, I get so... angry." He whispers the words like he's ashamed of them. He hates himself for saying it. "I'm in this blind rage, and all I want to do is break things. Hurt things."

You're afraid to ask, but you do anyway. "Me?"

"Never you," he says fiercely. "Never you. I'd never hurt you, baby."

"I know." You frame his cheeks with your palms, smoothing your thumbs across the bones. "You're good. That's what you are, Dean. Goodness incarnate."

"How can you say that?" he whispers.

"Because I know it."

"But..." He bites his lip, rolling it between his teeth. A line appears between his eyebrows, deep and frustrated. "But you don't know what it's like. This thing is evil." He jabs at the mark on his arm. "It makes me feel like I've got all this pent-up rage. And hunting helps, or at least it did at first, but now I'm so wound up that nothing feels real, and if I stay still for too long, I want to destroy everything. I got this pain inside me. Or maybe it's a hunger. It lives..."

You stop him. "Show me where it hurts, Dean."

He taps his chest, right above his heart. You press a kiss against his anti-possession tattoo, then lower, over his broken knuckles, then just above his heart along the corded muscle where he's got a nasty scar.

He flexes and unflexes his fingers. His cock twitches against the towel.

"Baby," he warns.

"Hm?" You reach over the towel, running along his hardening shaft.

"We can't," he says. "I don't trust myself to be gentle with you."

"So don't."

He chuckles darkly. "It's not that simple."

"How come?"

"Because I'm unstable. I could burn you, baby. And I don't wanna come close."

"I'm not going anywhere," you say. "You're a good man. The man I love? He's a good man. I want your rough edges, your anger, your darkness. Just as much as I want your joy and laughter and the best years we have together. I want you, Dean. All you are. All you'll be."

He kisses you hard. As hard as he can without knocking his teeth against yours. He inhales sharply as your mouths intertwine, his tongue pushing past your lips and devouring you. You tug the hair at the nape of his neck, drawing him closer. His cock presses into your stomach as he wraps his arms around you and holds you tight.

He pulls back, gasping. "Baby—"

"Let me make it better," you ask, your voice low and seductive. "You showed me where it hurts. I'll heal you. You say it's too loud in your mind? Use me to make it quiet."

He's fighting his desire. The war wages in his mind. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," you say firmly. "Use me, baby. Until the noise stops."

His towel hits the floor. Then you're hitting the bed hard enough to bounce lightly. The springs creak as he climbs on top of you, kissing your throat, licking your collarbones. He unbuttons the flannel one at a time, deftly working the clasps until your bare breasts are on display for him. He kisses one, then the other, tracing your nipples with his tongue before he frames one with his mouth and sucks deep. Hard. Just enough teeth to send a delicious sting down your spine and to your cunt.

The shirt falls away, and then your panties are gone too, and he's between your thighs, running his fingers through your folds and circling your clit with his thumb. You moan, desperately shaking, your muscles tightening as your core becomes nuclear heat. 

"Dean," you whimper. "Dean, this is about you—"

He raises an eyebrow. "You think I don't want this? Baby, I could die between these thighs of yours and call myself a happy man."

He licks a thick stripe up your pussy, gathering moisture from your slit as he makes his way to your clit. A slow circle, a tease. He sucks your clit between his lips, and your hips buck, grinding against his stubbled jaw. It almost hurts, just close enough to sting like electricity. You hope it scratches you up a little, scraping away at the soft skin of your inner thighs. You want Dean to leave his mark, like you're a territory.

He spreads your legs a little wider, pulling your thighs over his muscular shoulders. He devours your cunt like it's his last meal on death row, sucking and twisting and pulling at you in every spot he's memorized. He eats until he can barely breathe, suffocating himself against you, and when he comes up for air, his chin slippery, he shoves two fingers into your pussy. You squeeze him, gasping as he fucks you with his hand, grinning wickedly at your reaction. Then he's back between your legs, kissing and suckling, while he fingerfucks you. He scissors his index and middle fingers, twisting to reach that special, gummy spot that makes you explode. And then you do, coming hard and loud, gushing against him.

"Open," he barks.

You do. He shoves his fingers into your mouth, deep, and you diligently suck them clean. 

You know his eating you out was preparation, because he flips you on your stomach, pushing a pillow under the cradle of your hips before he hauls your ass in the air. His cock presses between your legs, catching moisture as he circles your center with the angry red tip of his length. He pushes in, just barely, and when you whine, he sheathes himself in a punishing thrust.

It hurts a little. Dean's always been big and girthy, and his size was definitely an adjustment when you first slept together. He splits you open on his cock, and you feel him all the way to your cervix as he pushes your face into the mattress and pile drives you into oblivion. Your toes curl as he buries one hand in your hair, pulling as he braces his other the headboard for leverage. Every thrust is bruising, his hips smacking into yours, your ass up as you become putty in his hands. He's a sculptor molding you from clay, pounding into your cunt without apology. 

But it feels so good. He's so big and you're so full, feeling him everywhere, from the crown of your head where his hand rests to the tips of your toes to the bottom of your spine. Your pleasure is a pinball reverberating through your body, and you're clutching the blankets for purchase, your cunt tightening as you get closer and closer to the edge.

He smacks your ass. You like being spanked, even if Dean normally prefers to be gentler with you. It makes you gush around him, and he does it again, a little harder. "Come on, baby. Come for me. Gotta feel you come on my cock. You can do it. Fuckin come."

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, and then you do. You fucking squirt as he manhandles you, ordering you to come as he practically splits you in half. You ache everywhere, even after the relief of your orgasm. It's greedy, how much you want him. You'll never be satiated as long as you're in love with Dean Winchester. You love and want him more every single day. 

"Gonna paint your little pussy. So fuckin tight. Squeezing me just right. Gonna fill you up until you're spilling out the sides. Make sure when you're sore tomorrow, you remember who you belong to."

He yanks your hair again, for emphasis. "Say it."

"I'm yours. I'm yours, Dean—"

"I want you to come again," he barks. "I know you've got it in you. Give me one more baby. Want you to come with me."

"I can't."

He flips you over, his pace barely broken. His fingers find your clit, stroking you just right. "That's it. Come on, baby. One more. Come for me."

You come so hard it hurts, but he's there to catch you. He spills inside of you, his spend dripping out of you as he pulls his cock out of your sore pussy. Then, he kisses your forehead, so sweet and soft. He comes back from the bathroom a moment later with a warm towel, wiping away the evidence of your shared releases. Then he grabs you some clean panties, dresses you in that same flannel. When he climbs into bed beside you, back in his boxers, you're half-asleep, spent. He pulls you into his arms, smoothing your sweaty hair off your forehead.

"You okay?" he asks softly.

You nod.

"I wasn't too rough?"

You laugh lightly. "It was incredible, baby. I'm alright. A little sore, but I like it rough." You like being fucked stupid. You feel safe with him, safe enough to let him dominate you. It's exhilarating and freeing. Being loved is being seen. 

He raises his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"I like everything with you." You touch his face, stroking his full bottom lip. "How's it feel?"

"Better," he whispers. "It's quiet now."

"Good."

"I need you, baby," he says. "To remind me where I am. Who I am. To light up the dark and pull me out of it."

"I'm right here," you promise. "Always."

He sighs, a shaky breath. His lips slide to your palm, kissing you gently there. "When this is over, I'm gonna marry the shit out of you."

"Is that a question?"

"It's a promise," Dean corrects you, so fierce. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

And as you fall asleep in his arms, you dream of babies with his eyes, and wrinkles, and a world where the two of you can relax in the world you've saved. It's been a beautiful fight, and it'll be a beautiful life. 

[fxckingjo]

Happy Thursday homies

Chapter 33 - See The Lightning

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: I hope they fuck soon. Who's in charge of that anyway?

Chapter Title from You're Gonna Go Far Kid by The Offspring

Word Count: 19.2k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You try to keep secrets. Usual Warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action

Chapter 32 - Chapter 34

Read on A03!

“You shouldn’t be up, Dean.”

“Yeah. Could tell you the same.”

Bobby let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Nah. I ain’t ever been one to sleep like a fairy tale.”

Dean raised his brows. “And I have?” 

“Sometimes.” Bobby shrugged, taking a swig out of his own beer. “When ya ain’t bein’ an idjit.”

Dean sighed, rubbing his face as he shuffled across the kitchen. The dim, blinking light on the oven said it was half past one, but there was also a pretty good shot none of them had bothered with daylight savings, and it was two. Either way it was dark out. Quiet—no birds, barely any wind, any cars far too distant to be heard—and dark. 

The sky was shockingly clear, when Dean glanced out the window. Not a cloud in sight. 

And he’d be worried about the peace—it never meant anything good was coming—if he didn’t always feel it rotting in his gut now. The heavy, cold dread, combined with a hot sort of fever that was overtaking his brain like a parasite. 

Bobby must be feeling the same. His beer was half-empty already, and there was another one ready to pass to Dean. 

“‘M good.” He grunted. “Can’t go back to bed, if I drink.”

“Alright, boy.” Bobby put the beer on the table, giving Dean a slightly pinched expression. “She good?”

“The same.” Dean frowned at the mostly empty fridge. There were only five people in the whole damn house, and one of them wasn’t even a person. He didn’t know how the hell they went through food so fast. “Trying to get her something for the morning. Easier to feed her when she’s sleepy.”

Bobby grunted an agreement, and Dean could still feel his gaze. He should probably be worried about Bobby shooting him. He had given up on pretending that he wasn’t sharing Her bed. That when he went back upstairs, Dean wouldn’t be returning to Her side, wrapping his arms around Her stomach, and hoping that if he held Her tighter everything would be better in the morning. 

And Bobby knew. Dean was pretty sure he’d always sort of known. But they’d made it an unspoken rule that Dean wouldn’t say that he’d spent the night with their legs tangled together—his hand stroking gently through Her hair and her lips ghosting over his neck—and Bobby wouldn’t mention it when She walked around wearing one of Dean’s shirts. 

But this was different. Dean wasn’t going to get shot—not tonight—because there were more important things to think about. The reason Dean was up. Why that beer on the table would be perfect, if he didn’t know that She’d hate it. 

He’d started drinking around hunts only, so he could wash it off easier. She’d even bought him a smell, woody smelling body wash thingy, to help with the smell.

It had sort of just appeared in the shower, a few nights ago. But Sam sure as shit wasn’t the culprit. And when he’d used it and returned to Her side, She’d curled into him with a deep, long breath. 

She wasn’t telling him to stop drinking, so it was the least he could goddamn do. Even Bobby had been trying to cut back, but it wasn’t that easy. 

Bobby had started lighting candles around the house, to chase off the stench. There was one flickering on the table, making the whole room cast in a warm light. It was odd to look between the softer shadows—dancing off the walls and over Bobby’s slightly sunken face—and the harsh, cold light of the world outside. All the darkness was longer, and cut sharply. The sky seemed taller than it did in the day. Everything looked impossibly clean, with the fallen snow over the cars and dirt and trees. 

Yet there really wasn’t a sound in the world. 

Bobby cleared his throat. “She asleep?”

“Yeah.” Dean glanced out to the stairs. He didn’t like leaving Her up there, alone. His hands were already itching at the idea that She’d need him, and he wouldn’t be there. Or he’d return as She’d be gone. As if she’d never really been there at all. “Been looking for shit on Sam’s soul all night. Passed out about an hour ago.”

Dean’s lips twitched slightly, at the thought. He’d muttered that he was going to the bathroom, and She’d hummed, her attention never leaving that big, magic book of Her’s.

Dean didn’t have a goddamn clue where it had come from. Last he remembered, She’d lost it in Mexico or something. But She wouldn’t say where she’d found it. She wasn’t really saying anything at all. 

“Don’t fall asleep without me, Princess.” He’d drawled, and She’d just shrugged. 

“I won’t.”

“I dunno, you look kinda sleepy-“

“You look kinda sleepy.”

Dean had grinned down at Her, and—despite all his better judgement—placed his hand on the top of Her head. Ran his fingers through Her hair, before tipping it back so She had to meet his gaze. 

She’d let him. 

She could’ve easy kicked Dean in the balls, or snapped at him to fuck right off, but She hadn’t. She’d looked up at him with bright eyes, Her expression soft and open and so fucking tired. Dean could see it, blue-gray under Her eyes, in the way Her lips were puffy from being chewed. 

He’d wanted to sooth them. To kiss Her, slow and gentle, and see if that would bring Her down. 

But now wasn’t the time. If Dean kissed Her when she was like this—exhausted and delicate and still walking some tightrope Dean didn’t get to know about—he’d be the most selfish asshole in the world. He sort of already was. 

He’d used his free hand to grab her jaw, and trace over Her lips. She’d blinked slowly—looking like a dream, with Her shiny hair falling over perfect, lush features, eyes glossy and lips parted—and leaned into Dean’s touch. He’d ran his thumb down Her nose, and her eyes had fluttered slightly. Her book had fallen in Her lap, Her knees drawing to her chest, and Dean had forced himself not to look at the curve of her boobs.

“If I go to bed, you gonna come with me? Or just keep sitting on the floor.” His voice had been hoarse—strained with the effort of not just grabbing Her and kissing her stupid—but Her’s had been soft.

“I can read in bed.”

He’d sighed. It was the best he was going to get. “Alright, Princess. I’ll be back.”

Dean had been gone for three minutes, but he’d heard Her shuffling around the room. The rustle of sheets and a few things being moved around, before silence.

When he’d returned to the room, She’d been passed out in bed. The blankets wrapped tight around Her body, her face buried in the ones she’d gathered near her face. 

She was always the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

And like this—peaceful, nuzzling into Dean’s hand when he brushed hair from Her brow—she looked like She’d been crafted from stars and flowers and all the water in the ocean.

Son of a bitch, She looked like a force of nature all the time, but this wasn’t the hurricane or withdrawing tides that came before She had an episode. This was like watching the moon, shimmering off of a lake. Or a waterfall, tumbling peacefully in the dead of night. 

Years ago, when Sammy was just a wide-eyed kid and Dad had been off on a hunt, Dean had taken them out of a hike. They’d both fucking hated it. She would’ve hated it, if She’d been there with them. 

But there had been a clear sky. And they’d been able to see all the stars, painted over the black like the kind of diamonds Dean knew they’d never be able to have.

It was the only thing he’d ever been able to hold up to Her. The whole universe above Him, and everything past it.

Her asleep before him, and Dean as Her shadow, shielding over Her in the dark.

He’d cleaned up, once he was sure She was asleep. Gathered up all Her notes—all scrawled in Enochian, with that one word all over the margins—and moved them to the dresser, before taking Her book and placing it on her bedside table. Then he’d dropped at Her side, with a long, slow breath, and watched Her like a freaking creep.

He never wanted to look away. Never wanted to be anywhere that he couldn’t be certain She was okay. Because She wasn’t. Dean knew She wasn’t. If the shifter hadn’t been a blaring alarm about it, everything was. If they weren’t busy, She spent all Her time researching and combing over lore, trying to work out Sam’s soul. She wouldn’t look at the kid for very long, when they were in the same room. She barely went outside if Dean, Bobby, or Cas weren’t with Her. 

She wouldn’t talk about the cage. 

But She wasn’t running. The only thing that made the dread in Dean’s body settle was that She was still here. Everything sucked, sucked fucking balls, but She was here. With Dean. Real when he traced his hand over Her face. Warm when he’d leaned down to kiss Her brow. Making a soft sound when he’d stood up, and reaching for his hand. 

She hadn’t been waking up. Just searching for Dean.

He didn’t have a goddamn clue what he’d done to deserve that. Her care, the way She looked at him when he touched Her, how he’d broken down, and She’d stayed. 

They hadn’t talked about it. Dean didn’t want to talk about it. He was Her shadow. He was supposed to tend to Her, not wrap around Her and sob about how She hurt his feelings. But he could still feel the soft warmth in his chest, from how She’d held him. And if Dean got to fall to his knees for Her, then the least he could do was care for Her like he was supposed to. 

In the dark, with soft touches and words, and only them in the whole world. 

He’d squeezed Her hand three times, before forcing himself to pull away. The plan had just been to get some snacks and water for when She woke up. Usually She’d just lie in bed until Dean coaxed Her out, with promises of food or TV. Whenever he stood next to Her, she’d stare at his chest, trailing Her hands over his shoulder as if She was checking for something. Every time Dean sat next to Her, she’d end up in his lap. If he handed Her something, she tended to hold it to Her chest like it was a stuffed animal.

Son of a bitch, he still needed to give Her Velma. 

He just kept forgetting, for that one. Because goddamnit, he was worried about Her. So fucking worried. It took up half his thoughts. How this wasn’t like when he’d been about to die, and She’d been ripping herself apart to try and save him. 

This felt bigger.

As if the pit in Dean’s body was finally starting to split out of him, and it was going to swallow Her whole as well. 

And She wouldn’t let him goddamn help. 

And as he dropped across from Bobby with a heavy breath, Dean knew he wasn’t the only one She was shutting out and pulling closer all at the same time. 

“She told you anything?” Bobby said, voice far too neutral, turning his bottle between his hands. “If it’s somethin’ you ain’t allowed to tell me, I won’t ask questions, but-“

“Nothing.” Dean muttered. “She’s still just saying she was hunting.”

Bobby let out a dry laugh. “Y’know, it’s like she don’t remember that we’re hunters. That she’s been huntin’, her whole dam life.”

“So?”

“So, there ain’t a single nightmarish, Lovecraftian freak that she ain’t just been fascinated by.” Bobby let out a long exhale. “When she was a kid I brought ‘er with me, just once. Rufus wasn’t able to watch her, and you know how she is.”

Dean hummed. “Flight risk?”

“Yep. Figured better to keep an eye on her, rather than come back and find her cryin’ in the woods or some shit. Point is, she worked out I was after a child eater. And I was ready to pack it up and pass it on to some other hunter nearby, but she wasn’t the slightly bit afraid. That girl never been afraid of monsters, no more than she’s been afraid of people.”

Dean paused, his hand curling into a fist on the table. “You think a person-“

“I don’t know what to think.” Bobby grunted. “She tosses Sam out with his soul in shreds, but ain’t sayin’ what got her in one piece.”

“Not one piece.” Dean muttered under his breath. “You’ve seen her, Bobby, she’s- Something’s wrong.”

“I know. Trust me, Dean, I’m seein’ it just as much as you do. But- She’s walkin’. Talkin’. Cas ain’t lookin’ at her like he’s seeing a burn victim. Whatever happened to her- It ain’t Michael and Lucifer running her soul through a shredder.”

There was a lump, forming in Dean’s throat. “What do you think they did.” 

“They-“

“Micheal. Lucifer.” His hands felt tense. Almost wired. “They had her in there eight months, that’s eighty years, hell-time. And if it’s this bad- Plus those three months-“

He cut himself off—his voice was getting strained, and he didn’t really trust himself to use it properly—and Bobby sighed. 

“We can’t know unless she tells. Until then…” Bobby trailed off, and Dean just stared at his hands. 

They were the same ones he would’ve used to dig through the earth, if he thought he’d be able to pull her out himself. 

The same ones that had touched other women, while She’d been gone. 

He’d never touch anyone else. He’d sworn it to himself, and it was more than an oath, or even a promise. He’d been drowning in the pit, scraping at smooth walls to try and climb out. But now, he was sitting in it. Letting it feel warmer and warmer, with every small smile She offered him and every touch that branded deeper than his skin. It was harder, in a lot of ways. Darker. 

But it made him want to carve into his own body, less. Made his organs sit in him without feeling sick. 

He couldn’t touch anyone that wasn’t Her. It was the only way to survive. It would feel like venom, and anything that had started to bloom in him would wither in a second.

“You should go back up.” Bobby murmured, breaking the silence. “Don’t want her wakin’ up alone.”

Dean nodded, and didn’t need to ask what Bobby meant by that. He really had been seeing it, too. 

The paranoia, in Her eyes. The way that, when Dean did return to their room—having given Bobby a tight nod and muttered goodnight—She was almost completely under the covers. As if She was hiding. 

And Dean was the one who was allowed to climb into bed with Her. Who She wrapped Her arms around with a soft sound, burying Her face in his side and mumbling something he couldn’t understand. He was still unworthy. He still didn’t know how to tell Her that he loved Her, or needed Her, or that he was willing to sit in the dark as long as She was with him. 

When She was with him, there was light. 

So no matter how dark it got inside of him, he’d keep waiting. Keep fighting for Her, the way he always had. That’s what his hands were for, at the end of it. Her, and Her alone, however She needed them. And if Dean got to break down in Her arms, if She cared enough not to leave, Dean would love Her all the way down. Until it was better, or not. With whatever torture She wouldn’t talk about, or slowly healing wounds like the ones in the cavity of Dean chest. With his hands, writing Her more and more letters for when she was ready, and his mouth, humming lowly and brushing over the top of Her head. 

No matter what the truth was, what She was so carefully dancing around telling him, Dean would protect Her from anything that he had to. 

In the dark of their room, or whatever lay beyond it. 

——————

Jan. 4 - 2011

Princess,

We didn’t celebrate any holidays this year. I guess we never celebrated holidays, but still. Went out to get food last night, and they still had lights up. Realized the new year happened (had to change what year I was writing, in these things) but didn’t really think about Christmas. 

I know you’re not religious. None of us are. Hard to be, when we’re sorta doing a moon race with a demon, and we got an angel poking around our freezer, getting all pissed cause I ate his ice cream. I didn’t know it was his, sweetheart. He doesn’t even like candy, or cake, or pie. Don’t know what the hell it is about ice cream, but Cas loves it. 

You know that. You buy it for him. 

I wanted to buy you something, for the holidays. We don’t gotta go to church, or thank God. I just want to give you something, and you hate it when people try to do things for you, so a holiday is a good excuse. Maybe I could get something, and leave it out for you to steal. You’d steal something. 

You’d be pissed I called it stealing. Get all pouty and tell me that it’s just ‘borrowing’. But it’s stealing, sweetheart. Even if you’re taking it from rich assholes.

I couldn’t get anything expensive. You won’t want me to spend money on you. I’d use the stuff I earn, though. None of that credit card fraud bullshit. I’d hustle until I had enough for something, then I’d use that to buy you

I’m not sure what I’d buy you. Everything you want I sorta already get for you. We already “bought” all those books, and the fancy pens you love. Plus the sticker, cause you thought they were cute. You put a heart on my nose.

Fell off in the shower, last night. Didn’t notice until after. I was busy doing other things.

I hope the me that gave these to you gets to do other things with you. Lucky son of a bitch. I bet you look real pretty sitting on my face. If I haven’t done that with you yet, show this to me and I’ll do it. That can be another gift.

If you want it.

Could make you a mixtape. Get a poster for your room. Find something girls like. 

I don’t know what girls like. Perfume makeup flowers jewerly

Guess I know what you like. You got that fancy perfume and makeup shit, but I’m not messing with that. I love that you love it (I love you) but it freaks me out. I don’t know what the hell happens when you stab at your eyes, but then you look all pretty and you feel pretty and you kinda float around every room. And I don’t think you should ever wear perfume. I like that vanilla one, but you smell like heaven all by yourself. You like flowers, but I can’t just give you a random bouqutet bouque bunch of flowers. That’s gotta be a date thing. 

Have I told you how I’ve had our first date planned for eight years? Later. Trying to focus on the gifts. 

You don’t really wear jewelry. You had your rings, but you stopped wearing them after the me dying thing. Guess I could get you more rings.

That’s a good idea. I was leaning knife, but you already got too many knives, baby. I could bring you somewhere that you’d like, and then give you a ring. This is a great plan. I’m a freaking genius. Do rings have sizes? I’ll figure it out. 

I hope you like it. The ring or whatever that I get you. You don’t even have to wear it. If I can get you smile, that’ll be enough. 

I know you’re hurting, baby. Wish you’d tell me what the hell happened, down there. One of the other reasons I didn’t try to remind anyone about Christmas. Sam’s being a dick, Cas is never around, Bobby’s worried about you, I’m worried about you, and you’re not okay. 

You got all soft with me about being allowed to be pissed, but then you’re not allowed to be hurt.

I’d be here for you, if you did. Just like you’re always there with me. 

I love you. 

Still don’t feel like I say it enough. Or show you enough.

One day we’re going to get a holiday where no one is dying or dead or trying to kill people or trying to stop people from dying. Sam will be our Sam again, you’ll be better, and I’ll get more time to work out that gift for you. We’ll all do nothing all day, or run around, or whatever you want. If the whole day is just you sitting in my lap, I’d have to have lost my fucking mind to say no to that. 

Guess you sorta do that now. 

Bobby thinks I’m important to you. And you’re saying you never left because of me, and I believe you, but son of a bitch princess this is fucking hard. if you’d just let me make it a little better, i swear i would. 

please. somethings wrong, and you wont tell me, and i just gotta make it better, baby girl. the world feels fucked upside down, when you’re sad. it’s like the stars and trees are crying. 

That sounds insane. 

You get what I mean. 

Let me help. I love you, and I just want to make it better, sweetheart. Tell me what I need to do to make it better. 

Or just let me keep loving you. Cause even if I don’t say it, and you won’t tell me what’s wrong, I do. Love you. 

If I can figure out how to give you the world, I’ll put it in a box. If you want the colt i’ll track it down. Some random book, it’s yours. Gonna rip my heart out of my fucking chest, if you ask for it. 

Whatever you need, princess.

Yours, 

DAW

——————

Dean tucked the blankets a little further up Her body before moving away. He’d been keeping the letter box in his underwear drawer, since She got back. It seemed to be the one place in their room that She wouldn’t go poking around. 

And he was a selfish asshole. 

Because if he was a better man, he’d be sticking just to taking care of Her. Reminding her that he wasn’t pissed about Her being away—he really wasn’t, it still just hurt, and he had a feeling like an oncoming storm that it was going to hurt for a while—and trying to show Her that he never had to be someone she ran from again. Everything should be about loving Her. The way he’d been for years, before he’d even fucking realized it. For Her, he’d light a stupid candle—something called brown sugar and cinnamon that She really loved—on his bedside table.

When he got back into bed, she rolled right into his lap. 

And he wasn’t that better man. 

Her face was pressed into Dean’s chest, and She’d somehow managed to straddle his leg in her sleep. It was so easy to imagine a world where She wasn’t attaching to him out of some fear she refused to talk about. Where Dean didn’t sort of dig his fingers into the skin of Her hips and wrap his arm around Her back because he was worried she was going to try and leave. That She’d decide she’d made a mistake coming back, and run away from him where he just wanted to be the one thing.

The only person She told what was painful. The person She looked at, and decided deserved to know. 

He had no right to ask that. There was nothing more about Dean, the way that She was the universe. 

Nothing but how he loved Her. 

He didn’t know how the hell She hadn’t figured him out by now. Dean didn’t think She’d knew, and she’d just decided She didn’t want him. If that was the case, She wouldn’t have let him cry. She wouldn’t have told him that she never wanted to stay away, and that when She left it was never because of Dean. And after the past year, he was done pretending he’d do anything he did for Her, for anyone else. He never had. Dean only ever loved Her, and it made all his other crushes and mock-relationships seem pathetic. He couldn’t believe he thought he knew what love was, before Her. 

The cupid had called it pure. And Dean still didn’t think he was pure. Not when all he could think about was that world where She wasn’t in pain. Where She was buried in his chest because she was flushed and trying to muffle Her moans. Where Her arms were wrapped around him in an effort to stay grounded, and there wasn’t any underwear, between Her core and Dean’s sweatpants. 

It wasn’t pure, to imagine how She’d sound and feel, as Dean helped Her ride his thigh. To think about how he’d turn Her head to the side, and kiss dark little marks and bites over her throat. It wasn’t clean, to feel a phantom pride at the idea of Her walking around with proof of how Dean worshipped Her like more than a God. 

But Dean didn’t want to love Her in a clean way. Clean things ended up ruined, so fast.

So Dean wasn’t clean. And She—drooling on his shirt, nails digging into his back and a little wrinkle in Her brow—wasn’t clean either. 

Pure might just be the wrong word. Because Dean understood what the Cupid had meant. He was pretty goddamn sure nobody had ever loved anyone, the way Dean loved Her. 

Dean loved Her like he was bleeding. And it just kept pouring out of him, until it was everywhere. Over his hands, playing with the fabric of Her shirt. On that same shirt—his first—wrapped around Her body. In those letters in his dresser and on his lips he breathed in Her fruit.

He’d love Her until he was drained of it. And his love went all the way down. 

So even if She just kept festering in whatever this goddamn pain She had was, that Dean wasn’t allowed to know about, he’d still love Her. With touches and almost mockingly innocent kisses. Putting Her to bed and getting Her water. Holding her into the dead of night, and trying to work out how he could make any of this okay. 

It wasn’t. 

But as long as She didn’t try to run away again, Dean didn’t think any pain with Her could possibly be worse than the emptiness of being without Her. 

She made a high noise in Her sleep, twisting slightly in Dean’s arms, and he sighed. He knew what this was. It happened more nights than it didn’t, lately. 

And She wouldn’t let him fix it. But he still was the only asshole in the world that got to bring Her back down. 

Dean loosened his hold on Her enough that she wouldn’t panic, when She woke up, but not tight enough to let Her thrash out of his hold. If She woke up and he wasn’t there, it usually took longer for her to stop screaming, and if he let Her go all together, She’d push away in her distress. He couldn’t just wake Her up, either. That ended in a feral look in Her eyes, and Her nails scratching at his chest in an attempt to fight. 

Sam had mocked him, a few days ago. The asshole had seen the red marks on Dean’s arm, from that exact incident, and said that he must be real pathetic, if he was letting a girl beat him up just because of love.  

He’d said it the way Dean imagined Dad would’ve said it. The only reason Sam hadn’t ended up punched was because She’d walked into the room, and if She’d been reminded of the night, She would’ve broken down in tearful, hiccupping apologies. 

Dean would rather it be him than Her, cutting into Her own skin and starving herself to try and fight whatever ghosts always seemed to be at the edge of her vision. It had only been that one time, too. When he’d tried to wake Her up, instead of just riding it out. 

But he still fucking hated this part. 

She made another strained noise, then a louder one. She started to curl into Herself, and writhe in Dean’s arms. Then the shallow breathes began, and Her body started to press into Dean’s all as Her legs kicked, trying to fight off something Dean couldn’t see. She shook Her head, her palms went flat on his chest—against the right of his heart—and Her fingers curled like She was trying to grab him, all as She pushed away from him in the same moment. 

Dean just held Her, and bite his tongue to swallow that sour, horrible feeling rising in his throat. He couldn’t fix this. Whatever it was, whatever was causing it—sometimes, between the screams and incoherent pleas, Dean was able to make out something that could be a word, but it either his own name, Sam, please, or no, and that didn’t make him feel better—and whatever had happened, Dean wasn’t allowed to do anything about it but wait.

Her eyes shot open with a strangled breath, and that was his cue. 

Dean hauled Her further up his chest, until she was around him like a koala. He kept his arm around Her waist tight, half pinning Her to his body, and grabbed Her face with the other hand, forcing Her gaze onto his. 

There was a panicked, wild look in Her eyes. But as Dean ran his thumb down Her nose, it started to ease. 

“You’re okay,” he said Her name, scanning over Her frozen features like the answer to everything would be written there. “Just a nightmare, Princess. I got you, you just gotta breathe for me-“

She took a loud, stuttering breath at the command, and Her hands flew to Dean. One grabbed his wrist, the other landing on his cheek. Her grip was weak, Her fingers soft over Dean’s jaw, then his neck, then his shoulders. She always seemed to be mapping him, when She did this. Her hand always flew back up to his nose, tracing the shape of it before she’d look down to his chest, and press Her palm flat once more. 

She drew it back slowly, before She met Dean’s gaze once more. 

“Dean?”

He nodded, and Her lip wobbled, as she pulled it between Her teeth. 

“De- Dean, Dean, I’m-“

She dove back over him, wrapping Her arms around his neck. Dean held Her back, rubbing Her back and turning his face to press into Her hair. She smelled like Her apples, and salt. She was warm and soft in his arms. 

He wanted to tell Her, right now. That he loved Her. That if he wasn’t going to be kicked like a mutt in the mud for needing Her, she didn’t need to feel like a problem for needing him. That Dean liked Her needing him. That meant he got to keep Her for longer. 

He didn’t. He wouldn’t be able to say it right. Knowing himself, he’d probably find the one way to say it that would make everything worse. 

So he just held Her in the dark. 

“I- I’m sorry-“ She sniffed in his ear. “Dean, I’m sorry-“

“I know, baby.” He murmured, and she almost whimpered in his ear. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

She shook Her head, voice getting higher and higher. “I- I- Can’t, Dean, I can’t- Can’t breathe-“

He pulled back in a second, framing Her face between his hands. She was flushed, mouth hanging open as she took tiny, weak breaths. Her hands were flying back to Her throat, and her pried them away before running his thumb back down Her nose. Over and over, until She was completely slumped in his arms. 

“Better?” 

She nodded, and Dean took a long breath, holding Her gaze in the dark. She didn’t look panicked, anymore. Just nervous. Her hands were back on his chest, and Christ, he needed to be put down. She was flushed with tears, eyes wide and glossy, and all Dean could think about was kissing Her. Rolling Her over into the mattress, making Her feel good enough that She just forgot about all the pain. His hand could trail further up Her thigh, his lips could travel down to Her breasts, and She could go this limp in the comfort of the pillows and blankets, the only word on Her lips his name, and a plea for more. 

He’d give it to Her. 

Anything.

“Did I wake you up?” She whispered, and Dean sighed, shaking his head. 

“Nah. I’d been up for a bit.”

She blinked at him slowly, lips pouting slightly. “Did you sleep at all?”

“A little. Just needed water.”

It was a lie. Lying was supposed to be a sin. 

It didn’t feel like one, when that was what made Her drop Her brow to his shoulder and cling to his shoulders. She wasn’t crying anymore. Just holding him so tight he was pretty sure he’d be able to feel the indent of Her body in the morning. 

“You wanna talk about it?” He muttered, and She shook Her head. 

He shouldn’t have expected anything else. 

It still made him feel sore.

“I’m sorry.” Her words were muffled against Dean’s body, and he sighed. 

“You wanna go for a drive, Princess?”

She nodded, and Dean waited for her to move first. 

It was a few minutes, with only their breathing and the low hum of the heater. Then She started to slowly crawl away, and Dean followed. 

Sort of like how Dean had developed a habit of touching Her every few minutes—brushed of their hands, bumps of shoulders, poking Her side under the guise of teasing, but just to feel Her—She didn’t to ever go that long without looking at him. 

Dean’s arm angled to bump Her shoulder, as he grabbed his shirt . He could feel her attention, as he made the bed behind them. When his fingers brushed Her wrist, their hands tangled together, and neither of them said a word. Her chest was pressed to his back, as they walked down the stairs, and She kept looking down at where Dean’s hand had found Her hip—he didn’t even remember putting it there—before She glanced back with bright, pretty eyes. 

“Do you have your wallet?” She said softly, and Dean nodded, grabbing his jacket from by the door. 

“Got about three credit cards to burn, Princess.” He gave Her a small grin, and her lips twitched as she bent down to pull on her shoes. 

Dean coughed, looking up to the ceiling as he waited. Nothing good could come of Her kneeling, right next to him. Where he could rest his hand on the top of Her head again, and see how she’d look at him under Her lashes, when he was guiding Her up- 

Nope. 

Not when She’d been sobbing in his arms barely twenty minutes ago. 

Her hand landed on his calf, and She tugged on his pants slightly. “Dean?”

He grunted Her name, still looking up. 

“Can I drive?”

That got him to look down, and Jesus, She only got prettier. That same cold light was washing through the room, but on Her skin the glow didn’t seem like something painful. 

Just beautiful. Always beautiful.

“Sweetheart, you’re tired-“

“I can drive tired.”

“You shouldn’t-“

“Dean.” She gave him a flat look, Her chin almost resting against his knee, and he swallowed. “If that’s the metric we’re going by, you’re never allowed to drive again.”

He chuckled, and his hands didn’t seem to not know how to touch Her. He tangled his fingers in Her hair, and she leaned fully forward. 

It was a goddamn sight, Her leaning against him with bright eyes. Her lips parted, as Dean watched Her. She almost seemed to be melting into him, and if time froze right here it might be the best thing in the world, but if Bobby walked down the hall right now, Dean was going to get kicked out into the woods on his ass. 

Bobby might be fine with Dean in Her room. 

Dean didn’t think that was a green light to see Her clinging to his leg, will Dean—likely visibly—wrestled with the consuming, heavy worry about Her health over the overwhelming need to touch Her, feel Her, taste Her and love Her and have Her-

“My keys are in my jacket.” She whispered, nodding up to the hooks. “Please?”

Dean cleared his throat, and nodded. It’s not like he’d been all that likely to tell Her no to begin with. 

“Be careful.” He muttered frowning at the ground as they walked to the Firebird. “Lotta ice, Princess, you’ll need to go slow-“

She snorted. “Name one time in your life that you’ve driven slow, Winchester.”

“Right damn now, if you- Wait-“

She spun out of his arm as he tried to grab the keys, and Dean was barely able to catch Her hand before she got too far away. He spun Her right back into his chest, and She giggled, swaying in his arms as he herded Her to the car. 

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he grinned down at Her, and she just laughed again. “We can take the Firebird, but lemme drive you-“

“No.” She whacked his chest, and Dean caught Her hand, pinning it to Her side. “Dean-“

“I’ll go real slow.” He hummed, leaning forward until the fog of his breath was ghosting over Her face, and the pretty flush was covering her every feature. “I just wanna drive, Princess. You can boss me around after.”

She just stared at him, breathing high in Her chest and expression slack, as Dean slowly took the keys from Her hands.

“Thanks.” He grinned at Her again, and Her eyes widened with realization.

“You- Dean-“ Her voice was a whine, as She tried to grab them again, and Dean just laughed. It wasn’t the painful whine from Her nightmare. It was adorable, with Her lips pouting and glare not heavy on Her brow. She didn’t really mean it. 

Dean would feel the pain of it, crushing just to the right of his heart, if She really meant it. 

“You said I could drive-“

“You can drive back.” He shrugged, looping his arm around Her waist before She could fight him. 

“You suck.” She grumbled, but let Dean move Her into the passenger’s seat, and he chuckled. 

“I know. Don’t move.”

Dean drew back up, and half sprinted around the hood get behind the wheel. Goddamnit, winter could get cold. Between the snow and cold air biting at his hands, Dean wouldn’t have gone out at all if it wasn’t with Her. 

The freezing air—the moment the engine rumbled and Dean settled back into the seat—made Her curl into him. Dean’s arm got pulled over Her shoulders, and She pressed Her face right into his side.

“Cold?” He asked, and She just made a mumbling noise. 

And this. This was the part of his love that Dean might call pure.

Or at least as close to it as he could get. 

His hand, tracing mindless patterns on Her upper arm as he drove. The way that She let him tug Her gently out of the car when they parked at the gas station, wrapping around his chest the moment they were both at their feet. How Dean just rocked Her back and forth, keeping his body folded over Her’s as she seemed to try and burrow into him. 

How when he took Her hand and squeezed it, the world got lighter as She squeezed it back three times. 

All good.

Everything was hard, but they were together, so it was all good. 

The trip inside the gas station was fast. Dean grabbed the drinks—his eyes lingering on the beer longer than he wanted, but his head was pounding, and he managed not to touch it—before letting Her tug him down the snack aisle. She kept looking back, every few seconds. Even when his hand was still folded into Her’s. Dean paid—not his credit card, or money, but he still felt sort of taller than normal as he bought the snacks as She remained pressed to his chest—and they walked back to the car in silence. 

She’d put Herself behind him, this time. Holding onto Dean’s arm as he pulled Her through the parking lot, hanging a little further back than he’d like. 

He’d survive. She was there, he could feel Her. 

And when they got back into the car, She was all over him once more. Leaning against him as She dug around the bag, resting Her head on his shoulder as She opened up her lollipop—the kind with chocolate inside, that Dean knew She loved—and laying back until She was almost lying in his lap. 

Son of a bitch, it was moments like this that almost broke him. Her eyes fluttering up on his, lips so pretty wrapped around the lollipop—he’d fucking gotten it for Her, he must really damn love torturing himself—and knees pulled up in the air. 

Dean was pretty sure he’d had this fantasy, as well. Where he ran his hand between Her legs, as She took him in Her pretty mouth. 

That part of his love wasn’t pure. Not by a long shot. 

But this was. 

“De?”

He grunted, and She grabbed his hand without warning. Turning it between Her fingers like she was studying it, lingering over scars and callouses, making Dean sort of feel like he was on fire. 

“What’s it like? Not being able to see it?”

He frowned at Her. “It?”

“The souls.” She whispered, looking up at him under hooded eyes, and Dean swallowed. 

“I dunno. Sorta can’t imagine what it is like to see them. Is it like- All color?”

“Yes- no.” She sighed, and suddenly Dean’s hand was being held to Her chest like a stuffed animal. “It’s- You’re Dean. And I know you have green eyes, and that you’re white, and your hair is kinda sand colored. But you’re also...” She trailed off, squeezing his hand, and Dean raised his brows. 

“What am I, Princess?”

“Golden.” Her voice was barely a breath, and it didn’t matter how many times She told him that. He never really fully understood what it meant. 

He didn’t feel golden. He just felt like himself. And golden things didn’t grow in the mud. 

But She said it, and it was the truth. So Dean took it, and let a little more warmth bloom in his chest. 

“You’re Golden here.” She moved Dean’s hand up, pressing it over his own chest. “And it goes-“

Her brows knit in concentration, and She let go of Dean’s hand, tracing over his chest, then his shoulders. Then She paused. Frowned like She was seeing something she didn’t like. He muttered Her name, and She shook Her head, before sitting up suddenly. Dean caught Her by Her hips, and She stared at him with wide eyes, and an almost desperate expression. 

“It’s everywhere.” She whispered, and he blinked at Her. “You- Dean, you’re-“

Whatever She’d been about to tell him was cut off by a wide yawn, and Dean sighed, tucking Her further into his chest. She shouldn’t be talking, when She was tired. It always sort of felt like trying to demand truths out of someone who was hammered. 

“You’re on me,” she mumbled into his neck, and Dean didn’t know what that meant. “Please don’t-“ She made a weak sound as Dean adjusted Her so he could see the road, and they were back to crying. “Don’t leave, Dean. Can’t- If you- I-“

“I’m not leaving, Princess.” Dean played with Her hair as he spoke. “Just getting you home.”

She nodded, tugging at his jacket, and it was cold. 

Dean wasn’t being a selfish douchebag, if it was cold, and She was asking him to. It was perfectly reasonable, to wrap his jacket around Her body as well. So She’d be warm. 

It stopped the sour feeling for a second. To have Her this close, Her breathing even and Her hands curled into his shirt. She trusted him. Not with everything—and there it was again, so he swallowed it back down—but with enough. 

She’d stayed away, but that wasn’t about Dean. Couldn’t be, when She was begging him not to leave Her. 

But right behind the sour feeling was the skin prickling, sickening fucking reminder that he didn’t deserve it. Not just because of who he was, compared to who She was. 

Because his hands had touched other women. And he’d never held them like this—he’d never really held them at all—but he’d still touched them. And he didn’t think She’d had anyone else while she was gone, but that sort of made it worse.

He didn’t know if She’d still hold him like this, if She knew. He had to tell Her. Before Sam said it first, and She ran too fast for Dean to catch Her. To fall to his knees and tell Her that he’d just been in pain. It had hurt so fucking much, without Her, and he’d just wanted to feel something beside the pit. He’d hated it every time. He’d imagined it was Her, when he’d closed his eyes, and he’d moaned Her name, and he’d never stayed the night because he physically couldn’t wake up next to anyone but Her. 

It would be selfish, though. To tell Her now, when She was already in pain. To take that comfort She’d offered him, and return it by telling Her he’d cheated. 

And it didn’t matter if they weren’t actually together. Dean was Her’s, in every way he could think of. And all he did was—over and over and over—fail Her.  

He wouldn’t, this time around. It didn’t matter how much it hurt, or how rotted his ribs felt, when he thought about Her crying like this, without Dean there to hold Her. 

Dean was going to make sure that for once, they stayed together. All the way down.

He parked the Firebird near the house, rubbing slow circles on Her back to try and wake Her up. She shook Her head, grabbing tighter at Dean’s jacket, and he sighed. 

“We gotta go inside, Princess, it’s freezing-“

“You’re warm.” She mumbled, and that wasn’t helping anything. “‘M good.”

Dean tried again. “You’ll get a cold-“

“Okay, mom.” 

His lips twitched, and he kissed the top of Her head. “Alright. Let’s go.”

“No.” She started to wiggle, trying to get away from him, and Dean grunted.

“Sweetheart, you gotta stop that-“

“No-“ She looked up at him, and it wasn’t sadness in Her eyes. 

It was almost panic. The nightmare panic. 

She might have actually fallen asleep. And while Dean wasn’t getting scratched this time, it felt sort of worse. 

“Don’t- Don’t make me- No- No-“

“Hey.” Dean wrapped his hand carefully around the back of Her neck, cradling Her head. “It’s me. Just me. I’m not gonna- I can’t make you do anything.”

She stared at him, eyes fluttering and a little glassy, and Dean pushed on, giving her a small grin.

“You’re bossy, Princess. I gave up on making you do things a long freakin’ time ago.”

“I- I’m-“ Her voice was soft again, and She seemed to be drawing away from him. Curling into Herself as she rubbed at Her wrists and shook her head. “Dean, I’m sorry-“

“No.” He kept his grip on Her firm, and She made a weak sound. “Don’t. Just- Son of a bitch, Princess.” His voice cracked, and She blinked at him. “Tell me what the hell is wrong, please.”

“I-“ She took a long, slow breath, scanning over Dean’s face, then froze. 

Looked out the window, then back to Dean. 

“I’m tired.” She whispered, and Dean’s lips pressed in a tight line. 

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth, either. 

“Okay,” he pulled Her tight against his chest. “Hold on.”

She nodded, and Dean stepped out of the car with a grunt, carrying Her inside. 

Her face so her lips brushed on a soft part of his throat, when the door closed behind them. Dean’s hand flex against Her lower back as he bit back a grunt, and She was going to strangle him, with how tight she was holding on. 

“You smell good.” She mumbled, and Dean was going to start blushing like an idiot. 

“Thanks, Princess. Been using that shampoo you got me.”

She shook Her head, and Dean could feel her playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. It was sending small shivers down his spine, and now really wouldn’t be the time to just pin Her to the wall and see what it would feel like when She was scratching at his back and whining against his lips. 

“Not that. That’s not you.”

Dean hummed. “Me?”

“You smell like Dean.”

“I am Dean, Princess-“

“No, you-“ She sighed, and Dean could hear Her pout. “You don’t get it.”

“Sorry, baby.” He kicked open the door to their room, smiling at the air. “Guess I don’t.”

“Can I tell you?”

Fuck, She could be real cute when she wanted to be. Dean set Her down on the edge of the bed, kneeling to help Her out of her shoes, and She just watched him with bright, hopeful eyes. As if the answer to that question would ever be no.

“Yeah. You can tell me.”

She smiled at him, the sleepy haze written all over Her pretty features, and Dean understood why God would want Her. 

Even at almost four in the morning, She made the world colorful. And when She looked at Dean like that, he was pretty sure he could walk through Hell and walk out without a single scar. 

“You’re made of stars.” She whispered, leaning down until She was close enough to rest Her brow right against his. Her hair was sliding over Her face, tickling Dean’s chin. He had to force his attention back to Her shoes.

He let out a dry chuckle. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Dean glanced back up, and She looked serious all of a sudden. 

“You’re made of stars, and you’re so strong. And it’s big, Dean.” She sounded like She was pleading with him. “It’s so fucking- I- It’s big.”

He took a steading breath, trying to shake off the semi, pressing against his sweats. It was good She was already kinda out of it, and wouldn’t notice. “Okay-“

“Dean.” She said his name, in the siren like voice, and it was sort of like a spell. 

“Princess-“

“You- You can’t let me go.” She whispered. “Please.”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.” He muttered, reaching up to carefully brush some hair from Her face. “I’ve told you, I’m not leaving you.”

She stared at him, then to Her hands, and nodded slowly. “Oh- Okay.”

She still looked so sad. And Dean couldn’t allow that. 

He hooked his arm under Her legs, moving them fully onto the bed before sitting on the edge of the mattress, and all but climbing over Her. Caging Her between his body and the mattress, Dean grabbed Her face as she stared at him—flush, lip, breath—and made his voice firm.

“I’m not leaving.” He grunted, running his thumb over Her cheek bone. “Tell me you get that.”

She didn’t respond. Just looked at Dean with that pretty, dazed expression. Dean sort of wanted to see how it would change, if he started to kiss over Her collarbone, maybe up Her neck, or down between Her breasts-

Not now. 

“I pinky promise.” Dean said Her name, raising his hand up for Her to take. “Not leaving.”

I love you.

That was the part She didn’t get to hear. The part Dean really wanted Her to see, so he never had to say it. So She’d be able to tell him when She was ready, and he wouldn’t be a thief. Taking the best thing in the universe for only himself, when he was supposed to be keeping Her safe. 

She took his pinky. Gave it a small shake. And Dean leaned up, kissing Her brow before rolling them over. She didn’t even yelp that time. Only dissolved into Dean’s hold, eyes fluttering up at his before She closed them, everything in the world slowly coming back down, down, down until it was only Her and Dean, and everything else was washed in the distance. 

“You don’t suck.” She said softly, and he frowned.

“What?”

“I said you suck. You don’t.” Her lips were right against his neck again. “You don’t suck, De. I named my car after you.”

He blinked. “You did?”

“Dean Jr.” She yawned, and Dean felt like he was choking on nothing. “Cause you’re his dad.”

Jesus. “Yeah? How’d you figure that one?”

“You made him.” She paused, then laughed to herself. “Guess you’re his mom.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Dean rolled his eyes, fighting his smile. “Go to bed.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“You need to, baby-“

“No.” She paused. “Am I the dad?”

Dean brushed his lips on the side of Her head. “Sure. Sleep.”

She hummed, seeming content, and Dean sighed, staring up at the ceiling. 

She’d named Her fucking car after him. He’d said that as a joke, and She’d done it. As if he really mattered to Her. 

Dean still didn’t think She knew. He really just wanted Her to know. 

“I got you something, while you were gone.” He said, and She made a soft sound of acknowledgment. “Stuffed cat. Named it Velma.” He paused. “But you can name it whatever-“

“Like Velma.” She mumbled against his skin. “Didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah,” Dean ran his hand down Her spine, and She curved further into him. “I did.”

“Oh.” She yawned. “Thank you.”

Dean let out a slow breath. “Course, Princess.” I love you. 

I’d do anything for you. Get you anything. It’s complicated but it’s not, because I love you.

And that was the pure part.

Loving Her was like a cure. When She’d been sobbing in his arms, and Dean didn’t how the hell he could make Her understand, but She still smiled at him. Named Her car after him. Giggled at his jokes and fell asleep in his arms. It filled the pit with light, and Dean really was good sitting in it, as long as She was at his side. They’d probably fight again, like the shifter. She’d keep falling apart. Dean would have to face what he’d done while She was gone, and catch Her before she ran. 

It was so fucking complicated. It hurt like Hell. 

Dean didn’t have a goddamn clue how they’d get through it. But they would.

Because only She could make something this painful this good.

———

You’re wrong.

Worse than wrong.

You’re a liar. You’re a manipulative, cruel, liar. A monster. You’re everything John Winchester called you, and then some. You’re working with Cas and Crowley behind everyone’s back. You haven’t told them about God, because every time Dean begs you to know, the Sky flashes in warning. You’re reading up on how to fix Sam, and you’re trying to work out how to get out of the Bride, but you’ve also been researching Purgatory. 

Dean is losing sleep, because of you. Bobby’s still drinking, because of the darkness you’d left them in, when you’d fallen into the cage.

You should’ve stayed there. When Dean called you, you should have just stayed locked away. He would have moved on eventually. So would have Bobby. They’d figure out how to fix Sam without you breaking down and refusing to use to Silver, Cas probably would’ve ended up seeking Dean’s help for Purgatory, instead of sticking you both in this horrible fucking situation. 

And if you hadn’t promised Dean, you’d leave. Run, as far as you can get. Not because you want to leave him—just the thought makes the Spiderweb strain, and a sore feeling form in your throat—but because you’re trying to save him. 

From you.

You’re hiding things from him. You’re getting sicker and sicker again, the Silver starting to gnaw on your inside and everything feeling heavier and heavier with each moment. Dean keeps holding you in the dark, soothing you and teasing you like nothing ever changed, but it has. 

He shouldn’t be trying to save you. You’re not something that can be saved. Everything fucking hurts, and you’re more trouble than it’s worth to keep around, when you’re lying and doing nothing but making things harder. You’ve infected everything around you. You’re lying to Dean, and you’re lying to Bobby, and you can’t even look Sam in the eyes because all you see is Sammy, torn up and beaten and bloody because you failed.

You’re the sickness. If you’d just done everyone a favor and stayed in the cage, everything would be better. 

And you’re even worse, because you can’t stop. You know how the shit with Cas ends. You know that even if Dean forgives you, God will come down and take you when he gets tired of waiting. 

You love Dean. He deserves more than a monster that can’t stop fighting Her leash. One day, he’s going to realize that, and you’re going to have no one to blame but yourself. You would leave yourself, if that was possible. You sort of wish Dean would let you drown in all this pain, so you’d stop dragging him down with you. 

But he’s strong, and Golden, and good. And he keeps sitting in it with you. Holding you to his chest. Making you smile, when everything feels like a live wire—set to snap, explode, destroy everything around you—every single second. When it gets too big, Dean just holds you, and you can narrow it all down to the sound of his deep voice in your ear, and the smell of him around you.

The feeling of his Gold. Everywhere. Reminding you that this is real. Dean’s real. 

And you want to keep fighting for him. You’re doing all of this to save him, from Raphael and Michael. 

From God. 

You’re telling yourself it’s because you’re already embedded in him, that it’s okay to be this close to him. But it’s really because he’s gravity. 

And you couldn’t stop loving him if you tried. 

“Any luck on a monster, Sam?” Dean leans to the side, trying to see Sam’s computer screen, and you sigh.

His arm is around your shoulders, your knees draw up to your chest and angled over his lap, your face in his neck. And you know how it would look, to anyone passing by. But Dean pulled your legs up. He put his arm around you.

There hasn’t really been a single moment, in the weeks you’ve been back, when you haven’t wanted to tell him. What you’re doing. That God is watching. That it hurts, it hurts so fucking much, and you’re not carving into your own skin but you’re burning yourself in the shower and scratching at your wrists to try and keep it down. 

You keep trying to tell him that you’re sorry. He doesn’t seem to understand what you mean, or what he’s promising when he tells you he’ll stay. 

You’re not allowed to tell him you love him. Or kiss him. Or make this about you. 

But Dean keeps making it about you. You left him, he’s not angry when he should be—you’re angry, with yourself—and he knows you’re hiding something from him, but he’s here. For you. Handsome and grinning at you even when you know what this is doing to him.

Touching you all the time, until the ache for him is so strong it’s almost painful.

He keeps touching you everywhere.

Big, calloused hands on bare skin, rubbing your hips and resting on your head. Making you think he’s going to give you what you’re silently screaming for, offer you a mercy you don’t deserve, and kiss you until you feel like you’re floating. He’s been teasing so fucking much, lately. Making everything just a Golden fog of Dean, before drawing away and leaving the world spinning and the Spiderweb casting a million colors around your body, whining for him to come back. To take you, however he wants, because you’re his. 

It makes you feel high and dizzy, when he tugs on your hair and you look up at him. Makes you giggle under his attention when he runs his hands up your sides, and says a stupid joke like the world isn’t falling apart, and everything isn’t complicated. When he could be giving this to anyone else, but he’s choosing you. 

Then God flares, out the window. 

And you feel fucking sick. 

“No monsters.” Sam mutters, angling his computer away from Dean, who scowls. “But I did find something like Cadillac.”

Dean tenses around you, and you frown. 

“You mean the town-“

“Where we found you.” Dean finishes, and technically you found them, but Dean’s hold is growing possessive, and you’re not strong enough to say anything that could stop that. “Sam, the hell does like Cadillac mean. Flooding season, or-“

“Fairies.” Sam looks at you.

You drop your gaze, focusing on Dean’s Gold. If you focus on Sam for too long, you’ll choke on the air. 

You’re trying not to cry where anyone can see it. And Dean always catches it, but he’s Dean. He brings you back down. 

This version of Sam would just mock you. Then you’d cry more, and Dean would get pissed, and everything would keep getting worse because you’re nothing more than a fucking plague, hurricane, evil, horrible monster- 

Dean mutters your name, and you nod, rubbing at your wrists. 

“Sam and I are gonna go check this out-“

“I’ll come with you.” You look up at him, trying to make your words firm, but they mostly come out desperate. 

You can’t just sit in this pain. It will destroy you, or you’ll lose control of the Silver and destroy everything else. You need to keep moving, wherever you can. 

And maybe you’re falling apart in the dark, but that’s in Dean’s arms. And that’s the safest place to be in the world. 

“Princess, you don’t have to-“

“I want to.” You hold his gaze, fingers curling on his chest. “I- I need to keep an eye on Sam’s soul.”

Sam scoffs from off to the side, and Dean’s jaw clenches, but he nods. 

And you don’t deserve any of this. The hug Bobby gives you before you leave, how Dean packed everything you needed before you asked, being allowed to curl up in the back seat of the Impala on the drive. It’s Golden. Like a shield around you, keeping you away from God’s view, just out the window. 

When you get to the motel, you still get to share Dean’s bed. And it’s not indulging, because Dean’s the one who put all your stuff in one bag. Who—after you settle in for the night—kisses the top of your head and pulls you into his side again. 

He doesn’t know. That all the researched you’d been doing on the drive wasn’t for Sam, it was for Purgatory. Those alternate paths you’d talked to Cas about, trying to find a way to make this as easy as possible. 

There hasn’t been much, so far. A lot of mentions of monsters you’d never heard of before, some old stories about people claiming to travel through it, and see all of those forgotten by their maker. 

Nothing about how to get in and out, aside from being a monster and dying. You’ve got a theory, scrawled somewhere in a notebook. A strong enough monster, that could carve open a path to Purgatory when killed. You don’t know where you’d get that kind of monster, but you’d work it out. 

There’s something called the Mother, and the Enochian word for it—along with the one drawing of her you’d been able to find—makes your skin crawl. It’s the kind of thing you’d want to show to Dean, because he’d make an adorable, grossed out face.

You can’t. 

That’s not how this gets to work.

“You could’ve gone out with Sam.” You mumble, trying to keep your focus on your notes, scattered all over the bed. “I’d be fine.”

Dean shrugs, shaking his head. “Nah. Rather hang out with you.”

“I’m reading.”

“I can read.”

“You can’t read Enochian.”

“Could learn.” He grins at you, bumping your shoulder. “I got a C- in high school Spanish, sweetheart. That’s a pass.”

You give him a flat look. “Say something in Spanish, Deano.”

He cups your face, grin widening as he leans closer, and you swallow. He needs to stop doing this. It makes you forget how to control yourself, and all your love for him starts to cover your face. He’s not supposed to see it. But when he does things like this—touching you and almost covering you with his body—you can’t do anything but mold into him. 

“No.” He whispers, like it’s some sort of secret, and you whack his chest. He doesn’t budge, only laughing.

“Dean-“

“I never said I remembered any of it, sweetheart. But I could remember the Enochian, if you taught me.”

“I don’t know how to teach you-“

“It’s easy, Princess. Look- Just tell me what that means.” 

He taps one of your pages. 

Taps his own name, scribbled next to a note about Purgatory maybe being right above Hell.

Fuck. 

“I-“ You can feel the heat of your face. You can’t lie to him. “It’s- Um- I’ll tell you if you explain the fairies to me?”

It’s a desperate gamble. Hopefully just distracting him, and he’ll forget he ever asked at all. And—just to sell it—you set the notes off to the side, and turn to give Dean a full, challenging expression. Resting your chin on his shoulder, smiling up at him, shifting your legs so they’re pressed against his thigh.  

He clears his throat, nostrils flaring slightly, and his hand is resting on your ankle. 

You can’t stop yourself from glancing at the blinds. 

Closed. 

Safe. 

“Not sure what there is to explain.” He mutters, watching you carefully. “They’re fairies. But of strange shit was happening, before you showed up. Crazy lady told us they were aliens, waiting for their goddess.”

You raise your brows. “Their goddess?”

“Yeah. Leavin’ her offerings. There was- It was weird, Princess. Real freakin’ weird. Then that one with the Alpha Vamp said that they were here for me.” Dean sighs. “Figure it’s best to knock it out now, while we got them here. See if it’s something to be worried about.”

You hum, wrapping your arms around his chest. “That it?”

“No. It-“ He takes a long, slow breath. “They were leaving out chicken nuggets, and Shirley Temples. Indiana Jones posters and knives.”

You blink at him, and his throat bobs, voice dropping.

“Sorta seemed like they were worshipping you.”

Oh. 

No. 

You shouldn’t be worshipped. That’s what he wants. That’s what you’re trying so hard to prevent. Being that powerful, wrathful, angry thing that God wants you to be. That what leads to the end, when you become more than just the Bride. 

God said that you just needed to accept it, but you don’t want to. You don’t want to go. He can’t make you go, and the Silver is building up your throat as you dig your nails into your skin, and it’s starting to spill out until you can feel the wear of the old motel sheets, trying so desperately to stay together when they’re fraying at the seams. You’re all the stress of your own notes, scattered across the bed, spinning with too much information and trying to figure out how to make this better, you’re the suffocation of the heater, rattling desperately to keep the room warm when it’s so cold, it’s cold and you can breathe and the whole world is a fucking blur because you can’t go- 

A deep, critical voice mutters your name, and you gasp, clawing at your own throat. It needs to get out. The Silver needs to get out, but you can���t let it.

“Fuck-“ Strong hands pull you forward, moving your nails away, and you shake your head. 

You’re going to lose control, it hurts and you’re going to lose it and then he’s going to take you-

“Nobody’s taking you. I got you.” Something runs down the bridge of your nose, and you grab it. You need it. It’s like an anchor, when you’re drifting through everything. “You’re okay, it’s good, we’re good, just- There you go.”

You let out a choked sob as the world falls back into focus, and you can see Dean. Golden. Looking at you with deep lines of worry on his handsome features, his features a little pale as he scans over your face. 

“It’s okay.” He mutters, and it’s not. You can feel the hot, stinging tears sliding down your cheeks, as you take long breaths. “You’re safe.”

You fall into him. Collapse over his body, burying your face in his chest and taking a deep, long breath. Cinnamon. Grass and leather and that cinnamon. For now, you’re safe. 

Dean’s still got you. And as you cry into his shirt, you don’t understand why he’s not leaving. 

But he’s not. This is hurting him, but he’s not leaving.

He mutters your name, his hand resting lightly on your lower back. “If you can’t work this-“

“I- I can.” You sniff, trying to make yourself sound like everything in your isn’t made of pain. “I’m just- I don’t- I’m sorry-“

“I know.” He mutters, and there’s something tight in his voice that makes the Spiderweb whine. “I know, Princess.”

He doesn’t. 

He has no idea. 

“Is it the cage?”

You shake your head against him, and he holds you tighter.

“Can you tell me?”

“No.” You whisper. “I-“

“Don’t say sorry.” He grunts, and you lean back. 

He looks so tired. Staring at you with an almost desperate expression, reaching up to trace his thumb back down the bridge of your nose. You blink at him, and his lips dart out between his teeth. 

“I- I’m- Dean, I’m-“ You sniff again, and he wipes the tears from your cheek. 

“Let me help.” He mutters your name. “I’m here, baby. You just gotta tell me what to do.”

Baby. 

I love you, baby. I need you, baby. 

I’m here, baby.

He keeps calling you baby, when it’s just the two of you in the whole world. When you need it, and dread it, and baby. I love you, baby.

You can feel the Spiderweb straining. Almost pushing out of your body, trying to grab your tongue so you can just tell him. 

But you can’t. 

He must see it on your face. Dean’s jaw just ticks, and he sighs, before pulling you right back into his chest, cradling your head and pressing a kiss to the side of your head. 

And it all fucking hurts. 

“Dean?” You whisper, and he grunts. “Can- I brought the cat.”

He pauses. “Cat?”

“Velma. She’s in the bag.”

He doesn’t ask any more questions. You’re kept carefully in his arms as he leans over to shuffle through your shared bag, then passes the stuffed cat into your hands. 

It’s covered in his Gold. 

He got you a fucking stuffed animal. You stayed away from him, hurt him, and he got you a stuffed animal. 

“You really like it?” He asks, and you nod, holding it to your chest as your eyes grow heavy. 

“Love it.” You mumble, taking a shaky breath. Love you. 

He makes a low sound, leaning fully down on the bed, and it’s so easy to fall asleep in Dean’s arms. To sleep peacefully through the night, where anywhere else you’d be losing your mind about him hating you. About how he’s not pissed, but he’s going to be. How this is all going to fall apart, sooner than you want to think about. 

Every time he looks at you, it’s like he’s trying to search for the answers on your face. The reason that you’re caving in, when it’s only a pressure you’d dropped on your own chest. You know he wants to help, to make it better, to save you. He’s Dean. It’s what he does.

But you picked up this burden. You’re Atlas, and the World, and the gods who cursed him to carry it. You are everything, and you don’t want to be, but it’s the only thing Dean can’t save you from. 

When you wake up, he’s still holding you. You’re still between his legs, with his nose pressed against your hair and his snores rumbling through your body. You watch him, for a little while, still hugging Velma tight. The morning light dancing over his face, the sharp line of his jaw relaxed, his chest rising and falling slowly. His muscles flex, with each breath. You can feel the strength of him, all around you, and in another world you’d wake him up with a soft kiss, tracing your fingers over his tattoo and smiling at him, until he took over and you felt him. 

The hunger for him really hasn’t gone back to baseline, since you got back. Every other thought in your head is just about letting Dean have everything. It’s the least you can give him, after hurting him. After leaving. 

But he’s not taking it. And you’re not brave enough to question why. 

He must know that you mean it, when you say you never want to leave him. He wouldn’t be holding you like this if he didn’t. 

Nothing has ever been harder than watching how much this hurts him, though. But it will be worth it. 

You just have to keep remembering that this is for Dean. 

So you’ll get through it. 

You always do. 

It’s not easy to shuffle out of Dean’s grip, but you manage. Wiggling away and replacing your body with the sheets and Velma. Dean makes a low, grunting sound, but doesn’t wake up, and you run your fingers through his hair. It’s soft. Just as short as always, because almost as soon as you’d gotten back from the shifter hunt, he’d gone out and got it cut. 

He looks beautiful no matter how long his hair is. 

And when he mumbles you name, shifting to keep your touch against him a little longer, you have to swallow another sob. 

This is so fucking complicated.

And all you can think of is a world where you and your Dean—even though he’s not really your anything—get the peaceful, easy life Michael and Lucifer had showed you. Where Velma is a real cat, and you get to wake Dean up like your fantasy, and this isn’t a hunt, but a vacation. 

It’s what Dean deserves, even if you don’t. He might, one day, get it with someone else. 

Or you. 

If you can get out of being the Bride, and he forgives you—still wants you—Dean could have it with you. 

You force yourself to walk to the bathroom. If not just because you really need to use the toilet, because if you think about Dean having you any more, you’ll climb on top of him and tell him there. There are still tears, stinging at your eyes as you pee. You have to bury your face in your hands to muffle the tears, because you don’t to wake Dean up. He’s done enough for you as it is. 

When you lift your head, taking a slow, deep breath, you see it. 

On the windowsill. 

A piece of paper. 

You stand up slowly, rubbing your eyes as you cross the room. It wasn’t there when you came inside. You’re almost certain of it. And when you pick it up, your heart stops. Falters entirely, before kicking into an impossibly high gear that has you gripping at the sink, the world turning too fast around you, faster than you can keep up with. 

Hey, Princess. I know you’re gonna kill me (and if I make it out, I’ll finally show you how to shoot a gun so you can do it quick) but Bobby found Lilith, and we’re heading out to get the bitch. Don’t follow us. Bobby and Sammy will be back in two days. Hopefully I’m with them. If I’m not, don’t do something stupid like try to bring me back. You’re still with me, all the way down, but let’s try to make that metaphorical instead of literal (Sammy told me how to use those properly. If I didn’t get it, I’m trying to say don’t die. Not for me. You promised.)

I left your car keys in the kitchen. Left the flask too, it was yours anyway.

Sorry. 

DW

It’s the note he left you, before he died. You’d lost when Ketch and Davis kidnapped you. But it’s right here. Worn at the edges, the ink melted down the paper, but here.

And when you look out the window, you can feel him. 

God flashes, and you can’t tell what it’s supposed to mean. Maybe a warning. Maybe a reminder. 

You pull the curtains closed. If he’s got something to tell you, he can come down and say it to your fucking face. 

The note feels like it’s burning into your hand, as you return to the room. Dean’s still knocked out, and you lean down to shuffle through the bag. Near the bottom—next to some weird, fancy box that’s probably got bullets in it or something—is the Book. 

And as you flip through it, you find the page. 

When you’d gotten home, you’d sorted through your underwear drawer to make sure it was all still there. Somehow—probably because it was the one drawer Dean hadn’t seemed to touch—it was. 

The note he’d left you, about going to a nuthouse in Alabama. A few others, about various hunts. A grocery list that he’d added bacon to, five times. His drawing of you, Sam, and the vic from the shifter case. 

You’ve always kept all of it. Because you love him. And all the bits of paper are stained in Gold. 

Dean groans your name, and you tuck that first note between the pages before shoving the book back in the bag, and climbing back into the bed. 

“Where’d- Shit-“ He sits up suddenly, eyes wide and a little unfocused, and grabbing his gun from under the pillow as he shouts your name. 

You say his name softly, crawling forward across the sheets. “Dean.”

He drops the barrel, and almost lunges forward, grabbing your face between his hands. Scanning over your features with a tight frown, shaking his head.

“Son of a bitch, Princess, I- Didn’t know where you went-“

“Bathroom.” You whisper, and he nods slowly, staring right into your soul. “You wanna go get breakfast?”

Dean’s lips twitch, and he lets out a long, slow breath. “Fuck, yeah I do.”

 “There’s a diner down the street, that we passed on the way in-“

“I’ll drive.” He kisses the top of your head, before almost jumping out of bed, and you’re left trying to remember how to think.

He can’t just keep kissing you like that. It’s going to end in your doing something stupid and very against the rules, like grabbing him before he can move away and begging him to just touch you. To show you that he’s not really mad, with his hands and mouth and all that strength. To make the pain go away, because the Silver is more settled when Dean’s happy with you. You just want him to be happy with you, instead of worried and hurt. 

And—worse—he might do it where God can see. 

And then you’ll lose him forever. 

“Should we wait for Sam?” You glance at the spare, untouched bed, and Dean snorts, shaking his head. 

“Nah, he’s not coming back until we get to the case.”

“But where’d he-“

“He was at a bar, Princess.” Dean’s hand finds your lower back, starting to guide you out of the room. “Probably met a nice girl. Or- Guess with how he’s been lately, a not nice girl that’s into his asshole shit.”

You flush, and nod weakly. There are so many reasons you don’t want to think about that. One of them is that it’s Sam, and thinking about him having sex is pretty much the same as thinking about Bobby having sex. The second one is that it’s Dean saying it. Talking about nice girls and not nice girls, like he knows perfectly well what both of those things entail. 

And you don’t want to ask which one he’d like. Not with God above you, and his hand against you making your whole body light on fire. 

He sits right next to you, when you get to the diner. Presses his thigh to yours, and puts his hand on your knee like it’s nothing. The waitress is blonde and beautiful—as if she’s straight off of a poster or billboard—but when she gives Dean a sweet, honeyed smile, he doesn’t even look up to see it. 

“They got somethin’ called a strawberry chocolate crepe.” Dean says, frowning at the menu. “You should get it.”

You hum, watching the waitress wander away. “Why?”

“I dunno. Sounds like you’d like it.”

“Okay.” You lean over his shoulder, scanning over the drinks. “Can I have a root beer?”

Dean nods, squeezing your knee, and you turn your cheek to press against his back. 

It’s loud, in here. Loud and crowded. So many souls, twining together and pulling apart and reaching out for connections. Tendrils of soft pinks and neon oranges and deep blues, reaching over from the diner counter and other tables, into your booth. 

To Dean. 

You don’t want to see them. To know that he really could just flash anyone that charming, pretty grin, and get to have them. They’d be easier than you are. They wouldn’t hurt him. Wouldn’t be scribbling on a napkin, trying to draw out all the souls together to make yourself feel a little less insane. 

But you’re the one that he tugs closer to his side. Whispers in the ear of, while letting you stay buried against him. 

“What’re you drawing?”

“Souls.” You mumble, and he hums. 

“Which one is me. Is it that one?”

He taps the napkin, and you whack his finger with the cheap, diner pen.

“No.”

“Then which-“

“That one.” You point to the crude sketch of his shifting light and shadow, and Dean chuckles, giving you an odd look.

“Huh. You know, you said I’m made of stars.”

You flush—you don’t remember that—but nod. “You are.”

There’s a silence before Dean grunts, and looks back to his menu. “If I get those roasted potatoes, you gonna eat them?”

You nod, and his hand is on your thigh now. Everything is starting to go technicolor. “Have you heard from Sam?”

“Nah. You want the root beer, or the float?”

“Float.” You mumble, and Dean pauses.

“What’s wrong.”

His voice is low, cautious. He knows it’s a gamble, if you’ll answer. 

This time, you can. 

“Lot of people.” You whisper in his ear. “And they all want things.”

He hums, rubbing on your knee. “Things?”

You nod, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. 

“What kind of things?”

Fuck. “I- I’m not-“

“Take your time.” He drawls, pinching your thigh, and you squeak. 

“Dean-“

“Princess.” He mimics your tone, grinning when you pull back, and there’s a light dancing in his eyes that makes the air feel clear. 

“I’m not telling you now.” You grumble, and Dean gives you a mock gasp. 

“That hurts my feelings, sweetheart. And after I got you a root beer float-“

“You asked if I wanted it-“

“That’s not the point,” he says your name, rolling his eyes and slumping against the booth. “C’mon, tell me-“

“No.” You try to push away from him, but Dean just tugs you a little closer, dropping his arm around your waist. “Earn it, Winchester.”

He hums, rubbing his hand, and you flush again. “How do I earn it, Princess?”

“You- Um-“ You swallow, and Dean’s so handsome. You’re in the daze again. “I don’t know.”

“Alright.” Dean shrugs, picking up his fork and drumming in on the table. “I’ll figure it out.”

You don’t know what that means. From the way Dean says it, it sounds important. 

But as the day moves forward, you forget. 

Because there are bigger things to worry about. 

When your food is served, there are flowers on your plate, and floating in your drink. Dean tenses around you, and you don’t want to ask. 

God flashes out the window, and you know. 

“Dean,” you whisper, poking one of the petals with your straw. “What- What do we do?”

“Don’t know.” He grunts, rubbing at your hip. “We’ll figure it out, Princess. Share mine.”

He pushes his food between your bodies, pulling out his phone as you pick at the potatoes. It’s only ten more minutes before he’s leaving a forty on the table to pay and pulling you out of the booth. 

“Sam’s got something.” He mutters, and you don’t miss how he’s moving to block you from the view of everyone else in the diner. You don’t know if that’s part of the new, tension he seems to have—the one where he keeps you in his sight all the time—or just because of what you told him about the souls. 

It doesn’t matter. 

All that matters is that he’s here. And when you walk across the parking lot, he stays folded over you, so the Sky can’t see. 

“Seems like an alien abduction.” He tells you in the car, one hand drumming arrhythmically on the wheel, the other still on your fucking knee. “That’s what we ran into in Cadillac. Did you-“ He pauses, frowning at the road. “When you were there, you didn’t see anything.”

You shake your head, picking at your nails in your lap, watching Jo’s blue shimmer. “No. What did you see?”

“Flowers.” He grunts. “Lights. Bunch of weird shit. That little girl-“

“She attacked the Alpha.” You say softly. “I- Remember.”

Mostly you remember Dean bleeding out on the carpet. And the Silver starting to build, because you couldn’t lose him again. But there had been the little girl. And you’d pleaded for the Alpha to stop hurting him, and she’d made sure he didn’t. 

It’s another item, on the long list of things you don’t want to think about. 

Sam’s alien abduction is just a woman with long hair, talking about how little people came to her in lights and told her that the world was coming.

“Coming?” Dean asks, frowning at her. He’d changed into his agent suit in the car, while you been supposed to stand guard, but just ended up staring very pointedly at a frozen dandelion, growing up from the concrete. He’d grinned and bumped your shoulder, when he rejoined you. 

You can still feel it. 

“Yes.” The woman nods eagerly, giving Sam a sultry look that makes Dean recoil. You don’t love it either. “Paradise is coming.”

Sam grins at her, and Dean clears his throat with a scowl. 

“Sam. Did you sleep with her for information.”

“No, Dean. I got the information, then slept with her.”

Dean’s words are pushed between his teeth. “Why.”

Sam shrugs. “I had time. Tell him what you mean, about the coming thing.”

The woman twirls her hair, grinning at Dean, and you realize that you’re leaning closer to him. “They said that they’re following their Goddess. That they wish to serve her home.”

Dean sighs, nods, and then the woman turns to you. 

“If there aren’t like, FBI laws about it, you should totally fuck that one.” She points to Sam, and Dean turns a color you’ve never seen before. 

“No. Nope.” He grabs your hips, steering you away. “You’re not doing that.”

“I wasn’t planning to-“

“Good.”

His voice is low. His hold on you is firm, and his hand stays on your knee.

The next few days all pass the same. Strange things—perfumes on the counter, apples in your bag and flowers in your clothing, an old ring you’d thrown out of after Dean died and an old drawing you’d done of Jo’s soul—appear, and God watches slightly from above. People whisper on the streets, and it might not be about you, but the wind always seems to be blowing in your direction. Blooming vines are growing over your motel door, and you didn’t put them there. Dean hasn’t had to refill the Impala’s tank in three days, and there are fireflies, dancing outside your window.

“It’s January.” You mutter, closing the blinds, and Dean shrug.

“Yeah. So?”

“There shouldn’t be fireflies.”

“There shouldn’t be any of this.” He counters, and you sigh, returning to the mattress at his side. 

Most of the nights are the same as well. Sam goes out. You and Dean pretend this doesn’t hurt, until something caves and it does. You crawl in his lap, his hands rest just under your shirt—but never wander—and you don’t talk about it. 

Any of it.

How all the offerings are tailored to you. How you keep waking up screaming, from nightmares where Sam is blistered and scarred, or Dean turns hollow in your hands—all his Gold draining away like Jo’s blue had—or God grabbing your wrists and yanking you into the sky. How Dean keeps holding you, and asking you to talk to him, and you always fall silent. 

You can’t. 

Because before you’d closed the blinders, you’d seen him. 

God. 

Watching. Waiting. Reminding you that you’re not your own. You’ve never been your own. 

But you’re still Dean’s. 

And curling into his arms, playing with Velma’s ears, you really hope he understands that. It’s wrong, not to save him from you. But he also called you home. So it’s all the way down. 

You fall asleep. Wake up screaming. 

“You’re good, Princess.” Dean mutters in your ear, rubbing down your nose, and you sob because you’re not. Everything in you is Silver, but the world feels dark. Like you’re falling down, down, down, and something in you is going to crack. 

You’re not good. 

It’s all that can circle around your head, as Dean kissed your brow and goes to get you food. 

You’re wrong. Sick and wrong. 

You take out the Book, just to think about anything else. You should have gone with Dean. He asked you to, but then you’d been too tired to sit up and he’d wrapped you in the blanket like a child. He’s still stained on your hand and face, but you need him here. Around you. Asking you stupid questions about the Book, resting his chin on the top of your head, holding you like you’re something critical to him. 

You’re not really looking at the words in the Book, as you scan through them. You almost miss it. 

The flower, sticking out the pages. 

Like a bookmark. 

You flip to the pages it stuck between, scanning over them carefully. It’s a spell. A faded spell, covered in warnings at the top of the page, the handwriting almost unreadable. 

A soul-tie spell. 

The Book is big. You must have missed it before. And it looks complicated, and—if the warnings mean anything—dangerous. Feeding the energy of one soul into another, like a blood transfusion, but volatile and slow and-

Dean says your name as he kicks the door open, and you close the Book, watching him shuffling into the room. 

“All quiet on the front?” He asks, pulling the snacks out of the plastic bag. “Any monsters I gotta gank for you, sweetheart?”

“No.” You close the book, and give him a small smile. “No monsters.”

Just you.

You can’t keep this up. Trying to him, or just letting him glare at his hands when he thinks you’re not looking. He looks so tired, all the goddamn time, and all of this is fraying so thin. You can’t figure out what you’re allowed to tell him. 

But the more hurt he looks, the more the Spiderweb howls. And it’s spurring the Silver. 

And you can’t lose it. 

He can’t take you. 

Sam calls you to a massive, empty corn field, the next morning. And when you get there, he’s glaring between you, hands braced on his hips. 

“I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes, Dean.”

“We had to drive.” Dean grunts, and you can see the white knuckles on the grip of his gun. “What’s the deal with us being in a freakin’ field. They doing crop circles?”

“No. Not crop circles.”

Dean frowns. “Then what the hell are we all the way out here for.”

“I don’t know.” Sam shrugs, saying your name in a bored tone. “Seems like she’s the one they’re here for. Ask her.”

You stare at him, and Dean clears his throat. 

“Sam. What the hell are you talking about.”

He lets out a bitch sigh, turning around and walking deeper into the field. 

“Sam-“ Dean’s voice rises to a bark, and you can’t really breathe. “Sam-“ 

“I’m just walking, Dean. Follow me.”

Dean scowls, but grabs your hand and starts after Sam. Into the field. 

And God is so quiet above you. Just watching. 

The Silver is stirring.

Something is wrong. 

“Dean.” You grab his shoulder, and without missing a step he pulls you forward, keeping you steady in front of him. 

“I’ll talk to him later.” Dean mutters in your ear, and you shake your head. 

“No- It’s, not that. Dean, I-“ 

God flares. 

And that’s a warning. 

He said he wouldn’t take you. He promised he wouldn’t take you, until you were ‘ready.’

But you’ll never be ready. And he’d been furious with Dean, when he realized why you didn’t want him. 

Dean mutters your name, and you grab his arm, pulling it over your stomach. “Princess, shit-“

You make a weak noise, as Dean stops and spins you around. Takes your face between his hands and runs his thumb down the bridge of your nose, his frown tight. 

“Talk to me, sweetheart, what’s happening.” 

“Something-“ You take a sharp breath, the air too hot for midwinter, the Silver running wired under your skin. He’s watching. He’s watching, and you can’t go yet. They’d be better without you but you’re not ready to go. “Dean, I can’t-“

“C’mon,” he sounds so desperate. 

And this is why you were gone. God is watching, and Dean’s in pain because of you when you’d promised you’d never let him hurt.

“Tell me, Princess, I got you-“

“Guys.” Sam calls from ahead in the field, and you choke on the lump in your throat. “Can you stop standing around pretending you don’t want to kiss each other?”

Dean doesn’t look away from you as he barks back. “Shut the fuck up, Sam, we’re behind you-“

“You’re being slow.”

“We’re dealing with something-“

“Is she crying again?” You can almost hear the annoyance in Sam’s voice, and you did that to him. Hurt him so that he had to become that. 

Your lip hurts, from being chewed. You swallow, trying to drag the tears back down. 

Dean look like he’s going to murder someone, right before he pulls you fully into his chest.

“Watch it.” He snaps, starting to walk you towards Sam’s voice. “Everything is shit right now, she’s allowed to lose it.”

“All she does is lose it.” Sam mutters, and Dean holds you tighter.

“Sam, if you don’t start doin’ that thinking thing,” he says his voice practically a growl. “I’m gonna shoot you.”

“Whatever. Come on. You two need to see this.”

You don’t want to see it. Whatever Sam thinks you should see, you really don’t want to. But Dean’s lips brush over the top of your head, and he starts to move again. You can’t do anything but walk with him. But lean back against him, and hope that it’s enough to keep the Silver down. 

“We’ll talk later, okay?” He mutters, and you just give him a weak sound. 

You can’t tell him. 

It’s killing you, but you can’t tell him. 

And God is so heavy, over your head. You can’t see him, your gaze locked on the brown and gray ground of the field, but you can feel him. 

He hates that Dean is around you. You can feel it. 

And you don’t know what to do. 

“Dude, did you drag us all the way out here just to look at freakin’ dead corn-“

“No.” Sam snaps, and you’re only saved from slamming into his back by Dean’s arms around you. “I brought you here to look at that.”

You glance up, following Sam’s gaze to the mud at few feet away, and the world starts to spin. 

It’s a shrine. Made of all the same flowers that have been popping up around you, as well as a few paper ones. There are apples and cherries and shards of glass, seeming to be from a broken bottle. There’s a box set of Indiana Jones DVDs. A pretty knife. 

And lying in the center is a napkin. 

The napkin. From the diner. Stained with a little bit of Gold, where Dean has tapped it. 

But it’s not a shrine to him. 

No. 

The Silver rushes up, and your hands fly to your throat as your knees give out. No. It can’t be you. You don’t want it to be you, if it’s you that means it doesn’t matter. That he can take you, because they already worship you, because it doesn’t matter if you’re good and you keep yourself away from Dean, or if you’re careful and try not to make him angry. If you rip yourself to shred so he doesn’t want you, or pretend that this doesn’t end with you being nothing and everything and never your own again. No, no no-

“Fuck-“ There’s a deep, vital voice talking to you, but it’s so far in the distance. You can’t really hear it.

Not over the sounds of countless screams and songs, echoing through the darkness of space. Echoing through you. You are all the dark, unrelenting cold, and you’re the fury of the burning stars, trying to be bright enough for someone—anyone—to see. You’re the discomfort of the earth, covered in what only feels like fucking parasites. You’re the water in oceans so, so far away, lonely because there’s no life to be shared in. 

You’re everything. You don’t want to be everything. You can’t be everything, you’d clawed out of Hell to return to Dean, and- 

Dean. 

He’s the vital thing.

And he’s calling your name. 

“That’s it, Princess. It’s good.” He starts to come into focus, as you crash back down into yourself. “We’re good. Just breathe.”

You follow the command, and he nods, his thumb still running down your nose. 

“There you go. Good girl.”

Oh. 

Oh.

You take another, long breath, and this one a little slower, because Dean has to say that again. You can be good. You’re not, but you can be, if Dean’s saying it. And now you’re less crashing, and more floating. It still hurts. 

But you can be good, and keep breathing. 

You’re in the Impala. You don’t remember getting there, but you’re in shotgun, Dean kneeling on the mud before you. He’s fully in focus, now. Handsome and Golden, and so fucking worried. 

Sam is behind him. 

He looks less worried. 

“So.” He drawls your name. “What do we do if it is you.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. “Nothing, Sam. We get them to lay off, then go home-“

“We might have to kill her, Dean.”

Dean shoots to his feet, keeping one hand on your cheek, and you don’t really feel in control of your own body right now. 

You lean into him. Press your face into his thigh. He’s warm. You love him. 

You’re so fucking tired.

“Sam.” Dean grunts, and his hand is still lightly playing with the hair behind your ear. The Spiderweb is singing. “Clean up. We’ll talk later.”

Sam scoffs, but, shockingly, doesn’t argue. And at first, as Dean turns you gently into the car—kissing the top of your head before closing the door—you don’t know what there could be to clean up. The shine will be washed away and buried, in the snow. And if anyone finds it, they’ll just think someone went insane. 

But then, as Dean starts the car and you press your cheek against the window, you see it.

The colors. 

Green grass and vibrant, flowers, pink and yellow and purple and blue. Dew drops shimmering, and a butterfly, rising out of the mud where your feet had been, moments before. 

There’s a path of it, all the way back into to field, where Dean must have carried you away. 

And the Silver is buzzing, right under the surface of your skin. 

You don’t know what to do. That’s only happened when you’d really lost control. And maybe you slipped, but not enough to summon things like that. The Silver shouldn’t be able to rise like that, when you’re in so much pain. Without a warning, without an explosion. 

That hadn’t been an explosion. It had just been pain. 

And you don’t know what you’re going to tell Dean. 

He’s not trying to talk to you, on the drive back. He’s still keeping a hand against your thigh, but he’s just glaring out at the road. You can see the clench of his jaw. The too-even rise and fall of his chest, like he struggling to keep himself together. His grip on you is tight. 

He’s mad. He must know you’re hiding things from him. That something is wrong. And he might just finally be putting together that it’s you. You’re the wrong thing. The sickness. And he’s going to hate you.

You can’t stop the tears, from pricking at your eyes. Sam says all you do is cry and whine. 

He’s not wrong. 

But you choke it down. Dig your nails into your wrists, and swallow it. You can’t make more problems for Dean. He deserves more. 

You can’t look him in the eyes, when he parks. Help you out of the car and guide you into the room. You let him control your steps, because even if he’s angry, he’s not going to hurt you. 

It’s Dean. 

He would never. 

“You need to shower, sweetheart.” He mutters, closing the door softly behind you. “You fell in the mud.”

You nod, but don’t move away. The moment you do, Dean might be gone forever. 

He holds you back. He shouldn’t. 

“I- I’m sorry.“ Your voice sounds pathetic. Too high. Too needy. You don’t care. “Dean, I- I didn’t mean to- I’m sorry-“

“Stop.” Dean sighs, holding your head against his neck. “Stop- Stop fucking apologizing, if you’re not going to tell me why.”

You swallow, and force down another apology. You can’t see past the tears, running down your face. All you’re doing is making everything harder, making him hurt, making him mad- 

“Hey.” Dean says your name, and you look up at him under your lashes. “I’m not pissed. I- Son of a bitch, it- It’s killing me. Something is wrong, and it’s all shit right now but- I need you to tell me what’s wrong. I need to fix it. Let me fucking fix it, Princess. Please.”

You want to. 

You really fucking want to. 

But you can’t seem to make yourself speak. If you tell him, God will take you. 

He might take you no matter what. 

Dean sighs, running his thumb down your nose, and presses his lips into a tight line. 

“Don’t answer now.” He mutters. “I’m gonna go get some food. Call Sam. We can figure this out. You’ll be okay.”

It sounds like he’s telling himself, more than you. And you want to scream for him not to leave, but you’re already asking too much. And you can’t keep making this harder. He’s already looking back at you, before he goes. 

And if you go with him, God will see. 

You fall back onto the sheets, the moment the door closes. He’ll be back. You know he doesn’t like leaving you alone for too long anyway. And as your arms spread out, trying to gather the sheets—Golden, and smelling of Dean—your hand brushes against paper. 

You frown at the ceiling, before sitting up and turning over the sheets up it falls out. 

A single paper. There’s no Golden stained on it, but Sam hasn’t really been to the room, let alone in bed. Your bed. 

You pick it up off the floor, scanning over the words, and- 

No. 

That’s your name. In Enochian. Written at the top of the paper. 

The whole letter is written in Enochian. 

And you don’t need a signature to know who it’s from.

——————

I know what you’ve been doing. And I’m not mad. I’m not. But you shouldn’t be wasting your efforts, and you’re smarter than that. Don’t waste your time on something like this. You’re better than silly games. 

I am sorry about the fairies, though. They’ve been waiting for you almost as long as I have. And I think they’re doing us both a favor. 

Isn’t it nice to be worshipped? Between you and I, it’s not a bad part of the gig. They don’t really understand what they’re worshipping, or how big the world they’re asking for is, but it makes us feel more important, right? And the fairies, they worship like people used to, before modern Christianity. Completely. Never really looking to use for guidance, or asking for anything. Just knowing that we’re everything, and maybe they should appease us. 

I think appease might be a bad word. I have a feeling you won’t like worship, either. Care for us. They care for us, and we care for them. 

But mostly, we’ll care for each other. Even if you don’t understand that yet. 

I won’t hurt Dean, if you’re worried about that. I don’t interfere. I told you I’d wait, and I will. I may get angry with him, but “free will”. He can make the choices that lead to his own doom. He’s good at that. 

I’m just trying to help you. I hope you understand that. And I’ve decided that trying to show you that doesn’t count as taking you. 

I’ll wait for you. I’ll even let you try to get out of being the Bride, because you seem to need to do that. But let’s try and speed it up. 

You are mine. 

I will be here to take you, whenever you realize that. 

And I will help you realize it, however you need. 

——————

It crumples in your hand. When you look down, it’s green. Coated in a thick layer of moss.

You drop it in the trash.

And you just feel sort of empty. 

It’s not that the Silver is gone, or the Spiderweb is off. They’re still there. Still bright. 

But it’s getting so, so dark.

It’s all those spaces, between the stars. Getting bigger and darker, with every moment. You don’t feel like everything. 

You’re yours. 

But you just sort of feel like nothing. 

Dean said you needed to shower. And you really want to be good, even if it’s just for him. So you peel off your clothing, trying to breathe through your nose—or just at all—and force yourself to move. Got into the bathroom. Close the door. Turn on the water. Step under the water. Let it burn over your skin, as you turn your head down and stare at the tiles. 

His. 

You’re God’s. 

And you don’t know what to do. 

Your legs give out, just like in the field. But this time you’re not bursting out. You’re just caving in. 

You sink to the floor, as you start to shake. Draw your knees to your chest, as the broken, pathetic noises start to shake your body. You can’t breathe, but you’re not sure if it’s the water, the steam, or just your lungs. Giving up. 

He knows. And he says he won’t hurt Dean, won’t just take you, but you don’t trust him. And it all fucking hurts, and you don’t know how to get through this because there’s no end to it. It’s just what you fucking are. 

A hollow, desperate scream rips out of your chest. You sound like an animal, but you can’t stop. There’s another one, strangled between tears, and then a loud one that cracks in your throat. 

Over it, you can’t hear the door open, outside. But you hear it slam. Hear Dean shout your name, then the pounding on the door.

“Shit- I can hear you, Princess, you gotta let me in-“

You can’t move. You want to go to him—to maybe just crawl—but you can’t fucking move. And what if he opens the door, and he’s not Dean. What if he’s another puppet or monster, sent to trick you. So God can speed it up, and take you, and you don’t want to go- 

“Fuckin’-“ Dean roars your name, and it feels like your heart is trying to break out of your chest.

You scream again—maybe trying to plead with him, maybe trying to warn him to go—and you might be scratching at your face. You can’t really feel the sting, but the Silver is starting to build. And through the hollowness, it’s getting too big. You’ll hurt him. You can’t fucking hurt Dean-

The door bursts open, and you can’t even look up as Dean breaks into the bathroom. You hide your face in your knees, because he shouldn’t see you like this. Broken and weak and naked, you’re naked- 

“Sorry, Princess.” Dean grunts, the door opening, and the Spiderweb seems to be more in control than you are. It makes you unravel with another sob, as Dean ducks into the shower, and drops in front of you. 

“It’s good, sweetheart, it’s- Fuck-“ He grabs your face between his hands. “It’s okay, just breathe. Just, son of bitch- What the hell happened-“ 

Those last word are under his breath. Like he doesn’t think you’ll answer him. You don’t blame him. 

He’s still. petting your nose. But he doesn’t need to bring you down. 

You just need to hold him. Feel him. Know that he’s here.

You just need him. 

Dean doesn’t question it, as you crawl into his lap. He just sits fully down, pulls you carefully between his legs, and lets you wrap around him like an invasive species. 

You don’t belong here. 

But you’re taking it anyway. 

It’s slowly easier to breathe, the longer you’re in his arms. You start to unravel. Relax into his hold, melting over his body. And Dean must feel it, because he shifts to reach up and turn the water off. 

“No.” You grab him arm, and he frowns down at you. 

“No?”

“He’ll hear.” You whisper, your nose almost bumping Dean’s. 

His brows knit, but he slowly lowers his hand, returning it to rest on your cheek. You lean into the touch, letting out a long, slow breath. You can’t tell him all the truth. 

But you can’t keep doing this, either. 

Dean mutters your name, his voice soft. “What the hell is going on. Please-“

“God.” You say, and once you start, it’s falling out of you like vomit. “Dean, it- It’s him, he’s going to take me, he visited me and told me I was his and I- I don’t want to be- He said he won’t hurt you but I don’t trust him, and he- He watching and I- I don’t want to go-“ You’re sobbing between every word, grabbing at Dean’s shirt like that alone will let you stay. “It hurts, it hurts and I- I can’t- Dean- He’s going to hurt you but I can’t-“

You shatter completely. Break into only tears and desperate, stuttering gasps. And Dean holds you. Shifts you in his arms, so the water is only running down your back, and curls over you like he’s trying to act as armor. Not leaving. Not vanishing into black.

And when your breathing starts to slow—mostly from exhaustion—he keeps his voice low in your ear. 

“I’m not gonna let him take you.” He says your name, rubbing his hand slowly up your spine. “He can’t hurt me. And I told you. He can’t have you.”

You shake your head. “But-“

“No.” Dean grunts, pulling back to look at you. “It’s you and me. All the way down. And I swear to you, Princess, on my goddamn life and car and anything else I got to my name, he’s not taking you.”

And it’s one of those things. That should be complicated. 

But Dean says it, and it’s not. 

You don’t even know, with everything else, if you can fight this. Or if God was just lying, to try and keep you. If you want to waste Dean’s time and life on trying to free you, when you’re still something sick. 

Dean doesn’t hold you like you’re sick. He holds you like he’s cradling the universe in his hands. 

And you are his. It doesn’t matter what God says, or how any of this ends. You’re Dean’s. 

That’s not complicated. 

So you nod, and curve back into his chest. He holds you, and presses a kiss to the side of your head. 

You’re not crying anymore. You’ll have time for that later. Right now you just want to feel Dean, in the warmth of the water, bathing in his Gold. 

Because right now, it doesn’t matter about Purgatory or God or Sam. 

Dean’s got you.

And he feels like the only thing in the whole world. 

End Note: Every week. One step closer. To SMUT! Also, just so y'all know, I have a lot of Things happening next week so there won't be a new chapter, but we'll be back on the 28th, and I'll put out a Pslam to keep you guys fed. Hope that's okay, and thank you as always!!

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[fxckingjo]

I would love an imagine where Dean grows out his hair and beard like Jensen’s is irl now and reader is just absolutely obsessed with it

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ dirty blond curls

pairing: purgatory!dean winchester x fem!reader

summary: you might have found a way to stop dean from cutting his hair

cw: 18+ smut.ᐟ unprotected p in v [wrap it up kids].ᐟ hair pulling.ᐟ pre-est relationship [dating].ᐟ nicknames [baby, sweetheart].ᐟ

word count: 705

julia yaps: the show had it wrong. dean would have longer hair after coming back from purgatory, this is simple hair growth logic! fight me on that!

ever since dean came back from purgatory, you just couldn’t stop staring at him with his completely new look – a curtain mullet and a beard which he nicely trimmed after a long shower – and by god you honestly felt like a feral animal trying to restrain themselves.

the way he looked now simply awakened something deeply primal inside you. funny how a little change can make you feel huh?

“sweetheart can you help me cut my hair?” dean asked casually, scissors in his hand as he walked into the library.

he earned a reaction from you as if he just admitted to murdering your entire family.

“what?” he raised a brow, highly confused.

“wha- why would you wanna cut it?!” you tried to speak quick but it ended up coming out in a panicked stutter.

“it’s just too long” he replied as he twirled a piece of his lock with his finger. “gonna look like sammy soon if i don’t get this under control” he chuckled, but stopped as soon as he noticed the sadness in your eyes and the upset little pout, which you weren’t aware you were doing.

“what is it baby? you really like it that much?” dean stepped closer to you, grabbing a hold of your hand in his big one, his thumb caressing the back of your palm.

you were slightly embarrassed at how upset you felt, it is his hair after all and you wanted him to feel good in his own skin. his body his choice.

you nodded slowly, avoiding his gaze. “i do like it… a lot. but i don’t want you to feel uncomfortable so.. i’ll help” you explained, voice soft and low.

“can i just..” you looked up into his eyes, “can i say goodbye to it?” you asked shyly, his brow raised slightly at your question.

oh and you gave his haircut the proper goodbye it needed.

⋆˙ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

“oh god.. oh my god” you moaned out in pure ecstasy, your fingers deep in his dirty blond curls, tugging and pulling on it as dean’s hips met yours with every wet thrust, his thick length splitting you open.

he couldn’t help but let out a string of moans himself, dean didn’t expect hair pulling to be this fun, on the receiving side, that was.

but how can he not when he had his woman fall apart beneath him, acting completely like a bitch in heat that didn’t plan on letting him go until he was milked empty.

“dean i-i’m so close” you warned him, your legs shaking on either sides of his waist. your fingers weakly tugging at his locks as you saw stars.

the obscene sounds that came from your room were nothing short of erotic, pornographic even.

moans – high and low bounced off your bedroom walls, meeting with the squelching wet sounds your pussy made each time dean pushed his veiny cock back inside you.

sex between you never happened to be this sinful. never this loud, never this messy, never this animalistic – until this very moment now.

was he going to complain? of course not. he fuckin loved this.

“come for me sweetheart” he growled in your ear, his beard softly scratching your neck as his thrusts became sloppier, his climax catching up to yours.

his hand made it’s way down, in between your bodies. his thumb circling your swollen clit with enough pressure to make you scream his name out.

your gummy walls tightened around his thick size before gushing all over him, throwing your head back and letting out a high pitched cry.

dean’s orgasm coming right after yours from the way your pussy clamped down on his dick, trying to milk him dry. thick ropes of white cum shooting inside you, mixing in with your creamy finish.

both of you trying to catch your breaths as your bodies shake. “well that is certainly one way to say goodbye..”

you looked into dean’s eyes with a smile, you pushed a strand of hair that stuck to his sweat-covered forehead, earning a tired chuckle from him.

“might have to rethink that haircut if this is the sex we are talkin about” he smirked.

thank you so so much for reading! feedback and reblogs are always deeply appreciated <3

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© divider by @strangergraphics <3

[fxckingjo]

MAKIN' OUT WITH HER

soldier boy x fem!reader

cw: 18+ MDNI; oral (f. receiving), filthy ben, ben refers to your pussy as a 'she', ben is a warning.

a/n: hooooly shit this blog is rlly close to 300 followers and i honestly didn't expect this blog to do as well as it is. the first ever fic on this blog was a ben fic, so i wanted to thank this man for helping me get more engagement to this blog!!

ALSO NOT GONNA TALK ABT THE FACT THAT THIS FIC WAS DYING IN MY DRAFTS FOR 2 WEEKS BYE; YES IT WAS FULLY EDITED TOO 😭😭

You’re already warm under him, sprawled across the bed while he looms over you — the smell of whiskey clinging to his breath, his hair mussed from your fingers. Ben's pupils are blown wide, his grin lazy and smug, and you know he’s been drinking enough to get mean about it.

His big hands grip your thighs and shove them apart like you weigh nothing, the sound of your gasp making him chuckle low in his chest.

“C’mere, sweetheart… lemme check on her.”

He doesn’t mean you. You’ve learned that by now. When he’s drunk like this, you are just the delivery system for the only part of you he gives a damn about.

He noses down into the soft heat between your legs, dragging his stubble along your skin until you’re arching. Then his tongue flattens, wide and slow, painting over you in a way that’s filthy and reverent all at once. He drags it up again, then again, and you realize—he’s actually tracing a sloppy B against your folds.

“That’s for her. She’s been good for me, huh? All soft n’ needy…”

Your hips twitch and he pins them hard to the mattress, mean grin cutting across his face.

“Don’t run from me, doll. Not when she’s lookin’ at me like that.”

The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth on you fill the room. Every lap is a little messier, his grip a little tighter, until you’re squirming under the pressure of it. He’s sloppy, spit mixing with your slick, and every so often he pulls back to look—thumb sliding between your folds, parting them so he can watch the way you clench.

“Christ on a cross… she’s workin’ overtime. Just for me.”

It’s too much, and he knows it. He pushes you over once, twice, doesn’t even let you catch your breath before his mouth is on you again. You’re gasping, begging, fingers in his hair, and it only makes him meaner.

“Yeah, that’s it—give it to me, sweetheart. C’mon, she’s not done yet.”

When you try to push him away, he laughs, drunk and rough, holding you open wider. His tongue circles in tight, relentless flicks, and he groans into you like he’s the one getting off.

“Ohhh, she likes that. Look at her twitchin’. Pretty little thing’s gonna squeeze every drop outta you for me.”

Your thighs tremble, overstimulation sparking through you, but he’s not stopping—not when you’re dripping, not when your voice breaks, not when you’re practically sobbing into the air.

“Nah, sweetheart… I’m still hungry.”

And the worst part? He means it.

You don’t even get the chance to come down from that last orgasm before his hands are under you, flipping you like you weigh nothing. Your cheek hits the pillow, your knees shoved apart, hips pulled back into the air by his grip on your waist.

“Yeah… that’s the view. Goddamn.”

You can hear him breathing hard, voice thick with whiskey and greed. He kneels between your legs, palms spreading you open from behind, thumbs pressing into the soft give of your ass until you feel exposed down to your bones.

Then he dives back in.

His mouth is hot and wet against you, the angle letting him bury his face deeper, tongue fucking into you in short, hungry thrusts. He moans into you like he’s tasting something he’s been craving for weeks, the sound vibrating straight through you.

“Mmm… she’s even prettier from back here. All swollen n’ drippin’ for me.”

You whimper, trying to hold yourself up, but his hands are gripping so tight you can’t move—not away, not closer, nothing but take it. He drags his tongue up, circles your clit, then drops back down to fuck you with it again, over and over until your arms are shaking from holding yourself up.

“C’mon, doll… gimme another. She’s beggin’.”

Your hips twitch and he growls, sucking your clit hard before letting it go with a wet pop. His fingers replace his tongue for a moment, two thick digits curling inside you while he licks around them like he’s cleaning you up for his own use. The stretch is deep, relentless, and you feel yourself clenching helplessly around him.

“That’s it… squeeze my fingers. Make her show me what she’s got.”

The overstimulation’s sharp now, teetering on painful, and you gasp out his name, but that only makes him meaner. He pumps his fingers faster, tongue working your clit in messy, desperate laps. He’s drunk enough that his rhythm is erratic—sometimes too fast, sometimes unbearably slow—but it keeps you on the edge until you’re choking on a cry and falling apart again.

You slump forward, but he yanks you back by the hips, lips still pressed to you, licking through every aftershock like he’s wringing you dry.

“Oh no, sweetheart… you don’t tap out on me. Not ‘til I’m done with her.”

He means it. You can feel it in the way he keeps going, sloppy and drunk, until you’re half-collapsed in his grip, your whole body shivering.

divider by @/strangergraphics

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[fxckingjo]

If I can’t have you, no one else can

Part 2 — female version

Chat I’m cooking up a male version, just give me a few days

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ •🍓•⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

“Are you…” Your voice trailed off in pure disbelief. “Are you hard right now?”

“God forbid a white boy catch a vibe,” he shot right back, unable to help making that cheeky jab. He looked mightily proud of himself, still oozing smug confidence from every pore on his body.

“House, this is serious!” You shoved him back in his office chair, your anger flaring up anew. “You nearly killed Chase, and for what reason?”

“Just to see you,” he stated so matter-of-factly, so plainly, that it took you very much aback. “What, I can’t have a favourite in a team?”

“You? You like people?” You laughed incredulously, shaking your head. “I’m pretty sure I did fent in my sleep and am now hallucinating this entire thing.”

“I don’t like you.” House was quick to deny this statement, picking his ball up from the table and beginning his usual rhythm of tossing it at the ball, back and forth. It was slow, calculated, predicted. “I find you… mm, interesting. Like a new strain of bacteria in a petri dish.”

“You say with a hard on.” You casted a pointed glance at the bulge in his pants, which he ignored without so much as a reaction. “I didn’t think you could get your old man dick up.”

“You’re an idiot.” He leaned his head over the backrest of his swivel chair, spreading his legs shamelessly. He didn’t even bother to try and get his raging boner down.

You scoffed, hopping off of his desk and advancing towards him. “You’re a sick bastard, House.”

“Yeah, yeah, and no one can cure me and whatnot.” His baby blue eyes seemed to stare right past you as his hand pulled back to chuck the ball. You caught it in the middle of its trajectory, proceeding to drop it on the carpeted floor.

“You’re right. No one can cure you.” You threw his words back at his face with pronounced emphasis. With a deliberate, leisurely pace, you neared his seat and planted your hands on the hard plastic handles. “But… I can fuck you. Maybe that’ll calm you down.”

His eyes widened in surprise, just for a fraction of a second, before they squeezed shut in slight mirth. “Let’s see if you do a better job than my Vicodin.”

You needed no further prompting.

Like a cat, you pounced on him. You climbed on and straddled his lap, mindful of his scarred leg, tilting his head back to press kisses on the sensitive skin of his neck. In response to this attack, his large hands grasped at your waist, mapping out every curve he could reach.

Low moans spilled from his lips, gravelly with unfiltered lust. You could feel your white coat being forcibly stripped off your body, even as you peppered kiss after kiss on his jumping pulse. Quickly, your coat and blouse were discarded, tossed carelessly over his shoulder, leaving you only in your bra.

You’d felt particularly adventurous today, sporting a matching set consisting of a black lace-trimmed bra with a tiny bow perched in the middle. You made a mental note to thank your lucky stars.

“Come on, old man. Are you just gonna sit there and gawk?” You attempted to goad him into quickening his pace, hands steadying themselves on his broad shoulders. He laughed breathily, reaching behind your back to fumble with and unhook the clasps of your bra.

“Let me savour this, you impatient slut. I’ve been waiting months,” he rasped out. His focus snapped to your bare breasts as soon as the fabric fell away, forgotten on the ground. With unhurried movements, he trailed his hands up your body, softly rubbing the stiffening peaks. High-pitched mewls dripped from your mouth, feeding his already inflated ego and his stirring cock.

“House,” you whimpered in a small voice, tugging at his short brunette hair eagerly, nails scratching at his scalp. “I’ve been waiting too. Fuck me—”

“Shut up,” he snarled, breath shaking ever so slightly. He stumbled to his feet with his fingers gripping your thighs tightly, bending over and sandwiching you between his body and the desk. In doing so, medical textbooks and ornaments were sent flying haphazardly. You would deal with the mess later, you registered faintly through the haze of desire.

He zeroed in on your neck, leaning down to suck large, tacky hickeys on your skin— knowing that you would have no way to conceal the dark purple bruises, eventually trailing his lips down to your collarbones. All the while, you let out hungry little moans, urging him to go faster, hands tangled in his hair.

“Jesus,” he muttered, finally giving in to your nonverbal pleas. Your panties were swiftly shimmied off and tucked safely in his trouser pocket, then his belt was unbuckled…

You watched in tense anticipation, practically salivating as he shifted his jeans down juuust enough for his cock to spring out, an angry shade of rose with pre beading at the tip. Fully erect, a proud— what was that, six inches? you guessed, your gaze tracing a pulsing vein running down the side. Lord, it’s big. How’s it gonna fit?

A smirk graced House’s lip as he noticed your staring. “You like what you see?” he drawled, enveloping his dick in one hand and giving it a few slow, deliberate pumps, spreading pre down his length. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, mind already flashing with mental images of how many times that thing could wreck you.

“You wish, old man,” you managed to choke out, forcing yourself to avert your eyes, heat blooming on your cheeks at being caught staring. “I’ve seen better.”

“That so?” He maintained his leisurely self-assured tone while he stroked himself. His sharp baby blues didn’t miss the way your hips squirmed ever so slightly, the way your thighs tensed, or the way your pupils dilated just a bit.

He laughed to himself, letting go of his cock and bringing his stained hand to your partially agape mouth. “Open up, and suck.”

Heat crawled up your neck, white-hot flames of shame licking at your flesh. “House, I’m not a dog—”

“You were moaning for my cock like a bitch in heat,” he reminded you in a low growl. His fingers nudged insistently at your bottom lip. “Open up, and. Suck.”

Left with no choice, you were forced to swallow your pride and gingerly take his middle and ring fingers in your mouth, whimpering at the mildly salty and sweet taste of his pre flooding your senses. A low groan clawed its way from the back of his throat as he watched you like a hawk with half-lidded eyes.

“Doing well there,” he commented in a raspy voice, observing the way you covered his fingers in a thin sheen of spit, just as he had intended. Good girl.

He withdrew his hand. A thin string of saliva connected the tip of your tongue with his fingers. You were panting, chest heaving up and down in intense anticipation. He adored the way you looked so nervous, somewhat unsure of his next movements. It caused this giddy feeling to course through his veins, making him feel lighter than he had in weeks.

Hmm, she really did do a better job than my Vicodin already.

“Relax. It’s gonna hurt just a little, but try to relax,” House spoke hoarsely. Taking great care, and holding one of your trembling thighs down with his free hand, he slipped his middle finger inside your pussy. Gauging your reaction by your high-pitched whines, he pushed in further, wishing desperately he had more hands.

“That’s right.” Waiting for your shaking to calm down a bit, he began to pump his finger in and out, groaning at the warm, soaking wet feeling. “Holy shit, clenching so fucking tight,” he whispered, watching in slight awe as you whimpered, your eyes squeezing shut with pleasure, breathless moans falling freely from your lips.

He pushed his lubricated second finger in your sopping wet cunt, having to push down your spasming thigh harder to prevent your legs from closing. “Calm down,” he reprimanded you lightly, making you whine out a soft apology. His fingers curled deliciously inside you, sending sharp jolts of electricity shooting up your spine. White-hot pleasure bloomed, the knot in your lower abdomen coiling and tightening, threatening to snap.

“House!” you cried out, your nails scratching at his shoulders in a desperate endeavour to ground yourself. You were so, so close to cumming, just a little more, oh God, yes, right there—!

A loud wail of frustration tore itself from the very bottom of your soul, your release cruelly denied by House swiftly pulling his fingers away at the last second. The ecstasy of your impending orgasm was quickly fading away, much to your despair.

“What the hell was that?” you demanded, glaring at him with irritation written all over your face.

“If you’re gonna cum at all, it’s gonna be around my cock.” His voice rumbled deep in his chest, practically purring like a happy cat. His hands trailed up your body to settle on your plush hips, squeezing them borderline reverently.

“Alright, I’m gonna put it in, okay?” he murmured, carefully lining up his throbbing cock up with your slick, puffy entrance, nudging at it. “Biiig stretch, just like that, mhmm.”

“Hou— House! Unngh, ah, oh, fuck…!” Your cries rose in pitch. His dick filled you up gloriously, inch by girthy inch. Accompanied by the thick fog of pure pleasure was a tinge of pain at such a big strain.

“Just put it in, doll. You never got dick this big before?” he snarked, leaning down to give your neck a harsh nip. Despite his feigned nonchalance, he was running through all of the diseases he possibly knew in alphabetic order, trying desperately not to cum right then and there. “Either your game was ass or you’re faking it. Which one is it, hmm?”

“S-shut up, House,” you gasped out, your arms around his neck quivering lightly. Pride lit a bright fire in his chest, deeply pleased with himself for having reduced you to a shaky mess, even though he’d barely done anything at all.

“S-s-shut up, House,” he mocked you, slowly withdrawing his hips, causing you to whine at the empty feeling. His cock slammed back inside to the hilt, right up against your g-spot.

Rough grunts and soft moans filled the air, along with the lewd skin slapping against skin. Even though it was late and there was likely no one around to catch you, you still tried your best to keep your voice down to a minimum.

House tutted in disapproval, his cock driving deeper in your cunt like he was trying to impale you on it. “Nuh-uh, let me hear that voice. Didn’t wait all this time for nothing.”

Your moans got progressively louder when he quickened his pace, grazing your g-spot perfectly with every calculated stroke. “Ahn, oh, God, House!”

“That’s right. Scream my name,” he muttered in absolute satisfaction, one hand trailing downwards to rub circles on your swollen clit. It had been practically begging for his attention for a while now. “Scream my fucking name. Who does this pussy belong to, huh? Who? Louder, I can’t hear you.”

Your eyes squeezed shut in mortification as you just about wailed his name, your obscene cries reverberating off the gleaming white walls. “You, you! My— my pussy belongs to you! House!”

“That’s right.” A dark sense of gratification curled in his chest, settling there and blooming alongside his pride. He watched you squirm with every brutal thrust, your attempts at escaping the relentless stimulation pretty cute. “Never got dick this good, huh? Those little frat boys can’t fucking please you like I can.”

“You’re such a— a cocky bastard,” you panted out through eager moans. Ecstasy surged through your veins in a tidal wave, senses completely overwhelmed.

“A cocky bastard who— who’s making you cum on his cock,” he panted, smugness rolling off of him in waves. His thumb applied just the right amount of pressure on your sensitive bundle of nerves, his aim to try and coax you over the edge. “Cum for me, cum on my fucking cock.”

Your back arched off the table with a loud squeal of “House!” He groaned, collapsing with his face hidden in your neck and biting down hard on your marked up skin. You’re soaking wet cunt was clenching and spasming around his pulsing dick, milking him for every drop he could give you.

I should have pulled out. The thought crossed his mind faintly, muffled through the mist of delirium. I’ll deal with it later.

“You good?” he asked gruffly, brushing your sweaty hair out of your face. He genuinely cared about your wellbeing, even if his spiky exterior and infamous reputation wouldn’t let him admit it.

“Yeah… I’m fine,” you confirmed in a winded sigh, your hands creeping from his shoulders to drape around his neck. You could feel his cock softening inside, and you let out a groan of dismay.

“You should’ve pulled out,” you scolded him, which earned you a scoff.

“You’re warm, and I didn’t want to. It’s basically your fault,” he argued, even now making zero efforts to actually move at all.

You rolled your eyes, deciding to drop the matter. You were on birth control anyway.

He dipped his head down to the column on your neck, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to every bruise he’d left behind. You both basked in the quiet glow of post-orgasmic bliss, your hands absentmindedly combing through his hair.

… until he spoke up again.

“Round two?”

୨୧‧₊˚⋅♡⋅˚₊‧୨୧

Word count: 2.2k

LAWD this was hard to write</3 lowk my first time writing actual smut, so let me know how I did :]

[fxckingjo]

His quick fix ﮩـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

~ɢʀᴇɢᴏʀʏ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ (NSFW) ~ warnings: Aʙᴜsᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ , ᴅᴜʙɪᴏᴜs ᴄᴏɴsᴇɴᴛ

Summary:

ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ɪꜱ ɪɴ ᴘᴀɪɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴄᴜᴅᴅʏ ᴅᴇɴɪᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ɢɪᴠᴇ ʜɪᴍ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴠɪᴄᴏᴅɪɴ, ʜᴇ ᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ Qᴜɪᴄᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇɴɪᴇɴᴛ.. ʟɪᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ.

“Doctor House?”

Fresh faced and doe eyed, you lingered close enough to be in earshot, but timidly close to the door of House’s office. This was the first time you had ever been called to your Boss’s office on your own, there had been many firsts for you in the past four months since you had joined Princeton-Plainsboro’s diagnostics team.

It had been a humiliating battle to even get the job, Cuddy admired your experience, outstanding med school grades and glowing recommendations. However House was a whole different story, during your first interview, he turned you away within a few minutes claiming that he could tell you weren’t right for the job by looking at you. It was completely devastating, you were reluctant to return when Cuddy phoned you, apologetically stating it was all a big mistake and you had to come in for a second interview. You revealed a side of you at that interview that you spent years pushing down, your analytic, perfectionist coldness, buried under a guise of warmth and a personable nature. Shocking both you and Cuddy, House hired you willingly after that.

Despite the conclusion of events leading up to your employment, every working day felt like an uphill battle to prove that you weren’t inferior to your peers. House treated you like furniture, every idea and suggestion of yours was unpicked to destruction.

This was why now you stood in front of him, with the cadence of the looming spirit of a dead Victorian child, completely lost in confusion as to why you had even been called in the first place.

Single hand balled in a fist pressing against his forehead, House was sat with his head hung low over his desk, his legs splayed as if he was gripping to consciousness by his toes.

As you turned to leave, he grumbled your name, obviously attempting to project his voice yet it came out low and husky.

“I.. I need a favour.”

“Yes.” You almost squeaked, you couldn’t deny your nervousness, and his hesitance to speak only fuelled this feeling. You watched him grimace, as if the very thought of what he needed to say amplified his pain.

Fed up with the silence, you stomped forward, grabbed the half-empty bottle of Vicodin on the table, and shook it in front of his face, like you were inticing a dog with a bone.

“I’ve had more than enough, I need something stronger.”

He looked up at you, with low eyes that made you shiver internally.

“What do you need me to get..” You began frantically rattling off painkillers and medications, with a schoolgirl eagerness to watch him say yes to any of your suggestions- until he stopped you.

“Just- is the blood work done on our patient?”

The unexpected change in topic caught you off guard and made your heart drop a little, the question of what House truly wanted would go unanswered, at least for now.

“No. I’m still working on it.”

“Go, do.” He groaned dismissively, rubbing a slow circle around his right temple.

Not too long later, you were positioned in front of the mirror in the 4th floor’s women’s bathroom, pondering the ambiguity of your conversation with House. You pitied him- watching in so much pain, and not knowing how to help him, made your heart twist and pang with wrong. As you stared woefully at your own reflection, a thunderous BANG at the door made your whole spine shudder.

As the door swung shut and the figure didn’t move into view of the mirrors, the telltale thump of a walking cane told you everything you needed to know.

“This is the lady’s room, men’s is down the hall.”

“Actually, this bathroom is out of order. At least, that’s what it says on the door.” You swivel to face House, only to see an expression on his face different to anything else you had seen today, determined, filled with a heave of life he had been lacking back in his office.

He stumbled over to you, as you had turned your back to him and started obsessively washing your hands. Suddenly, you felt a firm hand stroke up your lower back, and a small accidental sound escaped your lips.

Blushing profusely as you could almost hear the cocky smirk on his face, you muttered “I need to get back to the lab. The work won’t do itself.”

“Forget the work, I’m your priority right now.”

“But-“

“You’re not incredibly remarkable, you could never have Foreman’s intellect, or Chase’s passion, or even Cameron’s kindness that can make a dying patient all warm and fuzzy inside. So, you’ve never been astonishingly useful to me, but you could be.” His hand reaches up to the back of your neck, before snaking forward to run his fingers over your exposed collarbone.

“I want to be useful.. in my job.” You look down shamefully at the sink, still sodden hands resting in the bowl.

“It is.. job related. It’s called getting ahead, ask Cuddy.” He grumbled, nose grazing your neck emitting hot, deep breaths down your top.

Reluctantly, you began lifting your head to give him further access to your neck, listening to him hum in glee at getting what he wanted, as he latched himself onto your skin and massaged the spot with his tounge making you clench your thighs together.

As he pulled back all of a sudden, your eyes shot open and you watched his figure shuffle away from you into a stall. Skin crawling with anticipation, the subtle head tilt he gave you sent you charging towards him, as his broad arm wrapped around you to shut the stall door.

Leaning forward to let your lips touch, you froze in surprise as the dig of two fingers in your chest stopped you.

“Treat me.”

After resting his cane on the wall gently, his hands dove to work on his belt buckle, strong yet precise hands that didn’t fumble for a single second. Almost salivating, you sunk to your knees and watched his pants drop to the ground, leaving his hardness evidently protruding from his white briefs. He stared down at you with an analytic harshness in his gaze which made you sweat, as you began to tounge him through his underwear, dominant hand cupping him from below. Timidly, you tugged down his underwear, freeing his large cock, protruding proudly from a bed of wiry hairs. Settling your plump lips around his tip you began to suckle gently, which made House, who was stood with one hand on the wall and one in your hair, sneer down at you-

“Come on, don’t be such a tease.”

-before ramming his whole length to the back of your throat and eliciting a pornographic gag out of you. Eyes watering as you accustomed to the foreign object, you began working your head back and forth, swirling your tounge simultaneously.

“Keep this up and you’ll be getting a promotion.” House quipped, cocking his head back in pleasure and relaxing his pelvis into your warm mouth.

All of a sudden you heard the door bang open, heart racing, you jumped to your feet and began to shake like a whippet.

Surprisingly unfazed to be caught with his pants down, House put a hand over your mouth and spun you to face away from him. Slowly he began pushing your skirt up to your hips, however you were in no situation to contest this motion. Whispering something about pesky cleaners, he slipped a finger under your panties and began to work precise circles around your clit, making you shudder forcefully against his chest.

It turned out a ‘pesky’ cleaner had been making his rounds refilling the soap dispensers, as you just about kept your footing listening to him click the thing closed and head off.

Just as you caught your breath from the nerve-racking encounter, your relief was cut short by House slamming his full length into your tight, unprepared hole, making you groan in a mix of pain and pleasure. Delivering harsh thrust after harsh thrust, he didn’t even give you a second for air, leaving tears welling in your eyes as your hands assumed position grabbing onto the top of the stall door.

“Mm-please, yes- oh fuck- please-“ you whined pathetically and impossibly high pitched.

“What do you want? You wanna cum on my cock? You don’t get to cum until I do, you hear me?” He barked authoritatively at you, which made your world begin to spin, as dizziness captained your mind.

“Mmph- yess..” you moaned out weakly, arm going numb as you knees began to give way until your position was no less than awkward.

After a brief re-adjustment, he began to pummel you without pulling out completely, short hard strokes straight to your g-spot. You had seen stars a long time ago, now you half-stood as a crumpled figure, both cock-drunk and fatigued. With a primal almost growl from his very loins, you felt House fill you to the brim, before pulling out to leave you as a melted, dripping figure on the floor.

After a bit of fiddling with tissue behind you, he unlocked the door.

“Clean yourself up, nobody wants to see a doctor making snail trails down the halls.”

He stepped over you aided by his cane and left.

Author’s notes:

My final big work before my trip, I’ll try log in on my phone occasionally to keep an eye out, but you’ll be seeing another poll in a few days when I dive right back into writing 😊

[fxckingjo]

𝙎𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙢𝙚 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪

Smutty little Dean Winchester/GF!reader drabble for the TL 🫦

You had a number of punchlines at the ready when Dean booked this ridiculous motel room in Atlantic City. Between the shower behind a transparent bathroom wall, the golden (yes, golden) toilet, and the mirrors on the ceiling above a heart shaped bed, you had lots of material.

You're eating those words now.

Or rather, Dean is.

He's got you on your back, thighs clenched around his head as he devours your pussy like a man starved. You're oversensitive and putty in his hands as he sucks hard on your clit, tugging just enough with his teeth to send a wave of heat through your spine.

You feel your back bow, curving as your abdominal muscles clench. You let out a cry, eyes rolling back as you gush against his mouth and cum again.

And then he pauses. "Eyes open."

"Huh?"

He grins wickedly, pointing at the ceiling. "Pay attention to how beautiful you are when I'm wrecking this pretty pussy."

It's a little like art, as you watch yourself come undone. Hair wild, cheeks flushed, lips curved into an "O" shape as he brings you dangerously close to the edge over and over again. He's playing with you, mocking you into getting desperate. Fuck, you could trace his reflection forever. The muscles of his shoulders and back, the dimples of his spine. His perfect ass clad in boxer briefs straining against his cock. Your face is flushed, your eyes feral.

As he makes you come one last time before he stuffs you full of his cock, you decide this room was money well spent.

[fxckingjo]

𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙮, 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙖𝙮, 𝙄’𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙮𝙤𝙪.

You think you’ll die loving Gregory House.

It’s the kind of thing that’s not really a question. There’s no room for ambiguity. He’s a thorny enigma wrapped in questions, and you’ll bleed sooner than he’ll crack. You’ve loved him even after he left you.

Or maybe you left him.

Semantics.

Your relationship was always a taunt at fate, a mockery of odds. He could never call it what it was, and it exhausted you.

When you got together, the pair of you were starting out in your medical careers. You were living in the shadow of your award winning surgeon mother and textbook writing father. He was a Maverick who hated just about everyone. The pair of you, intellectually matched, were a force to be reckoned with. But you argued more than you talked, and you were having makeup sex more often than making love.

And then you got offered a job in Paris. And he told you to take it.

That was it.

Last you heard, he was with a lawyer named Stacy. And then he’d lost half the muscle in his thigh because of an infarction. A mutual friend of yours, Lisa Cuddy, had given him his own tenured department.

And then her chief of Neurosurgery retired, and she offered the job to you.

Locked-in syndrome. That’s what you and House were tasked with figuring out. You didn’t care about helping him, but you cared about the patient and her three small children. You cared about the people, which is what he mocked you for time and time again. You didn't care. As far as House went, you could be bulletproof.

Until you weren't.

After the case is solved, you can't bask in the victory. No, you get to deal with House cornering you in the elevator, his cane tapping impatiently on the floor.

"Nice work today," he says. You have no idea if it's an insult or a compliment. Half the things he says can be construed as both. You don't get paid to analyze him.

"I'm glad we helped her."

He nods. "You know, I never seem to run into you. Why's that?"

"I usually take the stairs."

"Ah, a cripple joke. Very cute, doc."

"It wasn't a—" You cut yourself off. Letting yourself get frustrated is giving him what he wants. You choke down the urge to react and instead, focus your attention ahead. "We have different departments. That's all."

"Head of Neurology is no small thing, is it?"

"We all dream of tenure."

"Among other things." Before you can step out of the elevator, he holds his cane in front of you. "Wait."

He says your name. Your first name, gentle and intimate and familiar. It's the way he'd say it when he knelt between your thighs, when he took you on dates. Between the jokes and jabs, it was how you knew he loved you. How you saw the truth behind his mask.

How you knew he could be soft.

"Yes?"

"I miss you," he whispers. Like it hurts him to say it.

You swallow hard. Words would be nice, if you can even find them. But you can't, because his are still rattling around in your brain like a mocking chatter.

I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.

"Goodnight, House," you say.

He doesn't move his cane. "Look at me. Please."

"No."

"Why?"

Because you'll cry. Because you'll tell him you love him and you shouldn't.

"You know I'm no good at this stuff. But I'm trying here, sweetheart. So could you please just look at me?"

Your eyes meet. The sky falls. A black and white world is in color again, and you realize two things at once.

You'll die loving Gregory House.

But Gregory House will die loving you, too.

[fxckingjo]

he looks like he works with his hands & smells like marlboro reds 🦌

[fxckingjo]

Jensen Ackles wearing a leather jacket is something I absolutely love.

[fxckingjo]

Things I’m cooking as we speak 🤭

- Endverse!Dean x Reader x S5 Dean (no self-cest but 3sum)

- House MD smutty one shot

- MOC! Dean

And of course!! My ongoing series :)

[fxckingjo]

cw: smut.ᐟ dbf!ben x reader.ᐟ au non-supe ben.ᐟ age gap [reader is in her 20s].ᐟ reader lives at home.ᐟ making out.ᐟ dry humping.ᐟ car sex.ᐟ manipulation.ᐟ praise.ᐟ corruption kink.ᐟ pervy!ben.ᐟ pet names [sweetheart, baby, baby girl].ᐟ 18+

#notes: if you didn't read part one it's here, part two is here

this part will take place as a continuation of part two. also this isn't my best work but i've been wanting to write so here we are.*not fully edited bc im lazy.

wc: 1830

the door shuts heavier than it needs to, the thunk echoing in the small cab before either of you say a word. the seatbelt digs cold into your shoulder when you pull it across, hands moving on instinct, brain still hazy from the feel of him under you.

ben’s already in the driver’s seat, one hand gripping the wheel, the other sliding the keys in. the engine comes alive, a steady growl that fills the silence. he doesn’t look at you right away— eyes fixed ahead— but the air feels stale, heavy with whatever just happened on his couch.

you turn toward the window, watching the dim pools of streetlight roll over the hood, your thighs pressed tight together under the hem of his hoodie. it smells like him.

the truck into gear, pulling away from the curb. the motion jostles you slightly, the seat warm where the heater’s kicked in. neither of you speak. the only sound is the low thrum of the tires on asphalt and the occasional click of his turn signal.

the red light you approach stretches out in a slow burn, and ben’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles pale where his fingers clutch the leather. he lets out a low curse, tangled with frustration. “what the fuck am i doing,” he mutters, head falling back against the wheel for a moment, eyes squeezed shut as if to block out the weight of the everything.

ben was a selfish bastard— no other way to put it. after all this time, finally having you all to himself had felt like a fucking drug. like tasting something he’d been starving for but shouldn’t want.

and even now, he could still feel the press of your clothed cunt grinding against him, slick and needy through the thin fabric of his sweats. that slow, maddening friction had him on edge, every nerve screaming for more. his tongue ran over his lips, wet and deliberate, savouring the faint, sweet taste of you still lingering there.

your fingers tremble as they reach up, hesitating before brushing a tentative touch along the seam of his sweatpants, tracing the outline of his cock pressed hard and leaking against the fabric. “ben” you whisper, small but desperate.

he doesn’t answer, the tension in his body palpable. then, his voice cuts through the stillness. “no, sweetheart. not like this.”

“but— you know my dad’s home,” you murmur, cheeks warm with a mix of shame and need.

the light shifts, but ben doesn’t move, caught in the tension, the impossibility of the moment. then, with a harsh exhale, he pulls back. “no. i’m not gonna do this like some quick fuck on the side of the road. your mouth’s too pretty to be doing this with an old man like me.” the hum of the engine filling the silence between you. but ben’s jaw tightens, his fingers twitching on the wheel like he’s fighting himself. “we gotta get you home,” he finally mutters, forced.

but you don’t stop. your hand slips over his sweatpants, palming him just enough to make his breath hitch. lips brush over the fabric, kissing small, teasing spots like a puppy desperate for attention.

ben’s hand shoots up, gentle but firm, tugging the hair away from your face. his eyes drop to yours, conflicted. “you’re ain't that little girl anymore,” he says— something like pride and something darker, possessive. “but you were always mine.”

“i am,” you whisper, eyes wide and honest. “and you— you just wanted to keep me safe. from anyone that would hurt me.” your voice wavers, the unspoken truth hanging heavy between you. “you threatened all my boyfriends.”

“so you think i’m the bad guy, that it?” he murmurs, "but, i’m the only one who’s ever cared enough to keep you safe. keep you from getting hurt by assholes who don’t deserve you.”

your fingers fumble at the waistband of his sweatpants, slow and deliberate, and ben’s breath hitches— his grip on the wheel faltering. and the truck veers gently, with a curse, ben pulls off onto the gravel shoulder of an empty lot.

“we can’t keep pretending this isn’t what it is,” he says, voice low but firm, eyes locked on yours. “you’re mine, and i’m the only one who gets to do this to you.”

“do what?” you whisper, breath catching as your fingers freeze on the waistband.

ben’s eyes darken, a dangerous glint sparking behind them. he undoes his seatbelt with a quick jerk, the metal clicking loose echoing in the quiet cab. “you really wanna play this game?” he growls. “you got no fuckin’ clue what you’re asking for.”

before you can react, his hands grip your waist, hauling you roughly onto his lap. the heat of his body presses against you, cock hard and straining beneath his pants.

“i’m the only one who gets to touch you,” he murmurs against your mouth before tilting his head to bite gently at your lower lip. a twisted kind of possessive pride threading through his words.

then, his mouth slides down to your jaw, then the sensitive skin of your neck, where he plants wet possessive kisses, each one punctuated by his low whisper: “only me.”

his hand slips to your ass, fingers curling tight, pulling you flush against him. “only i get to touch this,” he says, voice thick with need. he traces a slow path back up your side, fingers dragging under the hoodie, teasing the soft skin beneath.

“only my hands, my mouth,” ben breathes, pressing another sloppy rough kiss to your collarbone. his hand slides lower, fingers squirming under your pants. firmly against the wet heat soaking through your panties, letting the slick friction make your clit pulse against his finger tips.

“this is mine too,” ben growls, voice thick and filthy. “betting she's already all soakin' just thinking 'bout me."

ben’s fingers don’t stop their slow, deliberate rub against your soaked cunt.“tell me,” he hums. “you ever fucked yourself thinking about me? ever stuffed your fingers in that tight little cunt while imagining my hands on you?”

your fingers clutch the hem of his hoodie, nails digging into the fabric like you’re trying to hold yourself together. “mhm,” you whisper, “please ben.”

“licking your own fingers, trying to feel close to me when i’m not around.” ben's grip tightens, fingers digging into your hips just enough to remind you who’s in control.

“you think you’re ready for that, sweetheart?” ben hisses. "i ain't want it to be like this, you deserve better but— fuck."

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

before you knew it, the backseat of ben’s truck was heavy with the sweet scent of sex and sweat. the windows fogged over, catching the dim glow of the streetlights outside as your breath came in tiny little hiccups, gasping for air between every ragged movement.

it started slow— ben easing you, stretching you carefully to mold around the chub of his cock— but now he had you on your knees, gripping your hips with a strength that was equal parts need and desperation.

your clenching pussy tightened around him, slick and pulsing, pressed all the way up to the thick, ruddy tip of his cock. it was coated in the frothy white of your shared releases, sticky and warm, pearly streaks glistening along his length.

“haven’t—” he grunted, hips snapping harder, fingers gripping your hips with brutal leverage, “fucked a pussy this good, in a long fucking time.”

your head was tilted to the side, trying to kiss him back, but the way he was fucking you felt so good, so relentless, you could barely manage it— your lips barely brushing his before you gasped again. “it’s too much,” you whispered, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth.

ben’s eyes darkened as he grabbed your throat gently but firmly, pulling your face up so he could look into your hazy, desperate gaze.“i know, baby,” he murmured, thumb pressing down on your clit.

your eyes stung with tears of need, cheeks burning hot with the frantic rush of your pulse. he watched you like that for a sick, twisted moment— lips twitching into a sadistic smirk that made your heart pound.

“i’m gonna cum,” you whisper, voice shaky and raw. your hand slides down the foggy window beside you, fingertips tracing cool trails over the damp glass as the pleasure spirals tighter and tighter inside you.

ben’s grip on your hips tightens, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. just when the coil threatens to break, your phone buzzes sharply— your dad calling.

ben freezes for a heartbeat, then growls, “fuckin— answer it.”

your breath tightens as ben slows his thrusts, his hand dipping lower to rub your clit with slow, deliberate circles that keep you suspended just on the edge. your fingers shake as you fumble to answer the phone, voice soft and shaky.

“hey dad, yea, i’ll be home soon" you whisper, trying to sound innocent, even as his best friend's got a tightening grip around your throat, pulling you flush against his back. his breath is hot at your ear, muffling your words.

his thumb presses harder against your clit, teasing and demanding, dragging out every strained breath and quiet whimper you try to hold back. “don’t fuck this up for me,” ben whispers, his hips still moving just enough to keep your body on the knife’s edge between pleasure and need.

the contrast of your hushed, nervous voice on the phone and the raw heat of ben’s touch sends a jolt through you— a dirty secret held between the two of you in the confides of his fogged-up truck.

the call ends with a quick click, but the silence that follows is louder than any noise. ben’s hands slowly leave your hips, sliding up to rest gently on your shoulders. the rough edges of his touch soften, as if he’s trying to be careful— not just with your body, but with what’s left of his own twisted heart.

he takes a shaky breath, jaw clenched like he’s holding back words that want to tear him apart. “this is fucked up,” he finally admits, with the weight of everything you both know. “and i know that.”

your eyes search his, looking for the man beneath all the anger and need. “but it feels right,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “even if it shouldn’t.”

ben’s gaze falters, the walls around him cracking just enough to show something fragile underneath. “you don’t get to say that. not when i’m the one who’s supposed to be keeping you safe.”

“but you are,” you say, curling your fingers tighter in the fabric of his damp sweatshirt. “in your own way. it's just gotta be our little secret."

you rest your head against his shoulder, letting the tension slip away just a little— because even in the fucked up mess of it all, it feels like home.

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[fxckingjo]

─── ( mlist, nsfw ! ) DEAN WINCHESTER carries two polaroids inside his wallet. a picture of you in a motel bed, sunlight spills through the curtains on your skin, drowning your irises— it’s one of his dearest possessions. you wear his flannel only, a pair of panties and no bra and your laugh is so contagious dean swears each time he takes the polaroid out of his wallet he falls in love all over again. and every time he can hear your laugh. you have huge smile plastered on your face and your mouth is covered with ketchup from a half eaten burger you’ve abandoned somewhere inside the cheap room.

the second polaroid, the prettiest fucking face he’s ever seen— big, teary eyes, wide open just for him. his cum drips in thick trails down your chin, your lipstick smeared, mascara running down your pretty face. it’s a polaroid of you on your knees, with your lips wrapped perfectly around the tip of his cock, your hand fisting its base, even if he spilled his cum down your throat already. the polaroid is shaky, but he’d never mind that. you’re gorgeous.

and a third photo— dean keeps it hidden inside his car. his little secret. his proudest one. it’s and old photograph of you inside the impala, completely naked, sprawled over the leather car seat while his dick fills up your wet cunt in the most obscene way. and you take him so well. so well, each time he’s away from you, he’ll stare at the polaroid with his dick throbbing inside his jeans. he gets so hard it physically hurts. he’ll spit in his hand and stroke his cock thinking of you, fantasizing about the way your pussy tightens around him.

he’d be such a liar if he said he didn’t have any more pictures of you.

[fxckingjo]

𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦

soldier boy x jazz singer!reader. some smut.

The year is 1952.

Soldier Boy is slowly gathering acclaim as Vought's rising star. His life is golden: champagne, drugs, and as many woman as he has stamina for.

Until one night, a song gets stuck in his head. And he can't get it out.

Warnings/Tags: Unprotected sex. Soldier Boy is toxic af. Graphic descriptions of drug abuse, sex, adult language, etc. etc. Unedited because I'm lazy. Note - Vought Rising has yet to be filmed, so if this ends up contradicting it, oh well.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

1952 is the year of Soldier Boy.

Or so the Vought PR fuckheads have promised him. Seven years he's been a supe, and he feels like it's flown by in a blink. It's a party that never ends. A high he never comes down from. Sure, the V keeps him on cloud nine, but so do the ladies with the cocaine in their makeup compacts. Benzos in the morning, champagne, blow. His favorite thing is when he can do a line off the ridge of some girl's hipbone and then sucking and fucking his way through the entorage. 

And sure, there are obligations. Unsavory little things like newspaper interviews and posing for photos. He hates the idea of being a role model for anyone, but sleeping naked with hot chicks in a bed of money ain't half bad. 

No, Ben likes this. He likes the games of high society and the people who worship him. When he drinks enough, he can ignore the hollowness in his chest. Pussies admit a need for emotional intimacy. He's not a fucking pussy, no matter what his cocksucking father seems to think. 

Vought is on the rise. Things are good.

And if they're not good, they're close enough. He can bridge the gap with whatever drugs he can get his hands on and wash them down with liquor. Being blitzed out of his fucking mind, dressed in that flashy little faux military uniform gets him looks and pussy and attention. Not tonight, though. Tonight is his dead mother's birthday, and for the first time in a long time, when Ben looks at himself in the mirror, flashes of Benjamin, the little boy with daddy issues and a trust fund he'll never get his hands on, look back at him.

He puts his fist through the glass. Wishes it could hurt. Then calls for a maid to clean it up.

Somehow, he comes to his senses enough to get out of his stuffy penthouse. He dresses in a smart suit, but not one of his Vought costumes. It's a jacket that doesn't fit anymore, and the seams will split if he moves too much, but it was Benjamin's and the color matches his mother's eyes. 

Sentimental pussy, he chides himself.

And then he starts walking. Nowhere in particular, but he's going. He knows he needs the open air and maybe another bump. The city seems like it's folding on top of him, like one of those origami cranes his nanny taught him to fold as a boy. 

Between a backfiring engine and a cabbie horn and the subway cars under his feet, he first hears it.

Stars shining bright above you.

He doesn't know where he's going, but he's following a song. His enhanced senses mean he picks up on sounds blocks away. The first year was a god-awful fuckin pain. Learning to tune it all out and channel his powers was a slow process. But it's worth it. Especially in moments like this, when he catches the edge of an angelic voice.

Her voice.

Night breezes seem to whisper, 'I love you.'

He doesn't know who she is, but she's got her hooks in him. Her soft notes weave through his ribcage, tangling his heart in the web and then pulling. He's drawn into her hook, a siren's song emerging from her mouth. He'd drown himself for a voice like that. 

Birds singing in the sycamore tree.

He follows her three blocks down, two to the left. It's like a dance, chasing the woman's mezzo-soprano drawl through a back alley and down a flight of stairs. The Jazz club has a neon sign pointing an arrow to a tiny, propped door. Half shrouded by metal railings and fire escapes, it's almost invisible.  

But he can hear her. Whoever she is.

Dream a little dream of me. 

When he steps into the club, he realizes he's entered through the side stage, but no one notices him. For half a decade, everywhere he's gone, eyes have followed, but now, they're all on her. A vision of creamy skin in silk, languidly stretched across the lid of a grand piano. Her hair cascades around her face, framing the sharp arc of her shoulder blades and collarbones like water. But she's peaceful. Not like a rainstorm. Not like destruction. 

She's starlight. Full, pouty lips and cat's eye makeup. She's the most beautiful woman Ben's ever seen, and maybe that's just the benny he popped on the way over here, but the semantics don't matter. He navigates the curtains, the props, and sandbags to join the crowd in the lounge. Everyone in the bar is watching her. He sits down in one of the velvet booths, motioning to the bartender for a scotch.

And as he drinks it neat, peering over the crystal glass, she lowers herself against the piano, her back arching, spine curved so erotically it almost feels vulgar. The notes split from her diaphragm, a rapture into the microphone she tips to reach her mouth. She raises a hand above her head, as if reaching for the sky, and then she spins on the piano, her feet finding the floor once more.

The song could go on for two minutes or ten or eternity. He's not aware of time, because it's all standing still as the perfect woman on centerstage finds him in the haze of cigarette smoke and dim mood lighting. Their eyes meet. A ghost of a smile traces her plush mouth, painted in red like sin. She holds the microphone and his heart in the same fist comprised of dainty, slim fingers with that same hue of red. 

The final lyrics of the song are for an audience of one. The whole room has melted away. 

Dream a little dream of me. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Ben knows what he can to do a woman with a single look, a gentle touch. He's aware of the power he holds by virtue of his handsomeness, his status, his money. All of that seems so trivial when he's in that bar, night after night, listening to the beautiful girl sing.

It's an addiction first. No different than the drugs in his veins, which spark like tiny firecrackers when he inhales them. Technicolor, Fourth of Fucking July shit. Stars in his senses, all that. She makes him feel like he'll never come down. Why would he want to?

Then it becomes a devotional practice. Like a Church centered around a goddess, more beautiful than stained glass, as perfectly carved as stone. All saint and softness, and in his sinning hands, a miracle. Her song banishes the need for hymns. He ponders what it would be like to kneel before her, a patron at her altar, and eat her pussy until she weeps. 

Finally, it becomes an obsession. The kind of lust that draws men to violence and sends empires to war. It's a craving most primal, woven into his makeup, creating an ache in his mouth. It is a covetous, treacherous thing.

And oh, does he dream of her. The kind of dreams that would make a priest blush, naughty and wicked and wanting. As if by singing that seductive song, she's cast a spell on him. She's inside of him, outside, around, encompassing. She's his, even if she doesn't know it yet.

And he's hers, even if he'd never admit it to a soul.

Then one night, under a full moon's light, she finally sings for Ben. And only Ben. She sits down at his table, languidly reclined against the wood, belting her heart out. The eye contact is searing, unbroken. It feels like an embrace. It feels like sex without a single article of clothing being shed.

He finds her in her dressing room after her set. 

She opens the door in a golden silk robe, her nipples perked under the thin fabric, pebbled and begging for his hands. Her hair is wild, curls spilling from a single clip holding it half-up. This close, he can see the smear of lipstick in the corner of her mouth from the glass she sipped champagne from between songs. He can practically taste the sweat glistening on the column of her throat. And he can hear her heart. Not racing with fear, but exhilaration. 

"You're just in time," she murmurs, and it's a velvet purr that sends all of his blood rushing to his cock. 

"I think I've been runnin' late, doll," he replies. It's almost a growl. 

"You made it just the same," she says. And then she grabs him by the tie and yanks him into her dressing room. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You don't know the handsome stranger's real name, but he's familiar. You know his persona with the media well enough, because a reporter recognizes him on a bustling Saturday. Soldier Boy, the golden god of Vought. Dressed in plain clothes and listening to you sing.

You don't know the first thing about superhumans, or what power they say he has. You don't keep up with it much. You care more about music, records, whatever's coming off the press. You dream of Hollywood glamour and singing for the pictures and big stages. Being the dirty little secret of one of the greats, and then being one of them. A woman knows the danger of being overly ambitious, though. So you play it safe. You make headlines and get comfortable in the spotlight on the stage in your little club. Business doubled when you got hired to be a jazz singer for the band, and you like the work. You know greater things are coming.

You learn to command the room. You may not have been born gifted like they say he was, but you have your talents. You've made it this far on your own in the Big Apple. That's got to count for something.

Soldier Boy watches you sing for eight days before he finally makes a move. You've been waiting in your dressing room after performing, clad in nothing but a tiny robe, waiting for him to show. He's not a patient man, you've heard, and he's danger walking, but he's also handsome as hell and rich and connected. He's an opportunity. 

And you're a showgirl, not a settle down and pop out babies housewife. You're building a home in your desires and dreams, and you won't settle for less. 

You grab him by the tie and pull. The strongest man alive lets you yank him into your tiny dressing room by the collar, like a damn dog on a leash. The second the door shuts and the lock clicks, he hauls you into his arms and kisses you in a sloppy, hungry way that makes your thighs slick with want. Your back meets the wall, legs wrapped around his hips. Your fingers card through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling just enough. He yanks the clip out of yours, sending it unspooled down your shoulders and chest. His green eyes watch the curls fall like he's memorizing the shape, and then he kisses you again. 

His weight has you pinned against the wall, but you pay it no mind. You untie his tie, tossing it somewhere on the floor. You work on the buttons of his shirt as he kisses your neck, his teeth closing around the edge of your robe as he tugs it aside. His tongue follows a trail across your collarbone, sucking delicately on the curve of your shoulder. 

You moan, and you don't even try to muffle the sound by biting your lip. Your lipstick is smeared all over his hungry mouth, like he's been devouring you whole. He moves suddenly, dizzyingly, carrying you over to your vanity. Your head collides with the mirror, framed by the large bulbs of light. He rips your robe open, and it pools around your hips before being discarded and forgotten. 

He gets on his knees. Spreads your knees.

You close them, bashful. You start to tell him he doesn't have to do this for you, because most of the men you've known always complain about it, but he shakes his head, forcing your legs open again so he can appraise your pussy properly. His eyes darken. His pupils are blown wide. He slides his fingers through your folds, parting them, coating himself in your slickness. Then, he raises the digits to his mouth, sucking on them without saying a word. His eyes never leave yours. He takes his time swirling his tongue around his fingertips, consumed by want for you. It's a claim over you. Ownership exacted.

Then he gets closer, hauling you by the ankles to the very edge of the vanity. Your legs are in free fall for only a moment before he pulls them over his shoulders. And then he shows you exactly why they say he's a god among men.

His face is buried in your cunt in an instant. The scrape of his beard and the muscle of his jaw startles you, but the pleasure is unrivaled. At the sudden heat, your thighs close around his head. He groans, his tongue twirling around the sensitive bud just above your heated core. He sucks at your clit, grazing it with his teeth, working you until you're swollen and needy. Then, he pushes two long, strong fingers into your cunt, scissoring them and pushing at the gummy spot inside of you no lover has ever been able to reach, and you come so hard you're blinded by pleasure for a moment. 

He stands. His cock is impossibly full and hard, straining against his slacks. He shrugs off his shirt, then his trousers. When his length springs free of his underwear, you're hungry in a way you're not sure you've ever been. Starved. Yearning. You rub your hand along the ribbed shaft of him, and he curses under his breath as he kisses you again, mouth open, moaning so loud it reverberates in your teeth. 

He pulls you by the hips, and you swear, for a moment, you're going to fall. You scramble for purchase, but he catches you and sheathes himself inside you in one fluid motion. The girth of him alone splits you open, and your legs wobble as you close your thighs around his hips. He's so long and thick that he's inside every part of you at once, bruising your cervix, pushing against every spot that makes you feel. 

You're so full you think you'll burst, and then he snaps his hips forward, thrusting into you hard enough to rattle the vanity. You feel the pleasure starting to build so fast it blindsides you, pulling your whole body tight, the tension coiling in your stomach as you give every part of you to his unrelenting desire. He fucks you hard, making sure to apply just enough pressure on your clit to make your voice break. That tinny, whiny little moan falls past your lips just before he catches your mouth in another kiss.

When you come—and fuck, do you come—he's close behind you. With one final thrust and a guttural sound deep in his chest, he pulls out of you and comes all over your thighs, painting them with his white pearls, like a broken chain. You slump forward, your head falling against his shoulder.

He scoops you into his arms, setting you gingerly on the velvet couch in the corner of your dressing room. He cleans you off with a handkerchief, monogrammed with the initials BH. The two of you don't exchange words, but he dresses you with a surprising gentleness. Reverence fills his strong, steady hands as he clothes you once more. 

"Will I see you again?" you ask, your voice surprisingly hoarse.

"I hope so, doll," he calls over his shoulder. "If nothing else, in my dreams." 

And then he's gone with a wink. 

[fxckingjo]

★ Deadly Sins ★ ~ Series Masterpost ~ - Lust - - Gluttony - - Envy - - Sloth - - Greed - - Pride - - Wrath - - Love -

[fxckingjo]

there’s little else more i love than not making eye contact