i love sabriel for a lot of reasons but a lot of it is just because lucifer would hate it. his obnoxious freak little brother stole his fucking government mandated boytoy
✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦
✦summary: Dean says he can't be with you. That he's too much of a risk, too old, too tired, too whatever. But then he doesn't stop acting like he wants you. It’s probably because he does.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s) angst, pining, rejection but it's not real rejection he wants us, Dean being a dummy (it's okay we love him), big emotions, shameless and proud smut (praise kink, soft!dom Dean, thigh riding, light masturbation, dean's dirty talk (that's it's own warning), blowjob, face riding, big dick dean, cowgirl, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, crying, creampie), he’s a little bit of an ass during sex too but in a hot way, love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 10.7k✦
✦author's note: love him raw and older (who said that).✦
It’s cold outside, and you’re not going to be the one to break first.
Dean is drumming his fingers on the wheel, and you can feel his gaze every few moments. It sears on your skin like a burn, and lingers long after he clears his throat and looks away. You can see him run a hand through his hair, from the very corner of your eyes. His knee is bouncing like a restless child.
You just keep staring ahead, forcing everything in you to be made of marble.
If you break first, that defeats the whole point. You didn’t do anything wrong.
You didn’t.
You’ve played it over and over again in your head. You’d looked at yourself in a mirror after, to check if you’d had something smeared on your cheek, or your clothing had been too baggy, or if there was maybe just something sharp in your features Dean didn’t want to cut himself on. But there had been nothing. And you’d been so, so sure.
There had been months, of wanting it and saying nothing. Wanting Dean and sewing your mouth shut. He’d call you sweetheart and you’d pull yourself to the level of a waitress who brought him his pie. He brought you snacks from the corner store without asking, and you go to be something that occupied his mind, a parasite that didn’t ask for more than attention. His hand would grace your lower back as he walked past, and you’d stand taller. Promote yourself to maybe a soft body he could find warmth in.
“What do you call a group of owls?” You’d asked him over breakfast, and he’d grinned up at you.
“I don’t know, a hoot?”
“No, that doesn’t fit.”
“Fit what?” He’d leaned to the side, squinting at your computer. “Oh. I, uh- Thought you were asking me a riddle or something.”
You’d snorted, turning the screen for him to read. The crossword was almost fully done, but there were always three or four you couldn’t get until the very end. Usually you ask Sam, but Dean had been there. And you’d liked how close he had to be, to read the screen. His knee bumping yours under the table, his breath on your neck. Your vison had gotten a little blurred and vivid. Everything in you had narrowed down to Dean.
Somehow, you’d managed to keep your voice steady. “What kind of riddle would that be?”
“I dunno, you asked it.”
“But I didn’t.”
“That’s why it was so lame, sweetheart.” He’d drawled, and you’d bitten the inside of your cheek to try and stop a flush. “Maybe it’s parchment.”
“Parchment-“
“Fancy paper-“
“I know what parchment is.” You’d snapped, and his grin had widened. “But it doesn’t fit, there’s no l in parchment. And a parchment of owls doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well, a parliament of owls doesn’t sound any better.”
You’d blinked at the screen, then Dean’s slightly grumpy, mostly teasing expression.
He’d raised his brows. “You thinking something?”
“I- No, but-“ He’d been so close. If you’d tripped sitting, you wouldn’t fallen right into a kiss. “How’d you get parliament?”
“I can see the other clues.” Dean had shrugged, reaching past you to tap the screen. “This one’s gotta be an accord, ‘s a kinda car that’s pretty shit, but it’s got that exact axel and horsepower. Then this,” he’d looked at you, eyes shining, and you’d blinked at him a little like a baby deer seeing the sun for the first time. “Rocket ball rifle. That’s a Winchester, sweetheart.”
You’d laughed, but it had been weak and breathy. “Good work.”
Dean had sat up, looking back to his pancakes with a grin. “Thanks. Not just a pretty face, y’know.”
He’d said it like a joke, so you’d bumped his shoulder. You’d kept your words light, because he needed them like that.
But you’d been dead fucking serious.
“I know. You’re the whole package in a very handsome bow.”
Dean had laughed, but you’d felt his gaze for a while after. When you’d glanced over, he’d looked away and coughed. There had been a blush creeping up his neck, and you’d smiled to yourself.
You’d made him feel good, just as his friend. And that’s enough. Had been enough.
Then the baby slipped.
It hadn’t been dramatic. You’re sure he’d never even noticed.
I’ve got it, baby.
He’d patted your leg and stood up. You’d gaped after him, your whole world wiping and rewiring and adjusting to new code with each passing heartbeat, pounding in your ears.
Dean didn’t call anyone baby. You’d never heard it in a low drawl for some bar hookup, all the gorgeous women you’d envied until it made you sick. When he used to bring them back to motels and you’d pretend you needed a walk, you’d never hear it moaned or whispered in dirty talk.
Not that you were listening.
But he’s loud. And it used to be the only line to sanity you had.
It’s easy to fall for Dean. It’s magnetic. You think you felt it the first time he offered you a hand, and your whole body had started to warm and blister like you’d been shoved into an oven. It had faded the first few weeks of knowing him, burning up fast, a wildfire of desire that swept through you until you spent every night with hair stuck to your brow and the sheets stained with sweat.
When it had faded, you’d hoped it would be nothing more than a pile of shameful ash. Dean wouldn’t never have to know that the kid he’d taken under his wing was a little pervert who listened to him have sex, then cried in the shower after. Nobody would ever have to know.
But there’s this thing. Where sometimes the fire ripping through the world isn’t to destroy. It’s to help grow. The flames curl into tightly locked seed pods, open them up, and make room for a new forest to grow.
And Dean is kind. And funny. And handsome, and strong, and loyal, and sometimes you want to punch him in his perfect, stupid face because you never stood a chance.
Loving him in silence was harder than wanting him. Wanting him could be satisfied with makeshift men. The right height and build, similar hair and a few scars, their faces Dean’s when you close your eyes.
Dean used to mutter that he didn’t like you sleeping with so many older creeps. That they only wanted one thing from you.
“I only want one thing from them.” You’d told him, and his jaw had ticked.
“You shouldn’t be looking for it there.”
“Why not-“
“They could be your father,” he’d snapped your name, glaring up from his beer bottle. The label had been picked clear off and crumpled in his hand.
You’d leaned back a little, brows raised, and he’d let out a slow breath. Shook his head, mouth pressed in a thin line.
“Dean-“
“There are plenty of-“ His brow had furrowed. He’d glared at the bottle, like your taste in men was it’s fault. “Lotta other options. You don’t have to settle for some creep that’s eyeing you up like fuckin’ meat.”
You’d wanted to laugh. You might’ve, if Dean hadn’t looked like he was one word from breaking his own teeth.
“It’s a two way road, Deano.” You’d hummed, and he’d looked like you punched him in the gut.
You don’t know if he noticed. How you stopped sleeping around after that. Phantoms of attention were nothing, compared to the tiniest hit of Dean’s concern.
There was no dare to fool yourself. Nothing you were clinging to, about having a chance. Dean didn’t see you like that. How could he.
You were a little bit of a devoted heretic. You’d made your alter at the foot of a god, and you just liked that you were allowed to stay. If he kicked you, you’d tumble down and crawl back up until he crushed you completely. A single scrape of his touch was more than most were offered.
Being Dean’s friend was enough. Something he cared about was a rush of it’s own.
And you’d been ready to sleep alone for a long, long time. To keep all your love gathered in your chest, and let it bleed into every little thing you did. It wasn’t angry love. Wasn’t bitter for being left to fester.
Mold grows. Weeds can be beautiful flowers.
You covered every little thing in your love for Dean, until you were sure it stained over your skin like a tattoo. Everyone seemed to see it but him. Sam knew after you screamed for him on a hunt, when he’d gotten driven onto some rebar and you’d felt your own chest split open. Jack gives you strange looks whenever he visits, and when he asked you just waved him off. Even his fucking dog looks at you like you’re some sad, pitiable little fool.
But Dean was happy with you. As his friend.
Then he called you baby.
And the world stopped, and rewound. A cassette tape reaching the end of a track and flipping itself over, letting you listen to the song one more time.
Letting you notice what you’d missed, too absorbed in your own love—it was a loud, consuming thing—to look outside your head.
Dean had stopped sleeping around too.
He touched you, maybe more than you touch him. Bumping your shoulder, thighs pressed under the table, a hand brushing through your hair when he walked past.
You’d counted them as nothing. You’d drowned in the luck of his thoughtless motions, but baby.
He kissed your forehead before he split off from you on a hunt. He knocked on your door when he had a nightmare, like he had nowhere else to go. At the grocery store, he’d linger a step behind you like he was guarding you from the peanut butter on the shelf and the slabs of beef in the butcher’s display. Close enough you could feel the heat from his body. Too close to be an accident.
You’d asked Sam.
Sam had coughed, and told you to talk to Dean.
You’d asked Sam again.
He’d begged you not to.
“Dean will kill me,” he’d whined like a child. “And I kind of like life now? Like, we’ve got really good things going, and I don’t want to die over Dean’s stupid secrets-“
“So Dean has secrets.” You’d crossed your arms over your chest. Sam had flinched.
“Um- Yeah. Which you should talk to him about, because I know nothing about them.”
“Sam-“
“Just- Whatever you’re thinking, that’s it. You’re right.” He’d sighed. “Please don’t make me say it. You’re both grownups. Make him use his words.”
You’d snorted. “Make Dean use his words-“
“You have more power over him than you think.” Sam had shrugged, voice dropping under his breath. “Like, a lot more.”
“What are we talkin’ about?” Dean had walked into the kitchen, looking between you and Sam, and you’d coughed.
“Nothing.”
“Relationships.”
You and Sam had spoken at the same time. Dean had raised his brows.
“Alright, what’s goin’ on-“
“Are you seeing anyone?” Sam had shouted, before you could gut punch him hard enough to shut him up. “Or, you know- Thinking about anyone, or anything with anyone, or- What the fuck-“
A spoon had gone flying, hitting Sam square in the jaw. He’d rubbed the hurt, gaping at his brother, and Dean had just shrugged.
“Oops.” He’d said flatly. “Hand slipped.”
His eyes had been narrowed. Sam had dropped it.
And the loop playing in your head had become obsessive.
He felt something. The more you played back and analyzed, the more certain you’d become. It might not be the concrete, resolved adoration you felt for everything that even stemmed slightly from Dean, but it was something. Something big enough he’d go to you first, in any room. That he’d hug you like he was trying to pull you into his chest, and breathe you in so heavily you felt a little stupid for missing it.
Enough you’d been willing to take the risk.
But not enough for him to say yes.
That day plays in a blur now. Your confession. His expression, like you’d shot him pointblank.
His head, shaking, and every color in the world inverting as he told you no.
You were wrong. He didn’t want that.
Just the night before you’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, but still been lucid enough to feel him pull you closer. He’d kissed your brow. Whispered something you hadn’t been able to make out, but had sounded soft. Affectionate. It was the same tone you used, when you told his sleeping form that you loved him, just to try and offer yourself a little bit of control.
It’s gone now, though.
Not the love. That’s boiling and bubbling over the edges, an ocean put under a flame. There’s so much of it you might be about to choke, because you can’t let it show anymore.
Dean told you no, and you tried to shove it into the cavity of your chest and lock it up.
But it was too big. Too much, to have your heart broken and all your love just… stalled. No where left for it to go.
And you didn’t do anything wrong.
Dean sent the mixed signals. Dean told you no, then expected everything to be fine. He said he wasn’t into you like that, then followed you to the bar the next night and stopped you from numbing the pain in another man’s body.
So he earned this silent treatment.
And you’re not going to be the first to break.
Your fingers fidget in your lap, and it’s the only movement you allow your body to have. It’s more for warmth, than anything else. Dean doesn’t get to see your discomfort. How ever cell in your body is trying to drag you into him, to forgo dignity for his touch. For the heat rolling off his body, that would cure you of this cold fever in a few seconds.
Dean coughs, stretching too causally to be natural, and his arm ends up around the back of the bench.
He’s like a radiator. Your shoulder almost slumps into the slight brush of his fingers, into the comfort they offer.
You lean forward, forcing a distance. You won’t break.
Dean can be stubborn. You’re going to give him a run for his stolen money.
“You think this is the guy?” He asks, withdrawing his arm.
You just shrug. Dean sighs.
“If you don’t, we can just go get a drink. Night’s almost over anyway, isn’t much he’d be able to do-“
“I want to wait.” You say, and you didn’t know your voice could sound that cold.
Dean tenses up at your side, then nods. “Alright. Guess we’re waiting.”
You huff, and neither of you try to speak again. When the guy comes out, you track him to the vamp nest and make quick work. It’s barely a hunt worth breaking a sweat over, not with Dean swinging his machete and your dead man’s blood bullets. When you’re done, there’s some dirt and guts on your jacket. Your nose wrinkles, and you feel Dean’s presence before you hear him.
“You alright?” Dean sounds worried. You just wave him off.
“Yeah.” You mutter, tossing the stained jacket in the trunk. “Just cold.”
“You can take my jacket-“
“I’m good.”
Dean already had his jacket half off, and he pauses. You turn away, not wanting to see whatever look was on his face.
You climb into the car, waiting for him to catch up. When he opens the door, his jacket is fully gone.
He shoves it into your hands without a glance. It’s warm like a blanket. It’s going to smell like him, and your fingers curl into the fabric against your will.
“Dean, I don’t want this-“
“Well, you got it.” He snaps, and you hold it tighter.
“I’m not going to wear it-“
“Don’t care.” He starts the car, shooting you a glare. “Toss it, burn it, see if I give a shit. It’s yours.”
You don’t answer. You don’t have anything to say that isn’t a curse or a plea.
The air feels like it’s getting more and more wired, with every passing second. It waves with heat, and starts to clog up your throat. You can breathe, but everything is sticky. The tension resting in your throat, swelling to keep words from spilling out of your throat.
Dean keeps looking at you. You wish he’d stop. Wish he’d make this easier on you, by not flexing his hands every three seconds and seeming like he’s going to reach out. To touch you, when your skin has gotten so, so cold.
When you get back to the motel, Dean goes right to the bathroom, and you stand uselessly in the center of the room. You still haven’t let go of the goddamn jacket.
You look at the door, and hear the water running. He’s taking a shower, and Dean takes long showers.
You shrug on the jacket. And you were right.
It smells just like Dean.
Leather and amber, something a little spicy and a deep, comforting, unnamable scent that’s just Dean. It’s even stronger than the lingering musk of his cheap aftershave and cologne. You don’t even know why he bothers with that stuff, when he’s a natural aphrodisiac.
You wrap your arms around your stomach, staring at the bathroom door. It almost feels like he’s there. Like he’s hugging you and telling you everything is going to be okay.
And you sway on your feet, tears pricking at your eyes for the first time since he told you no. You’d shut it all down, refused to let yourself cry over it, and now-
He was your best friend. He’d acted like you lingered in all his dreams, the same way he lingered in yours.
And he told you no, and wouldn’t even give you the space to let your love die.
You don’t think it can die. But you’re not strong enough to leave him. Even with all this pain, you don’t want to. You refuse to be another person who leaves Dean, just because he won’t sleep with you.
But you can’t be here right now. Not while the wound is open and raw.
There’s a bar, just down the street. You text Dean that where you’re headed, and leave with his jacket still wrapped tight around your body.
It’s a fairly crowded bar. Enough people that the noise in your head can be drowned out, enough business that they keep good stuff in stock. You drink, but not enough to lose control. That’s not the goal.
You’re trying to get yourself to the point that you can return the smile of the man down the bar. He’s not bad looking. Dark hair and eyes, warm looking skin, a casualness to his stance that’s welcoming. He’s got broad shoulders. Big hands.
He’d be a good night.
But he’s not Dean.
You need to be just tipsy enough to pretend that he is.
And it’s pathetic. You should be trying to get over him, but it’s like trying to drag your feet out of quicksand. The more you struggle against it, the more you think about every reason to stay in love with him. The way he sings loudly in the car, grinning at you the whole time. His dumb little bow-legged walk, and how he never breaks pace when he’s carrying you to the car after a bad hunt. His jokes, how safe you feel when he’s next to you, how even when he turned you down he hadn’t been cruel.
He’d just said no. You got it wrong. That’s- I’m not doing that to you.
You take another drink, breathing heavy through your nose. Wearing the jacket was a mistake. You can smell him all around you, and it’s a tantalizing, sadistic way to torture yourself. You swallow, looking up to the yellowed bar lights like they can offer you some strength.
They just stare back, and your eyes burn.
Maybe you should just go home. Call it a night, wallow in the bathtub until you either get it together, or sink under the water. Dean could save you. He’d bring you to bed and comfort you, then just leave you again. You’d be naked, and he’d have no interest, and you rub your eyes because you won’t cry in a public bar, you won’t-
Dean says your name, and you freeze.
“What the hell are you doing?” He’s not shouting, but it’s worse. “I come out and you’re just gone, you got any idea how much that freaked me out-“
“I texted you.” You don’t turn around. He doesn’t get to see the tears, still stinging at your vision.
Dean scoffs. “That’s not enough and you know it. Your phone coulda been stolen, you could’ve gone out then gotten grabbed, you- Son of a bitch, sweetheart, you damn near gave me a heart attack-“
“Sorry.” There’s a stone-like lump, settling in your throat. “But I’m fine, Dean. And you could’ve called.”
He grunts, and you see him move into your periphery. You bow your head lower. You don’t want to see him. It will only make the pain worse.
Dean mutters, your name. You don’t look up.
“How many drinks have you had?”
You shrug, and he sighs.
“Are you… feelin’ okay?”
“I feel amazing.” You mutter, not bothering to hide the bitterness in your tone.
Dean swallows. “Alright. Let’s go.”
Neither of you move. You take another drink, and Dean’s voice becomes strained.
“Look, I- I didn’t mean to yell, just- Come on-“
His hand lands on your shoulder, and you shove it off.
“Sweetheart, I’m sorry-“
“I don’t care.” You spit, finally letting your gaze turn on him.
He leans back, eyes widening slightly, and it immediately hurts. You don’t want to hurt him. But you’re too tired to stop.
“I was just- You worried me-“
“I’m fine.”
“You’re getting drunk-“
“You get drunk all the time.”
“That’s- It’s not the same- I’m not-“ He runs a hand over his face. “We can fight about this back at the room, okay, let’s go-“
“No.” You hiss, and something tight flashes over his face.
He says your name, and you shake your head, looking back to your glass.
“Leave me alone, Dean.”
And you want him to fight. You want him to tell you he’s not going anywhere without you, because you never want to go anywhere without him. You’d sew your hands together, stick your shoulders together with glue, wrap around his back like a growth just to remind him how amazing he is, all the time.
You’d fight for him.
But Dean doesn’t. He nods.
“Sorry.” He mutters, his voice lower than you’ve ever heard. Not the deep drawl that he uses to tease and joke with you.
Just… Heavy.
Defeated.
And he apologizes, and walks away. You look over your shoulder, and find him staring back. His throat bobs, his hands fist at his sides, and he leaves.
Leaves you. Alone.
You down another shot, and it burns your throat with your eyes. You won’t cry over this. He’s allowed to not want you, and you’re going to be mature about it, and go sleep with someone else.
It takes another drink, but you walk over to the man on the other end of the bar. It feels like you’ve been moved into an autopilot, all your smiles too tight on your face and your voice far away. You bat your eyelashes, and lean forward without recoiling at how not Dean he is. He tells you you’re pretty. You laugh, and tell him he’s not so bad himself.
He puts his hand on your lower back as you walk to the parking lot. He’s a local, with a house not too far he’d like to show you. If he notices how you arch away from the touch, he doesn’t say anything.
And under the parking lot lamps, you can just see his silhouette and pretend it’s Dean.
But then he brushes your hair from your face, and leans in for a kiss. It’s an instinct, to turn your cheek. You’ve made it all the way to the car, and his heater is running, but the burning feeling over your skin isn’t from desire.
It’s prickly and sore.
Shame.
You mumble a sorry, the world moving so fast everything turns to a blur, but it might just be the tears pricking in your eyes. You try to take off your jacket, to cool down and collect yourself.
But the smell of Dean is gone, and now you’re sick, and you-
You can’t.
You just can’t.
It’s with scrambled apologies and a flushed face, that you run out of the car. There’s no excuse for it. Nothing that you can say to rationalize fleeing the moment like it’s a crime scene, running from a kiss like it threatened death. But you feel sick.
He’s not Dean.
When you get back to the motel room you’re out of breath. Your fingers are numb and there’s bile in your throat. The shame burns under your face, and your lips are wobbling pathetically. You’d rip the love out of you, if it wouldn’t feel like carving out a piece of your soul. You’d stay away the whole night, if you didn’t know the world would slow back down the moment you saw him.
He told you no, but he’s still your Dean. The world is safe with him. And you like loving him, you do, but right now you just…
You hate yourself. Blame yourself.
Wish you were anything else, that you loved him a little less, so the wound could be cauterized without splitting itself open.
Every movement just splits it open. And Dean isn’t going to come and stich it back up.
You take a ragged breath. Collect yourself by your throat, refusing to let your guts just spill all over the ground for Dean to see. For him to think he has to clean up, when you’re trying so hard not to blame him. He didn’t know what he was doing to you. He told you to stop. And you can’t.
All the mixed signals earned your silence, but not your wrath. You’re grabbing your heart and throttling it, because you don’t want to be mad.
But you open the door, and Dean is still up. He’d sprawled on his bed, watching TV, eyes locking onto yours before you’re even in the room. You try to ignore him, and kick off your shoes. He pauses his show.
“You have fun?”
You shoot him a glare, but his expression is unreadable. There are long shadows on his face that only make him more handsome, and you can feel the anger clawing up your chest.
He raises his brows in slight challenge, and you’re too exhausted to ignore the bait.
“No.” You snap, tossing off the jacket. “I didn’t.”
If Dean has a reaction, he doesn’t show it. “Sorry.”
You snort, and his lips twitch down.
“What’s so funny-“
“You’re not sorry.” The words fall out of you, lined in venom.
And he shrugs.
Dean just shrugs, like that’s all your love is worth, and something inside you snaps.
How dare he. How dare he stomp on your heart and treat you like a child, and how dare he make you keep loving him by putting water on your beside table for your hangover and staying up just to make sure you get home safe. He’s a good man but he’s being so cruel and it’s only just to you. Like you deserve some punishment for loving him. Like he’s daring you to bite him back.
You can bite.
You can rip something in him, and make it almost half as deep as he’s buried himself into you.
“It’s your fault, you know.” You cross your arms, glaring at him across the room.
He chuckles, looking back to the TV. “Yeah, whatever sweetheart-“
“Don’t call me that.”
That makes him go rigid. His eyes fly back to yours, and you mimic his challenging look.
“What,” he stares at you, like he doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “Don’t call you sweetheart-“
“Yes.” You raise your chin, and he sits up.
“I- Why?”
“Why?” You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Why do you think, Dean? Why on Earth wouldn’t I want you to call me sweetheart, when you fucking- You-“
He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach.
“No, you- You keep-“
“Is this about you askin’ me to-“
“Of course it’s about that!” You scream, and Dean’s hand fists on his leg. “You turned me down, Dean, you said no, and that’s- That’s fine, you’re allowed to- To not want me-“
Dean moves slowly to his feet, watching you carefully. “Sweetheart-“
“Don’t call me that!” You scream, taking a large step back. “Don’t talk to me like that when you don’t mean it, Dean, it- It’s awful-“
“I wasn’t tryin’ to make you-“ He swallows, reaching a hand for you before yanking it back. “Look, I just- I didn’t think-“
“You didn’t think? You’re not stupid, Dean, how could you not think that you rejecting me when I- I’d been so sure, when I love you-“
“Don’t.” His voice raises suddenly. You flinch a step back, pressing your back to the wall.
Dean’s face falls in second, and he moves forward, arms flexing like he’s trying to control every movement.
“Baby, I-“
“Don’t yell at me.” You whisper, blinking away your tears.
He swallows, voice strained. “I know, I didn’t mean to-“
“You’re the one who said no, Dean.” You mutter, staring down at his knees. “You told me I was wrong, but- You follow me to bars and you call me sweetheart, and- and Baby-“ You wipe your nose, sniffing through the words, all your anger just evaporating into hurt. “You can’t do both. You can’t. It’s not fair.”
“I know.” He says immediately, taking another step forward. “I know, I’m sorry, just- Don’t cry. Don’t, I’m not worth that-“
“Yes, you are.”
Dean falls completely silent, and you look up to find him barely a foot away. Every muscle in his body flexes, his chest heaving like the air is thin. He’s staring at you like he’s not sure you’re there. You tip your head back against the door, and give him a tired smile.
“You’re worth everything.” You whisper. “I- I still love you, Dean, and you don’t have to feel it back, but- I love you, and you-“
“No.” He almost chokes out the word, face twisting like he’s in pain. “You had a crush. That’s not love, it’s-“ he shakes his head. “You got rose colored glasses, alright? I’m not some kinda hero that’s gonna live up to the fuckin’ fantasy-“
“It’s not a fantasy.” You snap. “I love you, I know I do-“
“I promise you don’t.” He grunts. “I drink too much, I don’t go to the doctor and I got no plans, I’m an old ass who sleeps with a gun, hell, I’m old enough to be your dad, that’s not love-“
“Stop telling me that!”
Dean blinks at the certainty in your shout, and you push up on the wall, eyes narrowing.
“I’m not a fucking idiot, I know what a crush feels like, and I know what love feels like, and I- I feel better around you, Dean!” Your voice cracks. “You make everything better, you make me feel- Feel wanted, you make me smile and you make me happy, and I- I love seeing you because it tells me I’m going to be okay.” The tears are falling again, and Dean looks like he’s seen a ghost. “You’re being such a dick but I still love you, and I- I think- I think I need space because you can’t- You don’t have to want me but you can’t act like I don’t know what I want, because I know, and it’s you, it’s just you-“
Your voice breaks fully, and Dean moves.
He crashes forward, grabbing your face between his hands and kissing you like he thinks you’re going to disappear. You squeak, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and he presses closer.
His body is draped over yours, warm and sturdy. His mouth is certain, moving against yours like a wave. Pulling at your lower lip then sucking, open and passionate. You’re trapped between him and the wall, and your knees get weak from the force but he wraps an arm around you, keeping you afloat as your head starts to spin.
“De- Dean-“
“It’s just you,” he grunts your name, speaking between frenzied, wet kisses. “It’s only you, been you since the first time you smiled at me and it was like the sun was finally fuckin’ shining, there’s nothin’ else, no one else- Son of a bitch, you’re the only thing that gets my ass outta bed in the morning some days, just fuckin’ you.”
He kisses the corner of your mouth, drags his lips in a hot line down your neck. You shiver, pulling him closer and trying, so desperately, to be sure this isn’t a dream.
“You- You said-“
“I know what I said.” He pulls back, taking your face between his hands. “Thought-“ He laughs dryly. “Hell, I still think, you’re better off running around with someone your own age. Someone who’s got a future, who can give you things-“
“You can give me things.” You whisper, staring up at him. He swallows.
“I told you, I’m old with ten bucks to my name, and I don’t think I’m hittin’ the lottery any time soon-“
“But you have you.” You smile at him, reaching carefully up to cup his cheek. “That’s all I want, Dean. That’s all you need to give.”
Dean’s eyes close, screwed shut as he breathes through his nose. He grabs your hand on his cheek, holding it there with a crushing grip.
“Do you want me?” You breathe out, still not fully trusting that this is real.
He nods, and tears slide down your cheeks.
“I- I need you to say it, please-“
“I want you.” He rasps, eyes locking onto yours. “And I don’t just want you, sweetheart, I- I-“ His jaw flexes, like he’s gagging on his own words.
You wait, and he presses further over you, consuming your whole vision. Your hand is guided over your head, and when you reach with it’s opposite to wrap around his neck, he takes that one too. You’re caged between his massive chest and the wall, your fingers scraping at the back of his hand, and he looks at you like the stars have been poured into his bathtub. Like he’s being offered the universe to drown in, and he’s just trying to build the courage to drive.
“I can’t stop calling you.” He mutters, and your breath hitches. “I call for you in my sleep, call for you when I think I’m running outta luck and I gotta start saying my prayers. Call for you on every hunt, even when I know you’re gonna be okay. Think about shouting for you when you leave the room, stare at my phone when you go away and hope you call me, so I’m not being a fuckin’ pervert.”
“You- You’re not a-“
“Yes, I am.” Dean brushes his lips over yours, and you gasp softly. “Things I think about doin’ to you aren’t winning me any sainthoods. Call for you there, too. When I got an hour to myself, just me and my imagination, and you.” He kisses your cheek, then under your ear. “Sometimes I get so loud I think you’re gonna hear. You don’t look at me after and I worry I’ve lost you forever. Can’t lose you, sweetheart. Can’t.” His voice falters slightly, and he draws back.
Drops his brow back against yours, all the teasing confidence waning in a second. His voice is raw. Pleading and hopeless.
“You- You don’t have to forgive me, alright? I thought you’d be better, thought you just got swept up in something, I didn’t- I’m sorry.” His expression is bare, filled with so much pain you feel it echo in your chest. “I’m so sorry, baby, but don’t- Don’t go. Please.” He grabs your hip like it’s his last anchor in a storm. “Don’t leave me. I’ll do anything, give you anything, please-“
You can’t stand it anymore. The pain in his voice.
So you press up, and kiss him.
It’s a little faster than Dean’s kiss. More chaste, too. A tiny press of your lips over his, and an attempt to draw back. But Dean is faster, and strong. He grabs the back of your head, ducking down to meet you and kissing you with such a fervor your legs give out.
He catches you. His grip squeezes on your hands, and he pulls you upright in a second, his mouth managing to never leave yours. You gasp, rising up to trying and meet every bit of heat he can offer. You open your mouth, and he takes full advantage, pushing his tongue over yours as his knee slides between your legs.
You moan, rolling your hips, and Dean squeezes your wrists. He rubs his thumb in small, soothing circles as he tugs on your hair gently. Just enough to tip your head back, and allow him further access.
Dean kisses you like he’s done it a million times before. Your head is spinning with the passion, but he never breaks pace. When you start to run out of air—whining against his lips and straining at his hold on your wrists—he drops his lips to your neck, sucking and nipping gently as you try to collect yourself.
It’s a pointless endeavor. Every brush of Dean’s teeth, every flick of his tongue, they send a bolt of lightning through your body. You’ve never been taken this high with just kissing, but it’s Dean. He could be taking about diseases and you’d want to climb him like a tree.
You’re not doing much climbing right now, though. There’s a pressure building between your thighs, and you’re mostly just fighting yourself from humping him like an animal.
It’s hard, when he’s making out with a sensitive spot under your jaw. You’re not even sure how you manage to speak.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“Not God.” He teases. “Just me. Call my name, sweetheart, let me hear it-“
You try to, but it turns into a strangled moan when Dean’s hand drops from your head to your hips. The firm squeeze of the skin, his fingers dancing over your inner thigh, it’s too much. You start to rut against his jeans in tiny, uncontrolled movements, and it only makes all that building need worse.
Dean groans, pushing his knee further up. It’s overwhelming, the mix of relief and desperation the motion brings. You squeak, grinding down onto him, chasing more, more, more-
“That’s it.” He mutters, encouraging and low. “That’s a girl, fuck my leg, come on-“
You moan, and Dean molds his lips back over yours. It feels like where he’s supposed to be. How he’s supposed to be.
So completely with you.
Almost yours.
And it gnaws at the back of your head, even as release builds in your core. He apologized, he said he wants you, but- But-“
“Dean,” you bite down another moan, the coil wound too tight. About to snap, when he starts to push his knee up in time with every roll of your hips. “Oh- Dean- We- We still need to talk-“
He stops immediately, and you almost whine.
“Right.” He grunts, wiping his mouth with his free hand. Your thighs clench around his knee, core still throbbing, and he smirks. “Talk about what, baby?”
You scowl. He knows what he’s doing, the asshole. “We- We can’t just sleep together-“
“Who said we were sleeping together?”
You flush, your eyes going wide, and Dean sighs.
“No, sweetheart, I was just teasing, come on-“
You turn your face, flushed with embarrassment. Dean leans forward, kissing up your jaw gently.
“I wanna sleep with you,” he murmurs in your ear, and you press your lips in a thin line. “I do, Christ- You got no idea, but if you’re not ready I’m not rushing anything.”
He presses his brow against the side of your head, lips brushing under your ear.
“I don’t wanna ruin this,” he rasps. “It’s the first good thing I got, you- You’re the only thing I’ve never-“ He shakes his head. “I still got you, alright? I got you. We can talk if you wanna talk, and I’ll keep my mouth shout. But I want you. Want you so much it hurts.” He rolls his hips up, and your eyes dart to his as you feel the proof.
Hard and thick through his jeans. Rubbing on your inner thigh, making your thoughts run away with all kinds of ideas. With the image of him sliding in and out of you, your pussy clenching around nothing. Your nails dig into his wrists, your breath picking up, and Dean notices.
His eyes soften, even as his tongue flicks over his lips.
“Tell me what you want.” He mutters, and you drag the words from the molten pit of your stomach.
“You.”
Dean’s face flashes, his voice getting hoarse. “How.”
And you know. He’s not just asking about this. About your bodies woven together, or his hand gliding under your shirt.
So you smile, and turn your head to fully kiss him. Slow and soft, enough to soothe the tension in both your bodies. Dean lets you lead this kiss, dropping your wrists to weave his fingers through your head.
Your voice is gentle and soft, when you speak into his mouth.
“However you want.” You whisper. “I’m yours.”
Dean doesn’t hesitate. A deep sound rumbles through his chest, and before you know what’s happening you’re being picked up off the ground. Dean carries you to your bed like you weigh nothing, muscled arms wrapped tight around your body and kissing you with less and less control each second.
You’re not tossed onto the bed, but placed down like something precious. Your arms rise, trying to hold on as Dean stands up, and he doesn’t seems all that willing to let go either. When you yank on his hair, scratching at his neck, he groans.
Falls back over you, herding you up the bed with desperate, unrelenting kisses.
“Brat.” He grunts, bullying you back against the headboard. “I was gonna get undressed, gonna take my time, but you’re just that needy, huh? Need me so bad you can’t give a man five seconds?”
You shake your head, his every dirty word shooting right to your already dripping cunt.
You’re sure you’ve ruined this pair of underwear. Dean certainly isn’t helping, with his wandering hands. Squeezing your hips and thighs, teasing your sides with featherlight touches and knuckles grazing your breasts. He presses his tongue flat on your neck as he sits you up against the headboard, and your legs fall open at the sheer display of strength. He’s folding you and moving you like you’re a doll, all while touching you like you’re a diamond.
“Too long.” You gasp, grinding up against his knee. It’s moved back between your thighs, as Dean grabs your face between his hands and rises over your body.
He stares at you in wonder, lips swollen and eyes shining.
You blink at him, core still dragging against him. You’d been so close before, so so close, and you might be about to cry from desperation.
“Dean, please.” You beg without caring, and his fingers dig a little into your neck. Your head spins with desire, and you grab his wrists, fucking up into his leg. “Please, it- It’s been so long, I’ve needed you so bad, fuck- Dean-“
Your whining is cut off with one, long and searing kiss. It’s shockingly sweet, for what a wreck you are below him. Dean grins against your lips, swaying you back and forth, unmoved by your little whimpers and squirming. When he pulls back, it’s with the control of a man who knows what he wants.
You.
Dean’s seen the world, and he wants you.
“Take off your clothes.” He mutters, smiling at you as he pulls away. His voice is deep and dangerous. It sends a thrill of desire through your heat.
Then he leans back, and you try to follow, but he doesn’t let you. Dean press a hand flat over your stomach, and gently pushes you back against the headboard.
“Ah,” he smirks, dragging his fingers slowly down your stomach. “No touchin’ right now, baby girl. Want you to show me.”
You swallow, voice small and breathy. “Show you?”
“How much you want it.” He mutters, those fingers dragging right over your core. “How much you want me.”
Then, right as he’s pressing at your core through your pants, he pulls back.
Dean sits on the bed, thick thighs spread, watching you expectantly.
“Strip.” He reminds you, and you nod.
And you don’t know how you find the confidence, under the intensity of his gaze, but you move. You peel off your shirt, then unclip your bra.
“Good girl.” He grunts, and you shine under the praise, sitting up a little taller. Dean jaw tightens, and he rubs his thigh as he stares at your breasts. His tongue flicks over his lips, and he looks almost feral.
That’s how you find it. Dean wants you, wants to see you, and he looks at you like you’re beautiful. You feel beautiful.
Watching Dean nostrils flare, watching him palm himself and hearing his low groans, you’ve never felt more beautiful in your life.
You peel off your pants, then your underwear. Lean back against the headboard and watch Dean seem to fight himself. He strains, leaning forward like he can’t help himself. He’s still trapped in his jeans, but you can see the hard outline of his cock, and your pussy flutters at the sight. Slowly, watching his thick hand move back and forth on his length, you drag two fingers through your pussy lips.
“Oh.” You gasp, tipping your head back. “Dean-“
He makes a sound close to a growl, and your fingers dip into your heat. They pump slowly, and you look under your lashes at the tent in Dean’s pants. You clench, hips pushing up to offer yourself a better angle. Dean groans, croaking your name, and you move a little faster.
“Fuck, Dean-“ You moan, words pouring wantingly from your mouth. “I- I want your cock so bad. Want you to fuck me, make me stupid, want to feel you-“
He hisses, eyes flashing as he scrambles with his belt. “Jesus, you can’t just fuckin’ say that shit, baby-“
“But I want you.” You pout at him, pulling your fingers out to rub your clit in slow, teasing circles. “Want you to fill me up, Dean, please-“
You push up and start to crawl across the bed. Dean freezes, watching you with wide eyes as you settle between his legs. You press your face into his thigh, right against his half-pulled down pants. He grunts, his hand shooting into your hair, and you let your body sink into the mattress. You kiss over the seam of his pants, along his hips, over his cock.
He hisses, twitching under your touch. You snake your hand down your body, pushing your ass in the air as you start to finger yourself again.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean groans, and you hum, pressing your nose into his balls as you fuck your hand. “You’re killin’ me, you’re- Chist-“
You lick him through his underwear, moaning as you rub your clit back and forth. Dean’s hand fists, but he doesn’t push you further. You can tell he wants to. That he’s still trying to be respectful and loving.
But that’s not what you want. Dean’s a marvel of a man, and you want all his attention. You want to choke on it, to be covered in his marks, to never have to doubt what you mean to him again.
You moan against him, wiggling your ass and pressing your own face down. Your lips graze under his balls, and you roll onto your back. Spread your legs, rubbing your clit and letting your legs spread wide for Dean to see your mess of arousal. He grabs your breast, kneading and rolling your nipple, and you giggle with an almost dizzying pleasure.
Dean’s hips jerk forward, and you use your free hand to pull at his boxers. You need to feel more of him, need to have as much as him as he’ll let you take while you’re in control. Dean’s hips slam forward, when your fingers wrap around the base of his thick cock, squeezing your tits tight enough you squirm.
You need two hands, to get him fully out. One to move the fabric, the other to try and guide him where you want. When he’s fully freed, you grab his knee for support and like as firm stripe up the underside of his dick. He’s beautiful, right down to the thickness in your hands. You didn’t know someone could be beautiful like this. You’ve certainly never seen a cock you wanted to worship.
But it’s Dean. It’s always Dean.
You squirm, tipping your head back so you can lick his head. Dean pushes further up on his knees to accommodate you, moaning your name. His hand slides down your body, the other bracing him somewhere near your ass.
“Fuckin’- Fuck-“ He groans, and it gives you a little extra push. You wraps your lip around him, flicking your tongue over his weeping slit.
His hand grabs your inner thigh, and you feel his whole body tense as he seems to fully realize how turned on your are. You squeak around him, when his thumb drags over your clit, and he jerks into your mouth.
“Sorry.” He grunts, voice thick with hunger. “Fuck, I’m- You’re so wet.” He sounds wrecked, fucking shallowly into your mouth, and you moan happily. Grab his thighs, as his thumb starts to circle your clit in tiny, fast strokes.
You hum, unhinging your jaw, and Dean groans. He bumps against the back of your throat, and you feel your eyes roll back with pleasure.
Then he shifts slightly. Leans down, his warm breath fanning over the heat of your cunt. Your nails dig into him, and you think you’d scream if your voice wasn’t being stolen by his cock. You’re only breathing out of your nose, lightheaded from the way he’s using your mouth.
Dean kisses over your clit. Wet and open mouthed, lips moving like he’s in a trance.
He moans, and repeats the motion. His arms lock around your legs as he spits on your pussy, spreading them wider before his whole face presses into your core.
And you’ve heard about him. Even just rumors, of how he’s learned to play a body over the years.
The stories do him no justice. This might be better than heaven.
Dean eats your pussy like he’s been training for it. Like it’s a sport and he’s trying to win. His tongue drags, his beard scraping your thighs, and his hands splay on your ass to keep you exactly where he wants. His tongue licks, fast and tight on your clit. His nose rubs against your entrance, his hands squeezing as he pulls you up, hits deeper, and you can feel that heat in your, about to explode.
He feels it too.
And he pulls back.
“Hold it.” He kisses your clit lightly, then spanks your pussy. “Gonna make it good, sweetheart, but you gotta hold it.”
You moan around him, but it’s a sound of desperate agreement. You trust him.
Holding it feels almost impossible, but fuck if you aren’t going to try.
“Good girl.” He slaps your pussy again, pulls himself out of your mouth and rolls you both over with a small grunt. Suddenly he’s flat on his back, and you’re being manhandled up and around.
Onto the top of his chest.
You push at his shoulders, and he just chuckles, catching your hands easily.
“Dean, what are you-“
“Having you sit on my face.” He kisses the inside of your wrist. “You’re gonna love it, baby, trust me.”
You swallow. “I- I might crush you-“
“Noble death.” He shrugs, grinning when you glare.
“Dean, I’m serious-“
“I’m serious. You’re not gonna hurt me, I know what I’m doing. If you don’t want to, that’s another conversation, but don’t hide from me just cause you’re worried I can’t handle some good fuckin’ pussy on my face.”
Jesus Christ, that almost makes you cum on it’s own. Dean beams when you nod nervously, starting to crawl further up. He guides you further, a playful glint in his eyes, and kisses the very inside of your thigh.
“Remember.” He winks, and your fingers shoot into his hair. “Don’t cum.”
Your mouth falls open, and Dean yanks you down.
Any snapping words you had are driven from your mind in a second. He was right. You do like it.
It’s even better than being under him. He’s still got you in a tight hold, pinning you on his face as you try to wriggle away, but the pleasure is so overwhelming you can’t do anything else. It’s like a warm, sentient vibrator has been trapped against your pussy. Dean groans and kisses you with a wet open mouth, the sound rolling through your body. Even as your writhe over him, gasping his name and making loud, choked sounds you didn’t know your body was capable of, you’re pulling at his hair trying to get closer.
You don’t know how you’re supposed to stop yourself from coming. He’s keeping you on his face, but not restricting your movements. Every time you try to chase more, he moans. You look over your shoulder and find his cock still at attention, fucking the air like he can’t help it.
That almost tips you over. You gasp, eyes rolling, and-
Dean pulls you off. Sits you back on his chest, reaching up to play with your tits while you gape uselessly.
“Dean-“
“Soon.” He promises, pinching your nipple gently. “You’re doin’ great, baby girl. Doin’ so good for me.”
That does exactly what he wants. The burning need in your core wanes, but not enough to kill anything. You’re just pulled a little off the edge, grinding onto his broad, thick chest as he plays with your breasts.
Then, again, Dean picks you up and sits you back on his face. This time one hand doesn’t leave your breast, continuing to tease a nipple while Dean groans against your pussy. You shove at the arm locked around your back, but his fingers just tickle your side, and make you drop right back down with a scream. He laughs as your thighs start to tremble, and you stop fighting it, even for play. You’re wound too tight, you need it too much-
Dean stops again. Smiles at you, and kisses your knee near his head as you try to shake yourself out of the daze. Then, again, when you’re settled, he pulls you forward.
This time you’re limp over him, grinding desperately down on his mouth. He groans, letting his hands wander. Dragging up your spine, one cupping the back of your neck as the other splays possessively on your lower back. You get to the edge faster that time.
And Dean stops again.
You don’t know how long he does that. You lose track somewhere around the fifth, when you’re a sobbing mess of desire.
“Dean, please-“ You whimper, pulling at his hair as he guides you back down. “I- I can’t- Can’t hold it, I need to cum, please-“
“Soon, sweet girl.” He reaches up, wiping a few tears from your cheeks.
You lean into his warm, calloused hand, and he smiles. Something reverent and soft settles on his features, almost jarring in the mix of sweat and sin filling the room.
“You have no idea.” He mutters. “How beautiful you are.”
You swallow, lips parting. Dean drags his finger over your lower lip, rubbing a calming circle on your lower back.
“You need to come?” He asks gently, and you nod.
“Please.”
“Alright.” He picks you up again, moving you further down his chest. To his dick, big and dripping with pre-cum, pressing against your ass as you stare at him. “Take what you want.”
You stare at him, and finally see the tiny smirk on his lips. He’s still playing with you. And when you pout, he laughs, dragging your down into a long, deep kiss.
“I’m not young anymore, baby.” He teases, kissing your nose. “This is what happens when you decide you wanna fuck a dinosaur.”
You glare at him, shoving his chest. “You’re no a dinosaur-“
“And you’re not coming till you ride my cock.”
A new, heavy determination fills you. You stick your tongue out at him, pushing up on his chest, and he just smiles at you like you’re an angel.
“You’re such an ass.” You mutter, letting a little affection drip over your words as you sit up on your knees.
Dean laughs, grinning easily up at you. “Yeah, but I’m your ass now. You said you love me. No take backs- Fuck-“
There’s a jolt of pride, as you line Dean up with your hole and sink onto him in one movement. It’s only because he’s prepped you to the point of near ruin, but it’s working in your favor now. Dean grabs your waist, tipping his head back with a long moan as you just sit on him for a second.
The stretch burns a little, but it’s perfect. You didn’t know you could be this full, feel someone so everywhere. The sensation darts from your pussy to your toes, your lips, your fingers sinking into his chest as you just try to breath. It’s not too much, but it’s more. Enough that you think you could come just by being filled with him, if he let you stay there long enough.
But you’ve been teased too much, tonight. You need release, or you might start crying for real.
You swivel your hips in experiment, and Dean groans.
“Jesus, woman-“
“’S big.” You mumble, repeating the movement. Every thought is slowly draining from your head, leaving only an instinct of Dean. “Oh- Oh my god-“
You find a good angle that drives right into your g-spot, and start to grind down. Dean says your name through his teeth, grabbing at you in a way that’s going to bruise in the morning.
It goads you on. You pick up your pace, trying to drag yourself back up to that edge Dean brought you to like it was nothing.
His cock is dragging and pressing inside of you, and it’s too much for you to let go of him. You moan, staring down at Dean, and that helps a little more. His muscles ripple below you, his head tipped back and lips gently parted as he watches you move on him. You can see his restraint again, as he just rubs your body and mutters low, rumbling encouragement.
“That’s it, baby girl.” He squeezes under your ribs, that awe shining in his eyes. “So fuckin’ tight on my cock, taking me perfectly. Never felt this good, sweetheart, never fuckin’-“
You drag forward, clenching around him, and he moans. Tips his head back with fluttering eyes, but still doesn’t just rut up into you. You whine in frustration, movements becoming short and uncontrolled as you get closer and closer.
But it’s not enough. Your thighs feel like jelly, and you can’t quite get yourself there. You’re trying, you’re trying so hard, but your mouth his hanging open and you can barely breathe through the feeling of Dean buried inside your cunt-
Dean grabs your jaw, forcing your glazed eyes onto his. His mouth twitches as you blink, and his voice is only sweet, as he murmurs your name.
“Sweetheart, you having some trouble?” He coos, and you’re mostly just shaking above him now. “Need some help.”
You can only nod, clawing at his chest hopefully.
Dean grins, and drags you down. Your mouth falls over his, and you moan openly, collapsing totally into his embrace.
His arm slides around your lower back, and you squeal as he rolls you over one more time. You’re pressed into the pillows, your legs nudged open, and Dean thrusts slowly, giving you a pace to adjust to the shift.
He’s deeper like this. Folding you under him to hit spots you couldn’t, kissing you so lovingly the whole time. You’d expected him to drill you through the mattress, but there’s no rush to his movements at all.
Dean’s fucking you like he’s got all the time in the world, and he knows exactly how he wants to spend it. Buried in your pussy, dragging everything out of you like a professional. His cock slides in and out of you, and it’s an even more lewd picture than you’d managed to imagine before. He presses all the way down to his balls, circles his hips, then pulls almost all the way out. It’s not slow, but it’s not rough. And it makes you only putty in his hands, staring up at him as he starts to pull a burning, powerful feeling from deep in your gut that no one else has ever been able to give you.
Stars dance at your vision, and Dean kisses you lazily. Firm, but slow, tasting your every moan and whimper like it’s his favorite pie. You grab his face and he hums. His thrusts start to get a little uneven, pressing deeper every time you clench around him. He moves one hand between your bodies, rising up to watch you below him with an adoring gaze.
You’re beyond words, when he starts to rub your clit. You don’t think you remember how to speak.
Dean leans down, his head pressed into your cheek as he kisses your neck, watching you start to roll below him. He groans as your pussy flutters again, that heat getting impossible to hold down.
He kisses you, words gentle but firm against your mouth.
“Now, baby, soak my cock like a good girl, cum for me, come on-“
Your orgasm hits you so hard your vision goes white. Your body spasms, Dean’s name falling from your lips like a prayer. He groans as you gush around his cock, fucking you through it with shorter and shorter thrusts until he’s kissing you with teeth and spit, pumping his release into your abused, oversensitive pussy.
You make a tiny sound of protest, as the feeling of him overflowing in your cunt forces a tiny, mind-numbing orgasm through your body. Dean kisses you gently, moving you with light hands onto your side. For a second, you think he’s going to try and leave. You grab his arm, twisting to give him a pleading expression.
He frowns. “Sweetheart, you gotta clean up-“
You shake your head, giving him your best doe eyes. He sighs, and lies back down, huffing in a amusement at your wide smile.
“Can’t even smile and still bossing me around,” he mutters, kissing your neck.
You wrinkle your nose, and he laughs, kissing that too.
Then he pauses. Leans up, something serious shadowing his eyes.
“You, uh-“ He clears his throat. “You know, right? What you mean to me? That I…”
He trials off, swallowing, and you smile. Reach over to cup his cheek, beaming at him with everything you have. Every bit of love in you, finally able to just flood into him.
Dean mouth twitches, and he nods. Bows his head, wrapping an arm tight around your stomach.
“Good.” He mutters, and you know.
He’s never meant anything more in his life.
“Cause I mean it.” He rasps, kissing your cheek. “It’s only you.”
✦End note: toxic trait i think i could pull dean winchester but i could you guys plz understand.✦
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𓍯𓂃 you should see the things we do in my dreams || sam winchester x fem!reader 𓍯𓂃
➶ warnings: pining, forced proximity/one bed trope, sexsomnia, friends to ???, grinding, oral sex (f receiving), munch!sam, is this exhibitionism?
➶ summary: sam is harbouring a bit more than a major crush on you, and tonight you might just let him show you how important you really are to him.
➶ word count: how long is a piece of string? 5.1k words apparently...
quick note: inspired by one of my fav fics ever by @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth (please go read it and their other work!!!) - genuinely think about it daily…
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Road tripping is simultaneously your favourite and least favourite thing to do with the Winchester brothers.
When a hunt takes you far away from the bunker - where there’s nothing but forest after forest or field after field, town after town, and stateline after stateline - you feel most at home when you’re on the road in the four walls of that sleek and purring black metal machine that etches memories onto your body like you’re a vinyl record. Blaring rock ’n’ roll music (and the occasional pop tune, but Dean will deny it despite him tapping along on the steering wheel) down the highway, bickering on acceptable answers for a game of ‘I spy’, and a never-ending mixture of sweet and savoury treats keeps the three of you going for hours. Sometimes, you’d wish the hunt would never end.
The sleeping arrangements, on the other hand, sometimes make you wish that God would come down and smite you himself.
If you’re lucky enough, the three of you secure two separate hotel rooms where everyone gets their own bed to sprawl out in.
On those other days where you’re not so lucky, though, the sight of only one set of keys dangling in Sam’s hand and his tight-mouthed look as he leaves the reception makes you and Dean both groan and roll your eyes.
In this event, the brothers would both insist that a lady “even one as rough as yourself” was never to take the floor and had to take one of the two beds, while they rock-paper-scissored each other on who took the couch (if that was even an option). Dean usually drew the short straw…
Although you appreciated the comfort and warmth of a bed regardless of the groaning noises the old mattresses would make under the tiniest amount of weight, or how musty and thin the bedspread was, the squabbling and sardonic chivalrousness of the brothers really started to grind your gears. After a couple months of this set-up, and a few sore backs later, your frustration peaked and you snapped at how ridiculous and stubborn they were being.
Now, a single-motel-room-stay means you rotate between who you share one of the two beds with because you’re smaller than the two 6-foot giants to hunt with, and the easiest to sleep next to. Lucky you.
A road trip hunt with a Dean-bedshare means headphones or heavy sleeping pills are a must - that man snores like his life depends on it. Whilst you’ll never be cold in a bed with that human radiator, he does also love to starfish, which means space is a bit of luxury.
Sam gets nervous when it’s his nights.
He knows this sleeping arrangement is less than optimal for you, especially when you’re with Sam because he’s just so big, and you’re just putting up with it because you care about both of them, but that doesn’t mean he won’t make sure you’re as comfortable as you can possibly be.
When he knows it’s his rotation, Sam replicates the bed positioning in your room at the bunker by pushing the motel bed into the corner of the room furthest away from the door so that you can be against the wall, where you feel safest. A present (read: security blanket) from being a hunter for so many years.
So after Baby pulls into this cross-country hunt’s motel carpark just before midnight, a late spring heat still simmering in the air, and Sam returns with only a single set of keys, he knows this week is going to be difficult - it’s his turn with you.
Sam’s had a crush on you from the moment you fired a shotgun shell filled with salt past his head at a particularly nasty demon who had him in a chokehold one squeeze away from death. But he’s loved you since the night you cried into his shoulder after you’d lost an entire family to a Wendigo eight months ago. He’d rubbed your back in soothing circles to calm you down, burying his nose into your hair and whispering it’s okay repeatedly. He could never turn back from that night.
The ceiling fan whirs quietly above, the wind current soft in the room. Sam is stripped down into a white singlet and black sleep shorts on the bed’s left side, the top sheet covering his legs as he lies with his back propped up by a pillow against the motel wall. The bedside table lamp to Sam’s left colours his body in a faint yellow and orange so that he can read while he waits for you.
He’s moved the bed already, now tucked under a large window where silvery clouds glow outside in the sky.
He tries to act nonchalant when you open the bathroom door and step out into the shared room, a light baggy shirt sitting half-off your shoulder that finishes just above where your sleep shorts end. He tries not to gawk at your exposed thighs, hunching his shoulders and dipping his head down to stare at the book in his hands to distract himself.
The bottom of the bed dips on its right side by the wall as you sit to watch the crappy soap opera on the TV. Sam slightly lowers his book to peek at you as you mindlessly plait your hair at the edge of the bed. He admires how soft you look. If he had the guts, he’d crawl behind you, kiss your shoulder, and do your hair himself. He’s watched you enough times to know how to do it, but most importantly, how you like it done.
Dean’s already called it a night. His snores not quite drowned out by the TV.
“Do you want me to keep the TV on?”, you call to Sam as you tie off your plait, still facing the TV.
“Uh, no,” he replies softly, “not unless you need it to fall asleep?”
“No, I’ll be okay.” You half turn your body to smile at him, before putting out your hand for Sam to pass you the remote. His heart stammers as you make eye contact.
Sam’s noticed you only really have the TV on during the night when you’re sharing a bed with Dean. He’s not quite sure what that means, yet.
He rests his book on his lap to grab the remote and leans forward to hand it to you. He thinks about spreading his fingers across the remote so that your fingers graze his as you take it, but decides against this. The TV clicks off.
Sam watches as you climb up the bed and pulls the sheet back for you to hop under. Although you make him nervous, he wishes he could do this every night.
You settle in the bed - Sam bookmarking his current page and placing it on the bedside table before turning the lamp off. He shuffles down the bed and rolls onto his right shoulder so that he’s facing you at eye level.
You both stare at each other, silently and serenely. Your face is laying against your pillow, the top of your right hand resting in your left palm just under your jaw. Moonlight caresses the right side of your body and Sam thinks you’re glowing; angelic. He worries you’ll hear his heart beat thundering in his chest if you listen into the mattress carefully enough.
A couple inches separate your bodies - perhaps three-hands-wide. It’s an acceptable amount of space for two close friends, but that boundary could easily and quickly be crossed. A small shift forward by your hands, your legs, or your face is all it would take.
A particularly loud snore leaves Dean’s chest, making both of you quietly giggle.
“God, he’s so loud”, Sam groans.
“I know. I think he could take on a lawn mower with that snore”, you chuckle.
“Maybe even a Boeing 747.” You snort at that. Sam’s heart leaps at making you laugh.
You both chat for a bit about the day, as well as life in general - a key element to your routine when sharing a bed with Sam. Every feature of your face is lit so sweetly. He can see how your nose scrunches and your eyelashes flutter when you passionately talk about something you like. Sam knows that when you fall asleep later, he’ll sneakily admire your face in its unguarded state, with the soft beautiful noises that fall from your lips when you’re deep in sleep. He thinks that might be his favourite view.
“Goodnight, Sammy.” You smile softly at him.
Sam returns your comment, his voice dropping to a whisper as he says your name.
You nestle in the bed to get yourself comfortable for sleep, before closing your eyes. A small sigh leaves your nose.
Sam looks down at the blanketed curve of your waist. It moves gently with the rise and fall of your quiet breaths. You were so close to him that he could reach out and touch you if he wanted to. He really wanted to.
With his index finger, Sam traces the dips of your body along the mattress in the small space between you both. His eyes close briefly as he imagines how you’d feel against his fingertips. He does sort of know how it would feel, though - he’s grabbed your arm and your waist when you’ve slipped in front of him; he’s held your hand when he’s pulled you up onto a wall you’re too short to climb; and he’s felt you shoulder to shoulder and back to chest when hiding from some monster hunting you. Sam just wishes he could touch you in a way other than a friend does… Like a lover would…
His eyes drift open and they return to your face. When they reach your eyes, he realises you’re staring right back at him. He freezes.
“Hi,” you whisper sweetly, shifting your head a little, “can’t sleep?”
Sam’s not sure how to react. He’s like a deer caught in the headlights. How long have you been awake? Did you notice him looking at you? Could you see that it was a look of more than a friend? Of someone who longed badly to reach out and touch you?
He shakes his head timidly against his pillow at your question. Sam is suddenly aware of the heat from your body. He himself feels like a nuclear bomb about to self-destruct. “I think it’s the heat.”
You hum. “I’d offer to turn up the fan, but I think it only has one speed.”
There’s a beat of silence. “How about we take the sheet off, Sammy?”
The way you say his name makes his stomach flip. He doesn’t have time to react as you sit up on your left arm and lean over him to rip the sheet off, your breasts pressing briefly across his chest. Sam’s nostrils flare and he takes a big swallow, his throat bobbing noticeably. He tries to stifle a groan and not think about it.
When you lie back down, you’re closer to Sam than before. Maybe one-and-a-half-hands-wide separate you now. “That better?”, you ask.
“Yeah,” he breathes. God, you’re so close to him. He can smell the faint remains of your perfume from the day. It sends a rush through his body and warms his chest.
Sam notices your eyes glide over his face, stopping for a moment on his lips. A gentle smile appears on your face, then your eyes return to his. Sam feels his cheeks redden, his breathing quickening and lips parting. He can’t tell if he wants you to keep looking at him like that or if he wants to bury his face in the sheets.
You shuffle a few centimetres closer, your lips also parting. Your eyes are locked with his. “Good.”You reach out and squeeze his left bicep. He tenses, waiting for your soft, warm hand to return to your side. But it doesn’t. It just sits there on his skin. His eyes snap down to look at your small hand on him. He takes a shallow, shaky breath and looks back at you.
He swears he sees a glint in your eyes, something with a suffocating heat simmering behind it, that is asking him to touch you. He tries to pass it off as a trick of the moonlight, but then your hand starts to rub tenderly up and down his arm. You’ve never touched him like this before. It’s simultaneously calming yet maddening. It ignites the nerves under his skin with each slide.
You both sit in silence for a minute.
But Sam’s mind is racing. Is this really happening? He hears your breathing speed up. Do you actually want me the way I want you? Your hand pauses on his arm. Keep touching me. He sees you looking at your hand, beginning to move it back to your side. No. Don’t take your hand away, please.
Sam swallows again, thinks fuck it, and finally gets the courage to touch you. He tries to be slow and tender, but he moves too fast, grabbing your wrist hanging midair between your bodies. It makes you take a sharp inhale at the sudden contact.
He goes to speak, but words fail him. Jesus, fuck. He blinks a little stupidly, adjusting his grip to be softer, then slides his hand up your arm to your elbow. He briefly stops, inhales, then moves his hand to rest down on your waist.
He’ll hit his head against a wall if he lets this moment pass.
Sam’s hand falls on the band of your sleep shorts, a small section of your skin is exposed where your shirt has ridden up. He echoes your movements on his arm ever so slowly. You let out a small sigh. Or was it a little moan? His hand flexes.
Your legs move first, finding his knees to press yours against; followed by your hips, so close that he knows a roll of yours or his hips would cross that boundary of friendship forever; your chest, maybe a finger apart; and then your face.
You tilt your head up slightly, your nose brushing his. Your lips are so close to his that your next breath out ghosts his mouth. He can smell your toothpaste, now. A growing heat blooms in his groin.
That beat of silence returns, but this time it’s different. It’s heavier. Sam’s ears burn - a mixture of love, need, admiration, and hunger. Another beat passes. The low whirring of the ceiling fan blows the electric current running between both of you.
You lift your hand to cup the left side of Sam’s face. Your thumb strokes once against his jaw. His eyelids flutter. Sam’s fighting the urge so hard to not just grab your hair and smash your face into his.
“I dream about you touching me, Sammy”. The words fall so effortlessly from your mouth Sam thinks he misheard you. Then you lean in.
A very quiet whimper escapes his throat as your lips carefully meet his. It’s warm, sweet, fearful, relieving.
Fuck.
Sam can feel you humming faintly against his lips. Fuck fuck.
Your fingers, stilled on his face, slide to the back of his head to bury themselves in his soft brown hair. At first, they curl gently, tenderly rubbing his head. Then you tug - not hard - just enough to bring him in deeper to the kiss, to tell him you want more. Sam’s eyes roll to the back of his head.
“Sammy,” you breathe against his lips, eyes hooded. His hand on your waist is heavier. His touch turns to a grip. He can feel the goosebumps rising on your skin.
The gap between your bodies closes as you roll your hips into him, he groans into your mouth, his brow scrunching. Sam can’t ignore your breasts pressed against his chest, now. And you can’t ignore his thick and hard cock nudging your core.
Both you and Sam have clearly forgotten about Dean in the next bed over, snoring lightly. Or maybe neither of you care. But who can blame you, you have more pressing matters at hand.
Your hand is still buried in Sam’s hair, tugging more frantically now. Sam’s right arm moves from underneath him to grab the side of your neck, pulling you in impossibly closer. He can feel your pulse thudding in his hand. It’s as quick as his deafening his ears.
This is it, Sam thinks. Don’t fuck it up.
Sam’s nerves dissipate for a second as he rolls on top of you. The kiss changes. The sweetness and uncertainty still lingers, but it’s shifting into something more messy, more sure, more desperate. His legs bracket yours; his left pressed firm between your thighs and his right on the outer side of your left.
Your left hand replaces your right in his hair as you move it to Sam’s shoulder, clutching at his flexing muscles as Sam’s left hand starts kneading the flesh of your waist. His thumb is rubbing deeply into the side of your navel.
He doesn’t ever want to stop touching you.
Both of you are panting into each other’s mouths. Each kiss is searing, your teeth nipping his lips. Your bodies meet with every roll, stroking the fire blazing between you. When Sam delivers a particularly deep grind into your hips and core that makes you gasp, your back arches. He runs his tongue along your bottom lip in the next kiss.
Sam pulls back, just a little, his forehand dropping to yours. Your chests are both heaving. “You are so beautiful.”
It makes you roll your eyes, grinning, “Shut up and keep kissing me.” He smiles and leans back in.
This is not the time to say “I love you.” He decides to show you, though, by doing the next closest thing to it.
He inhales. “Can I…can I keep going?”, he sheepishly asks against your lips, beginning to slide his left hand down to the side of your hip, pausing, then down to the top of your thigh that’s just covered by your shorts. Your panting fans his face.
“Please.” Your mouth moves down to his neck, biting and leaving hot open-mouthed kisses along his damp skin. “Take whatever you want from me.” His breath stutters, eyes darkening. There’s no uncertainty, now. It’s all primal.
Sam grabs your jaw with his right hand, pulling you back up into a long, deep, and passionate kiss. Then his mouth begins to trail down your body.
He feels feverish. You want him. You want him.
The way you’re laying in front of him, eyes sparkling with dilated pupils, smiling at him like you love him. Could you love him? God, he doesn’t know what to think. Or how to. He just knows what he wants.
“I want to make you feel good,” he groans your name into your clothed sternum. He hears your breath hitch, breasts rising to bump his face. Mental note: come back here afterwards.
Sam moves to kneel between your legs and continues kissing down your torso, “I’ve thought about how you’d look under me”, he hums on your right rib set, both hands now positioned at the top of your thighbones gripping the flesh, “how soft you’d be ”, he lifts up a section of your shirt, making your breathing quick and shallow, “how you’d feel against me”, he bites and sucks at this newly exposed spot to the right of your navel, “how you’d sound if I got to touch you like this.” A low moan falls from your mouth, head lulling backwards into the pillow, hips rolling into his face. He huffs, smirking.
Sam’s face pauses at your lower waist; his nose is sitting against your short’s waistband and his mouth ghosts the middle space below your hips. His jaw clenches, closing his eyes briefly as his breath stutters again. Two thin layers separate him from where he so desperately wants to be. Fuck, he’s wanted to do this to you - for you - for what seems like an eternity. He pushes his forehead down into you slightly to centre himself. Don’t cum yet don’t cum yet.
You call his name at his lack of movement. It’s so needy. It makes him salivate.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers. He’s never called you that. At least not while you’re awake. You don’t seem to tense or flinch, so he thinks it’s okay. He hopes he can call you it again tomorrow.
Sam’s hands slide back up along the outside of your thighs to your waistband, making you shiver. His fingertips rest on your waistband and he looks up at you, dark and hooded eyes boring into yours; he’s giving you one last chance to back out. You smile softly at him and lift your hips eagerly so that he can ease your shorts down.
He swallows, and gently guides your sleep shorts down your hips, then your thighs, your calves, and then your feet.
Just one thin layer now.
Sam can already see your arousal soaking through your underwear. Oh fuck. A wrecked groan rumbles in his chest, his hips rolling into the mattress.
God, the sight of you. Maybe he should just bury his face in your pussy now, underwear still clinging to you, and make you cum like that. He doesn’t want to tease you like that tonight, though. Maybe next time.
His hands, planted on your thigh bones, grip the newfound flesh. You feel just as soft and warm as he had imagined. Goosebumps from your skin prickle under his palm and fingers. His cock twitches against his sleep shorts, and the restriction makes him muffle another groan.
“Christ,” he purrs, kissing the top left corner of your underwear, “look how wet you are,” he moves to kiss the right side.
You sigh breathlessly, reaching for Sam’s left hand to caress it, “It’s all for you, Sammy.” He hums in satisfaction at your words.
Okay, okay, he thinks to himself. Focus, Sam.
Both hands grab the elastic of your underwear to roll down your body. The scent of your arousal hits him almost instantly and he parts his mouth, panting. His nostrils flare - you smell so sweet. It’s enough to thicken the fire blazing inside him, especially his cock. Drool is pooling in his mouth.
Sam can hear you above him, whining slightly at the air change near your core. Sounding just as desperate for this as he is.
He moves both his right index and middle fingers along your mound, mesmerised at the way your body shudders and hips buck at his touch. He pauses just above your clit before shakily running his fingers through your folds, down to your opening. A sharp gasp falls from your mouth and your brows scrunch, back arching away from the mattress.
Fucking hell you feel like heaven itself. The heat and wetness from your folds makes Sam lose awareness of his surroundings for a second. All his senses are focused on you. He feels like he’s on fire; blood pulsing hotly through his veins, each breath rushing through his chest like a dry wind sparking embers.
He pulls his fingers away, eliciting an instinctive whimper from you, your hips lifting off the bed.
Sam stares at his fingers, dumbstruck - he was glistening with your arousal in the moon light. He brings his fingers to his lips with a shaky exhale before putting them in his mouth. A low and broken moan escapes his chest as he sucks them, his tongue swirling his fingers, eyes fluttering shut like he was tasting and committing to memory something seraphic. It makes him want to cum right there.
“I’m gonna make a mess,” Sam moans your name hoarsely, his voice laced with both awe and heated reverence. “You taste so fucking good.”
Your chest is rising and falling rapidly with each second that passes with Sam’s face sitting right by your heat. Your eyes are locked with his, pupils blown wide out. Your mouth is gaping in desperation. He feels feral. Hungry.
Sam guides your legs to sit over his shoulders. Both of you shuffle slightly to get comfortable - he wants you both to be here for a long time.
His hands move to hold both your thighs so that they rest against his face. He drops his eyes from yours to stare at your core - arousal glistening across your folds and dripping down onto the mattress - and it stirs something possessive in him.
Sam lowers his head to your slit and breathes you in, nose brushing your slick warmth as he exhales a groan so low and guttural it rattles through your bones.
He’s changed his mind. This was definitely his new favourite view.
He starts slow, careful - Sam kisses the soft part of the inside of your left thigh, echoing on your right, before the tip of his tongue enters your sweet slit and slides down.
Dear God. The taste and scent of your core floods his mouth and nostrils. Your left hand flies from the side of you to cover your mouth, eyelids fluttering. You both whimper needily at the sensations; you into your hot palm and Sam into your heat.
But when he licks a long wet stripe from the bottom of your folds to your clit so slowly that your hips buck and a pornographic moan shatters from your lungs, Sammy can’t help himself.
You were just so responsive to him.
He does it again. Slow, thick, dragging. His tongue flattens and moves down and up the length of your folds, collecting everything - spit, slick, and heat. He groans, deep and rough, as he buries his face further into you like he’s starving.
Sam extends his tongue to lap at you, kitten licking and slurping at your slit, encouraging you to give him more of your slick wetness. Your body twitches at every roll of his tongue, every suck of his mouth. Sam’s eyes roll to the back of his head, his brows scrunching and curving in sheer desire, indulgence, and love.
He couldn’t see anything else outside of you. You were fisting the sheets, hips twisting and legs flexing.
“God, yes, Sammy, right there, right there, Sammy, fuck.” You cry quietly, grinding down against his face, “You’re so good, you’re doing so good, Sammy, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”
Sam ruts into the bed like an animal, fucking himself against the mattress. He can feel his rock hard cock pulsing and leaking with precum.
“Keep talking,”he begs weakly, voice muffled against your core, spit and arousal dripping down his chin, “Tell me…tell me how good it feels. I need to know I’m making you feel good, sweetheart, please.”
Fuck he hopes you’ll let him do this again.
Sam’s tempo increases as his tongue begins circling your clit, lightly sucking it to draw you deeper into his mouth. His nose is pressed firmly into you - he wants to suffocate on you.
Loose curls fall onto Sam’s forehead, dampened by a mixture of his sweat and your sweet arousal coating his face as you grind into him and he buries himself in you.
Neither of you can stop moaning.
His fingers are gripped hotly and tightly on the flesh of your soft thighs. He means to be gentle but he’s too desperate for you, and he knows there will be purple bruises there in the morning. He’ll kiss them tomorrow to say sorry if you let him.
Sam’s head moves with every roll and turn of your hips so that his mouth stays attached to your clit and folds. Listening to your breathing and feeling how your body moves, he’s learning that you really like when he licks the left side of your folds and rub his nose on your clit. Your mouth falls slack when he does that.
He kisses sloppily and hungrily up and down your heat, wetness smeared across his face and nose. His tongue slips down to your entrance to work inside you. A sharp, high-pitched moan falls from your lips. If you sound like this when he’s eating you out, he can’t wait to hear you when you cum.
“Sammy, I’m-I’m gonna…“ you breathe out, too flushed from the building pleasure to finish your sentence. He feels your body tense and moans at your movements. You were going to fall apart in front of him. God, he was about to do it. He was about to make you cum. He shoves his face further into your heat.
“Please, sweetheart,”he growls against you, vibrating through your wetness, “please cum for me.”
Your back arches off the bed, hands fisting Sam’s hair in pure ecstasy. “Sam…” you moan, uncontrollably, body shuddering. You take a loud inhale, mouth wide open and….
A hot wet flush spurts around Sam’s groin, jerking him awake.
“Fuck!” He swears quietly to himself.
His hips roll once, then still. He’s panting harshly as his eyes fly open. It’s pitch black. He can’t see anything. He pauses for a beat while his eyes adjust to the darkness. He can hear the ceiling fan still whirring above.
Did I just have a fucking wet dream?
Yes. Yes he did.
Sam groans quietly to himself, scrunching his brow in embarrassment and disappointment in himself.
That was stupid, Sam, stupid, he bullies himself.
Sam lifts himself onto his forearms, sweat dripping down his body onto the bed. When did I fall asleep? He turns his head to the left towards the window - to you - to see if you were awake, or even there. You are.
He can just see how your lips are parted slightly, nostrils moving lightly as you inhale and exhale soft breaths. You’re still asleep.
Jesus Christ.
The sheet is still covering both of you, but you’re curled towards him in a foetal position. Your right arm is outstretched, hand resting sweetly next to his pillow. It must have been quite close to his face…
Sam carefully slides his right leg out from under the covers and onto the floor first, then his other leg, as he gets out of the bed slowly so he doesn’t disturb you. God knows this would be the absolute worst time for you to wake up and see him like this.
The moving air current from the fan hits him like a winter’s gale, making him shiver.
He wobbles past Dean’s bed, who is deep in sleep and (of course) starfished across the mattress. Reaching for the bathroom door, Sam grabs the handle and turns it cautiously to open the door. He flails briefly for the bathroom light switch, finding it, then softly clicks the door shut behind him before turning it on.
Sam leans against the door, back pressed firm against the cold wooden frame and head repeatedly hitting it faintly.
I am in so much trouble.
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Oh my poor Sammy. Somebody give this man a cuddle.
If y’all enjoy this, I have plans for a second part, but let me know your thoughts!!
And to the lovely anon in my inbox with the Sam request - if you're reading this, I SEE YOU!! I am writing your request as we speak 💚💚💚
Mack with a reader who has a small chest 😛😛 like A/B cup
nsfw content below #ibtc
you're sprawled back against the headboard with your camisole twisted up from sleep, the thin cotton bunched beneath your collarbones, and macklin's cheek is pressed flat to your sternum, his messy hair tickling your chin while he makes these soft, broken little sounds—whimpers, really, breathy and reverent against your skin.
he'd climbed on top of you half an hour ago claiming he couldn't sleep, but now he's gone perfectly still, green eyes wide and glossy as they trace the small, soft swells of your breasts, barely filling his palms, delicate and sweet as fruit. "look at you," he breathes, voice cracking, and his fingertips hover, trembling, before he finally dares to touch, cupping you with such gentle pressure it's like he's handling something sacred. "you're so pretty here." his cheeks flush that deep, blotchy pink, rosacea spreading down his neck as he nuzzles between them, inhaling shakily. "so soft. god, you're soft."
he's whining again, that pathetic, needy little noise he makes when he's overwhelmed, and he drags his lips over the top curve of your left breast, pressing open-mouthed kisses to skin that barely rises above his lips. "perfect," he mumbles, more to himself than you, worshipful and dazed. "you're perfect like this. fit in my hands just right."
he demonstrates, spanning his fingers over you, thumbs brushing your nipples until they tighten, and he gasps like he's the one feeling it, eyes fluttering shut. "oh— sorry, did that hurt? i just— i need to touch, please, i can't stop looking." he doesn't wait for an answer before he's ducking down, latching his mouth over one small peak, suckling with a desperate, hungry sound that vibrates through your chest. he's clumsy, teeth grazing accidentally, but he pulls back immediately with a panicked, "ah! sorry, sorry, i didn't mean to," his lower lip wobbling, eyes wet. "you're just so little and pretty and i got excited."
you thread your fingers through his hair and guide him back, and he moans, relieved, nuzzling into you with his whole face. he switches to the other breast, lavishing attention with his tongue, lapping in slow, filthy circles even though there's not much to lap at, treating you like you're overflowing. "taste so good," he whimpers, the sound muffled against your skin. "smell so good. you're everything, you know that? i think about these all the time."
he presses his face between them, breathing hard, his cock hard and insistent against your thigh through his sweatpants but he doesn't rut, too busy being good, too busy drowning in the small warmth of you. "can i— can i just stay here? please? wanna sleep like this, with you in my mouth."
he's shaking, pathetic and sweet, and when you tug his hair he looks up at you with those glossy eyes, lips swollen and wet, chin shiny with his own drool. "you're so pretty," he repeats, like a prayer, like he can't comprehend his luck. "so pretty and small and mine." he rubs his cheek against your nipple, nuzzling, whining high in his throat when you arch into him.
"thank you for letting me look. thank you for letting me—" he breaks off, burying his face back into your chest, inhaling raggedly, his whole body trembling with the force of his adoration. "i love you," he gasps, voice cracking. "i love you so much, i love how you fit here, i love everything." he stays there, latched and blissed out, suckling gently until his eyes drift shut, utterly content to worship at the altar of your small, perfect chest until he falls asleep drooling on your skin.
synopsis: going back to ilia is a bad idea. you do it over and over again anyways. (3.7k)
warnings: SMUT, piv, oral(f), fingering, unprotected and also intoxicated sex, position is questionably physically possible cause ilia isn’t that big, possessiveness, toxic relationship, not explicitly happy ending, reader has another man’s tongue down their throat sorry not sorry
𐦂𖨆𐀪𖠋
your phone had buzzed five minutes ago.
it was still face down on your bedside table, and you were still laying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling above your bed like you had been for the past three hours trying to will yourself to sleep.
with a deep breath, you finally found the courage to sit up and turn it over, tears nearly welting in your eyes when you saw that it wasn’t him who had texted you.
of hurt or of relief, you weren’t sure.
what you were sure of is that you were gonna get over yourself, cause the message you did receive was from your friend.
an invite to go with her and the rest of your group to a bar downtown, drink til you couldn’t remember your name, and hopefully get laid by someone who wasn’t named ilia malinin.
so, even though it was nearing midnight and you’d been trying to sleep for god knows how long, you dragged yourself out of bed and put on a fresh face, styled your hair, and found what was likely the most revealing outfit you owned before stepping out the door and walking a few houses down to where everyone had been pregaming.
when you walked in the door, you were greeted by howls from the group, rapid snaps in place of applause, and a wide smirk from your closest friends
“oh, you came to play” she grinned, dragging you by the wrist to the kitchen island where dirty shot glasses and open bottles laid.
“i have no idea what you’re talking about” you hummed, fingers ghosting the tops of the bottles before you gripped the neck of some fireball and took a swig.
the burn brought tears to the corners of your eyes, and the flavour nearly crawled back up your throat from memories of your last rendezvous with the liquor, but once it all settled, all you could do was grin.
two rounds of kings court beer pong were held before everyone decided it was time to go, and the buzz had barely started hitting you beyond the flush of your cheeks and the decision to put your phone on do not disturb.
so, the first thing you did when you got settled in the bar was make yourself to the bartender, and look around before smiling shyly at him
he smiled back, rinsing out a glass with practiced ease and taking you in while he dried it off, smirking when your eyes drifted to the flex of his forearm while he worked around the inside of the glass
“what can i get for you?” he half-shouted, setting the glass down and tossing the cloth over his bare shoulder like this was some kind of tv show
you hummed, leaning in a little closer and letting your cleavage spill a little out of the top of your shirt before gazing up at him with wide eyes and false innocence.
“what’s your favourite?” you asked, gnawing at your lip and watching as his smile widened while he nodded, turning his back to you while he made the drink.
you were shameless in the way you watched, admiring the way his shoulders moved while he shook the drink, the way his back flexed when he reached for things, the sheen of sweat on his muscle catching in the light.
there was no attempt to mask your staring when he turned back around and flashed you another smile, handing you the drink.
“on the house, gorgeous. and uh, i get off in an hour if you wanna circle back. might stick around for a dance” he winked, fingers grazing yours as you took the glass from him and giggled, walking away without response.
when you made your way to the floor, you made quick work of finding your friend, immediately being met with a shake of a head and a laugh that you returned while putting your back to hers to dance
“did you even bring your wallet?” she yelled, leaning her head back on your shoulder so you could hear her in your ear while you moved back and forth
you responded with a quick shake of your head, a hum of “nuh uh” slipping past pressed lips earning another laugh.
like magic, new glasses would make their way into your hands throughout the night, servers waving you off and nodding in some direction, telling you who was sponsoring your nth drink.
and in about an hour, you’d made your way back to the bar counter while the bartender from earlier tugged his jacket on and smiled at you.
you’d only bitten your lip, eyes tracking him while he made his way around the counter and held out his hand for you
you gripped his wrist, dragging him to the middle of the floor before grabbing his jacket and pulling his chest to yours
he planted his hands on your waist, guiding you into the beat of the song. your noses were nearly touching, his breath fanning on your face softly and the smell of whiskey drifting through it
“i’m jack” he murmured, eyes flicking up to yours with a heat that meant you were definitely getting what you came for
you murmured your name, barely, before crashing your lips into his, feeling him grip you harder and tug your waist to his own.
and just as he was about to slip his tongue past your lips, you felt a tap on your shoulder.
you pulled back reluctantly, and glared not so subtly at your friend when she gave you an awkward grin
“sorry, i-“ she cleared her throat, guilt and a blush coating her face “i couldn’t find anyone else and i don’t want to use the bathroom alone”
she gave you eyes that were buried in urgency, and you knew she wasn’t telling the whole truth, so your eyes flickered up to jack.
you leaned into his ear, murmuring about how you’d be right back, and you kissed below it.
he grinned, vowing to get you another drink while you were gone, watching your hips with a smirk while you walked away from him
the bathroom door was barely closed before your friend started talking, and you were going to scold the shit out of her for potentially chasing away one very pretty bartender, and then you registered what she’d said.
“ilia’s here.” she rushed out, panicked eyes meeting yours.
it was like a splash of cold water to the face, and suddenly the drinks you’d downed on everyone else’s dollar that night felt like they had zero effect on you.
“what?” you said, tone a little sharper than you intended.
“ilia’s here. with like some college friends or something. and i’d say you should just leave quietly with whatever god of a man that was, but-“ she paused and your face fell
“but he saw me.” guilt covered her features once more, and she nodded, fidgeting with her rings
“and he doesn’t look like he’s a fan of you trying to move on.” she pursed her lips and you sighed, turning back to stare at the closed door like if you hoped hard enough, he’d just leave.
he wouldn’t, you knew that.
regardless, you turned back around with determination. “okay. fuck, okay i’m gonna leave,” you nodded, situating yourself.
“yeah, no, okay, i’ll round everyone up and get charlie to bring the car arou-“
“no.” you cut her off and she furrowed her eyebrows
“i’m leaving with jack. i dont care what ilia has to say anymore, i cant keep doing this” you sighed, and before she could try to stop you, try to convince you that maybe tonight wasn’t the night to try this, you were gone.
out the door and searching the crowd for the man who’d been keeping you company, just to find that he was nowhere to be found.
you leaned against the wall between the dance floor and the bathroom hallways, carding a hand through your hair with frustration and tears threatening to spill.
you blinked for barely a second and then-
“who was that?”
you froze.
you knew his voice anywhere, like it was engraved in your brain for the rest of time.
“his name is jack. where is he, what did you do,” you accused, turning to look at him with nothing but disdain and a bit of glass to your eyes
“his shift is over. he’s going home.” he said, so casually it made your head spin. what the hell was his problem.
you breathed out through your nose, trying to walk by him, but his hand was on your wrist and he was pulling you into a bathroom before you could even blink
“fuck off, malinin” you practically hissed, turning around to try and make your escape, but he knew you, and he was in your way by the time the thought to run even crossed your mind
“ilia. let me go.” you demanded, trying to push past him and instead feeling his hand on yours, clasping your wrists together and pinning you to the door with his hips, hands held high above your head.
you only clenched your jaw, glaring at him like it would make any difference, like he wasn’t enjoying every second of this act, of this lie you were trying to tell that made it seem like you weren’t exactly where you wanted to be, like you didn’t love this game.
he only smiled softly at you, one hand leaving your wrists to cup your face, thumb the material of your shirt. you tried to fight against the one hand left, to no avail.
“this is cute” he murmured, hand trailing down your waist and hip, picking up the edge of your skirt and nodding to it
“who were you trying to show off for, hm?” he blinked down at you, and you gulped
“i told you. his name’s jack.” you bit, like you wanted to spit on him for even being in your presence
he repeated the name, mouth turning down like the word tasted bitter on his tongue. then, he just shook his head
“mh. i don’t think so” he whispered, eyeing the outfit like a man starved, hand brushing against the bare skin of your thigh, the limb nearly lifting into his arm and around his hip from muscle memory alone
he felt the twitch, smirking softly.
“no, i think part of you hoped you could just come here, take some pictures, post them on your instagram for me,” he said, licking his lips
“for me to see, so that you could remind me what i was missing.” he continued, and you scoffed.
“that’s a little cocky coming from the guy who’s tongue wasn’t just down my throat” your eyes flicked to the side, towards the rest of the bar, the rest of the world that seemed to disappear when it was just the two of you.
you knew he’d seen. you knew it pissed him off. he was never very good at sharing, especially not you.
his tongue poked the inside of his mouth and he nodded, last three fingers dancing around your wrist with question.
“i’m gonna let these go, are you gonna behave?” he asked, condescending and mean and just the tone that made you melt into a pile beneath him every fucking time.
you shrugged “no promises” and he smiled, pulling his hand from yours and letting your arms fall. before you could shove him, or slap him, or punch his teeth out, for that matter, his hands were on your hips, lifting you above him with a chuckle of pure satisfaction when your legs hooked around him in surprise
his nose brushed your forehead, lips meeting the crevice of your eyebrow so gently, you nearly forgot why you were so against this, against him.
and when he pressed his forehead to yours, lips barely an inch away from your own, your eyes fluttered shut.
to ilia, that was an invitation. he grabbed your lower lip between his own, smile unmaskable against your mouth when you kissed back, sighing into him like he was oxygen and you’d been suffocating for weeks.
his tongue swiped into your mouth, body pressing your own harder against the door and arms wrapping below your thighs to carry you over to the sink, setting you down with a gasp when you pulled his shirt to get him closer
and then your fingers twitched, and you pulled away. shaking your head.
“we can’t do this, ilia. it’s a bad idea” he only smirked
“yeah but you’re having the time of your life, aren’t you?” and with your last plea to the gods that you could leave him, you placed your hands against his chest.
you rummaged through your pocket, bringing out a quarter and showing it to him, earning a raise of his eyebrow
“we let fate decide if this keeps going” you gulped, meeting his eyes and urging yourself not to throw the coin at the wall when his pupils were blown with lust, when you saw the sheen of spit on his kiss bitten lips.
you cleared your throat “heads we do this, tails we don’t” you nodded and he chuckled, shaking his head.
“how about, heads we go to yours, tails we go to mine” he stepped closer again, keeping eye contact while his palms soothed over the tops of your thighs.
you let out a shaky breath, no argument before you flipped the coin, watching as it bounced to the corner of the wall and ricocheted, getting lost in the depths of the room.
your eyes blew wide, to you, a sign that you definitely shouldn’t do this. but then he smiled, leaned into your ear
“guess that means i’m taking you right here, then,” he hummed, legs hitting the counter while he dragged you closer, ignoring your worried whisper of his name while his mouth found yours again.
and you couldn’t. couldn’t will him away anymore, not when you were so enthralled, not when his mouth was claiming you like you belonged to him, definitely not when his hands slid up under your shirt and his thumb slid so gently under the strap of your bra before he unhooked it
so you just gave in. every part of you, hips rolling to get closer to him, fingers tangling into his hair, then dragging down his back, then tugging at the hem of the mesh shirt he knew drove you insane
you were whining into his mouth like he hadn’t put you through the wringer, like he wasn’t the reason for too many breakdowns, benders and missed assignments.
his hands gripped you so tight it was almost territorial, his mouth only drifting from your own to kiss down your neck and shoulder, using his nose to brush your unclasped bra off one shoulder
and then he bit. sunk his teeth into delicate skin in a way that made you whimper, curl your hands back into his hair. maybe to pull him off, maybe to keep him there.
you sighed shakily when he sucked on the spot, blinking rapidly in some sort of euphoric shock that nobody else could bring you.
“ilia-“ you started, a soft tug on his curls telling him it probably wasn’t the greatest idea to mark you full of him in a bar bathroom, but he just huffed against the curve of your neck, sucking harder.
then he moved down, digging his hands into your hair now, pulling your head to the side for better access, teeth nipping at your neck, shoulder, and then the top of your tits, cause why else would they be exposed for him?
his fingers were hooked into the waist of your skirt by the time his mouth made its way back to yours, tongue claiming you again while he all but ripped your bottoms off, fingers dancing around your folds and his moan vibrating in your mouth when he felt how wet you were.
“knew it” he mumbled, curling a finger into you, his thumb making tight circles on your clit.
“you fucking love this,” he pulled his hand away, only spitting on his fingers before giving them back to you, his eyes hooded and glossed with greed when you whined, head tilting back against the mirror just perfectly for him to see the shine of where his tongue had been on your skin
“tell me.” he prodded another finger inside you, curling them upward while his heart beamed at the way you cried out, a hand reaching down to grip his wrist while you nodded absentmindedly
“i love it, i love it, i, aah. fuck, ilia” you squirmed, and he peeled your hand away from his wrist, kneeling on the ground to meet your clit with his tongue, groaning into you as the taste hit his tongue
your thighs clamped around his head, hand gripping his hair to keep his nose smooshed into your clit when his tongue explored lower, prodding into your entrance along with his fingers, that were still curling against spots that made you see stars.
“ilia,” you cried, desperate for him, so, so, gone that even if this was what’s his face the bartender, you’d be crying for ilia anyways.
he had you trapped in this cycle
and for good, good reason.
when he felt it, the flutter of your core around that always told him you were teetering right on the edge, he pried your thighs apart and pulled away.
“no, no, ilia please-“ you looked up at him sadly when he stood back up, reaching for him. his hands, anything that could replace the stimulation he just ripped away at the last second
“shh, kisa.” he kissed you softly, the nickname he’d give you oh so long ago making you mind go numb, a slow nod following and receiving a soft smile
he cupped your face, thumb pulling your lip down and watching it bounce back into place “so pretty, kisa” he mumbled, pecking your lips again before he lifted you off the counter and turned you around, ridding you of your shirt and bra while you looked at yourself in the mirror
you were ruined. hair frizzy and parted in all sorts of directions, makeup melted and smudged, lips red and swollen.
but it didn’t matter when ilia’s hand came up and tweaked the peaks of your nipple, other hand grabbing your jaw and turing your head.
you whimpered at the sight of the side of your neck, covered in splotchy, still wet purple love bites that you’d never be able to hide.
he looked into your eyes through the mirror, licking his lips.
“mine.” he stated, parting your legs with his knee before slipping inside you without warning, burying himself to the hilt and earning a squeal from your lips.
“hm?” he hummed, and kissed your shoulder, placed his hand on top of the one you had gripping the counter with a gentleness that would never be fucking you in a bathroom mirror. “you’re mine, yeah?”
and before you could even answer, his hips rolled into yours at that slow, determined pace that always tore you apart.
every thrust heavy and hard, but with a drag that made it impossible not to feel every ridge of him inside you.
“ngh. yours, m’ yours, ilia,” you moaned, and he smiled against your shoulder, peppering more sweet kisses there while he lifted you against him by the waist, protecting your hip bones from slamming against the edge of the counter
“good girl,” he cooed softly, thumb running against the lower half of your stomach where he bulged every now and then from the angle he was at.
you tried to put a hand over your mouth and he immediately ripped it off, shaking his head.
“no, kisa. sound so pretty on my cock, hm? just enjoy it” he whispered, punctuated by one particularly rough thrust that had you crying out, knuckles turning white against the counter
“there she is, atta girl,” he huffed, feeling the way you clenched around him and moaning right into your ear
“so fucking good” he gasped, tightening his grip around your waist.
and all you could do was mime him, murmuring a “so good” behind the cries of pleasure that he was pulling out of you.
“yeah? y’ getting close, baby?” he asked, nipping at your ear and smirking when you nodded violently, hand gripping the forearm that was around you.
“ilia” you gasped, nails digging in while you started to fall apart in his arms, crying out his name repeatedly, stuttering at the new, sped up pace of his hips while he tried to ruin you
your mouth fell open and you fell silent, only shaky breaths and whiney gasps tumbling out of your mouth as you gushed around him, felt him slow down, felt the warmth of his cum panting your walls.
you were both breathless, panting heavily while he held you close, looking up at you through the mirror to see your mascara running down your cheeks and your face still contorted in pure bliss. you brought your extra hand back to the counter, eyes finally fluttering open to look at him
“oh my god.” you breathed out. “you’re such a dick.” he only chuckled, smirking softly
“you love it.” he let go of your waist slowly, bracing you against the counter while he pulled out, hissing at the cool air and the sensitivity.
he pulled his pants back up, going over to the paper towel dispenser and eyeing the ground, smiling.
the shine of the coin caught his eye and he picked it up, keeping it flat on one palm while he dampened the towel and cleaned your thighs.
“heads. guess we’re going to yours.” he whispered, winking at you in the mirror.
you swallowed. remembering your utterance of ‘heads we do this’.
he didn’t seem to notice the thought dawning on you, only pulled your panties and skirt on for you gently.
“is the key still under the mat?” he asked, carding a hand through your hair and kissing your nose.
Summary: the break up happened for a reason, and yet neither one of you seems to be able to let go.
Warnings: 18+ Only – Explicit sexual content, oral sex (f), unprotected sex (internal finish), dirty talk, dominance/praise, mild degradation, jealousy, possessiveness, emotional manipulation, mutual toxicity, repeated breakup-makeup cycle, references to breakup trauma, fear of abandonment, career-vs-relationship conflicts, alcohol use, hurt/slight comfort
[a/n] it’s 2 am I’m not editing this, thanks for understanding
You told yourself you were done. That you weren’t going to do this again. That last time had been the last time.
You’d said that last time.
But it’s not really your fault, right? You’re on the same team. It’s hard to avoid him.
At least, that’s how you justify being in his bed right now.
It was supposed to be a simple night. Team USA had taken home gold in the team event; going out to celebrate was the obvious next step.
You knew when you agreed to that club that Ilia Malinin would be there.
You knew that being in the same place as him with a couple drinks in your system could end in disaster. You told yourself it was fine. You could handle it.
You didn’t know you’d see him from across the room, hands on the hips of some blonde girl he was dancing with.
And something inside you snapped.
The music pounded through your ribs, bass shaking the floor, lights flashing blue and red across the half-zipped Team USA jackets thrown over chairs. People screamed and laughed, phones held high, taking blurry videos.
You should’ve been happy.
Team USA had just taken gold. You’d stood on the podium together hours ago. You’d cried. You’d hugged him.
You’d told yourself that hug meant nothing.
Now he was laughing at something the girl said, leaning down so she could hear him better, his hand sliding lower on her waist.
Oh.
Oh absolutely not.
You grabbed the first guy who’d been hovering near you all night — some pairs skater from another country who’d made his interest obvious — and let him pull you into the crowd.
Fine. You could play this game too.
You let your hands rest on his shoulders. Let him spin you. Let yourself laugh a little louder than the joke deserved.
You didn’t look at Ilia.
You didn’t need to.
You felt it.
The shift in the air. The way the energy across the room changed.
And then—
A hand closed around your wrist.
Firm. Familiar. Calloused in places you knew by memory.
You didn’t even have to turn around.
“Outside. Now.”
You slowly looked over your shoulder.
His jaw was tight, eyes darker than they’d been on the ice earlier.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” you said evenly.
He leaned closer, voice low in your ear, the music swallowing his words for everyone but you.
“You think I’m going to stand there and watch you let him touch you like that?”
Your heart stuttered.
You smiled sweetly. “You were doing just fine watching five minutes ago.”
His grip tightened just slightly.
“That’s different.”
You laughed. “How?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he pulled you through the crowd, weaving between bodies and flashing lights, toward the back hallway by the bathrooms and the emergency exit — quieter, dimmer, the bass now a muffled thud behind concrete walls.
The second the door swung shut behind you, the air changed.
You crossed your arms. “What’s your problem?”
“My problem?” He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once like he was in the middle of a competition meltdown. “You’re grinding on some random guy like I’m not standing right there.”
“You were literally holding her.”
“I wasn’t—” He cut himself off, jaw flexing. “That’s not the same.”
You stepped closer.
“Why not, Ilia?”
He hated when you said his name like that.
“You don’t get to be jealous,” you continued. “You don’t get to act possessive. We broke up, remember?”
Silence.
His eyes flicked to your mouth.
“You’re not with him,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t a question.
You tilted your head. “Why? You jealous?”
He stepped forward until your back brushed the wall.
“You know I am.”
Honesty from him always hit like a punch to the gut.
For a split second, the mask dropped.
Then you recovered.
“You don’t get to be,” you whispered.
His hands came up to either side of your head, palms flat on the wall, caging you in without touching you.
“I don’t want you with anyone else.”
Your heart betrayed you. It always did with him, beating too fast for someone you swore you were over.
“You don’t want me,” you shot back. “You just don’t want anyone else to have me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then what is?”
He swallowed.
Because the truth was ugly.
You’d both chosen skating.
Training schedules. International competitions. Media. Pressure.
There wasn’t room for a relationship that needed softness and time and stability.
You both burned too hot.
“I can’t do a relationship right now,” he said, quieter now. Honest. “But I can’t—” His jaw clenched. “I can’t watch you move on either.”
There it was.
The selfishness.
The vulnerability.
You should’ve pushed him away.
Instead, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him down.
The kiss wasn’t gentle.
It was months of unfinished arguments and unsent texts and late-night “are you awake?” calls and pretending you didn’t still memorize each other’s competition schedules. His mouth crashed into yours, all heat and fury and familiarity.
His hands were in your hair instantly, fingers threading through and tugging just enough to make you gasp. Yours fisted in his jacket, dragging him closer like you could anchor yourself with the fabric.
You bit his lower lip lightly, pulling a muffled groan from him. It went straight to your stomach.
He kissed you like he was trying to remind you exactly who you belonged to.
He broke away only to trail his lips down your jaw to your neck. You exhaled sharply, breath growing heavy as his mouth found your pulse point, lips and teeth dragging across sensitive skin.
His hands slid down the curve of your spine to your lower back, stopping just before they could settle on your ass. Always right on the line. Always almost.
He bit down gently on the skin just barely covered by your costume and sucked, heat blooming under the surface.
“Ilia—” you breathed.
“Come back with me,” he murmured against your skin, words hot and muffled.
“To the Village?”
He nodded, nose brushing your neck.
You hesitated.
This was the cycle.
The gravity you always fell back into.
You should say no.
Instead—
“Fine.”
He pulled his lips away from your neck, his hand finding yours like it had never left. Fingers lacing easily, muscle memory.
And that was the real problem.
The walk back to the Olympic Village is quieter than it should be.
You’re both slightly drunk, adrenaline still humming from the win, from the club, from the fight. The night air is cool against your overheated skin. His hand is still wrapped around yours.
That’s the part that makes your chest tighten.
Neither of you mentions it.
Security waves you through. Athletes drift past in small, laughing clusters, medals catching the streetlights. Someone calls Ilia’s name; he barely glances over his shoulder.
His focus stays on you.
Inside, the fluorescent lighting is harsher. You should let go of his hand now.
You don’t.
The elevator ride is suffocating.
You can feel him beside you — the heat radiating off his body, the faint mix of sweat, cologne, and that lingering ice-rink cold that never really leaves him.
He presses the button for his floor.
You stare straight ahead.
“You were really going to let him take you home,” he says quietly as the doors slide shut.
You scoff. “You were really going to take her.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
His jaw tightens.
“Don’t act like you don’t do the same thing,” you say. “You dance with girls to see if I’m watching.”
His eyes flick toward you.
“And you always are.”
The elevator dings.
The doors open.
You step out first.
You know the way to his room by heart. You’ve walked this hallway too many times — after wins, after fights, after nights when neither of you could sleep knowing the other was just down the hall.
He unlocks the door.
The second you’re inside, the air shifts again.
The door barely clicks shut before it starts.
“You don’t get to pull me out like that,” you snap, spinning on him. “I am not your property.”
“Oh my god,” he fires back, hands flying up. “You were practically in his lap.”
“You were holding that girl like she was yours!”
“I was dancing!”
“So was I!”
The room feels smaller. Hotter. The walls too close.
He paces once, jaw rigid. “You knew I was watching.”
“And you knew I was watching,” you shoot back.
“That’s different.”
“Why?” you demand. “Because you’re you?”
He steps toward you. “Because you don’t look at anyone the way you look at me.”
Your breath stutters — but you don’t let it show.
“You don’t know that.”
He laughs once, bitter. “I do.”
You shake your head, frustration buzzing under your skin. “You don’t get to be territorial when you’re the one who ended this.”
“You think I wanted to?”
“You did it.”
“Because we were killing each other!” he snaps. “We were fighting every week. You cried after practice more times than I can count.”
“Because I missed you!”
The words land between you.
Heavy.
He stills.
“And I missed you,” he says, but it comes out rough, defensive. “But I’m not going to tank my career because we don’t know how to handle being busy.”
“I never asked you to tank anything.”
“You didn’t have to,” he says. “You’d look at me like I was choosing skating over you every time I left for a competition.”
“Because you were!”
His eyes flash. “And you weren’t doing the exact same thing?”
That hits.
You open your mouth — then shut it.
Silence.
“You don’t get to act like you’re the only one who sacrificed,” he continues, his voice lower now but sharper. “I skipped recovery days to see you. I stayed up until three on FaceTime before early practices. I tried.”
“You stopped trying.”
“No,” he says instantly. “I stopped pretending we weren’t drowning.”
Your chest tightens.
“You don’t get to show up tonight and act like I don’t matter,” he adds.
You blink. “What?”
“You let him touch you just to get at me.”
“And you didn’t?” you challenge.
He steps closer. Too close.
“Yeah,” he admits. “I did.”
The honesty knocks you off balance.
“I wanted you to feel it,” he says. “I wanted you to see me with someone else and realize you can’t just walk away and expect me to wait around.”
“I didn’t walk away!” you shout. “You did!”
The words ricochet off the walls.
For a moment, neither of you breathe.
Then, softer, dangerously calm, he says, “You didn’t fight me.”
Your stomach drops.
“What?”
“When I said we should end it,” he says, eyes locked on yours, “you cried. But you didn’t fight me.”
You stare at him.
“You think that didn’t destroy me?” you whisper. “You had already decided.”
“I was scared.”
“Of me?”
“Of failing,” he snaps back. “Of resenting you if I didn’t land something because I was distracted. Of you resenting me when I wasn’t there. I was scared of loving you and losing everything.”
You swallow hard.
“So you chose losing me first.”
The silence that follows is different.
Less explosive.
More dangerous.
He steps even closer, closing the last inches until your back hits the wall.
“You think this doesn’t kill me?” he says, voice low now, not yelling — just intense. “You think I don’t wake up and check if you posted anything? You think I didn’t see you crying in the kiss-and-cry last month and want to be the one holding you?”
Your anger wavers.
“You don’t get to say that,” you whisper.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t get to be both the one who leaves and the one who cares.”
His hands come up, bracing on the wall beside your head again.
“I never stopped caring.”
Your heart beats so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.
“Then why,” you breathe, “did you look at her like that?”
His jaw tightens.
“Because I was trying to make you jealous.”
You blink.
“That’s pathetic.”
“Yeah,” he says, no hesitation.
The tension shifts.
Not gone.
Just redirected.
“You don’t get to touch anyone else,” he says suddenly, the anger cooling into something darker.
“You don’t own me.”
“I know.”
“But you don’t want anyone else to have me.”
His eyes drop to your mouth.
“No.”
The air thickens.
“You don’t get to have it both ways,” you whisper.
“Then tell me what to do,” he challenges, voice softer but no less intense.
Your pulse spikes.
“Fight for me,” you say before you can stop yourself.
His breath falters.
“Or let me go,” you finish.
For a second, you’re sure he’s going to step back.
Instead, his hand slides to your waist, fingers curling into your skin.
“You think I don’t want to fight for you?” he asks, voice barely above a murmur. “I just don’t know how to do it without losing something.”
Your hands are on his chest now. You don’t remember putting them there.
“You already lost something,” you whisper.
That lands. You can see it.
And that’s when it happens.
He kisses you.
Hard.
It’s not sweet. It’s not careful. It’s frustration and months of tension and unsaid “I love you”s crashing together all at once.
You kiss him back immediately.
Angry.
Needy.
Your hands fist in his shirt, dragging him closer. His grip tightens on your waist like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he loosens it.
It’s messy. Breathless. Desperate.
You break apart just long enough to glare at him.
“You’re such an idiot.”
“Yeah,” he breathes, already leaning back in.
The second kiss is slower — but heavier. Charged. Less about winning, more about remembering.
He softens first.
His hand slides from your waist to your hair, fingers threading through and cradling the back of your head. His thumb brushes your cheek instead of digging in.
The anger melts at the edges.
What’s left is something quieter. More dangerous.
You pull back first this time.
Your foreheads rest together, both of you breathing hard.
“This is so unhealthy,” you murmur.
“Probably.”
“You make me insane.”
“You make me worse,” he says softly
His thumb traces your jawline — calloused from grips and landings, rough against your skin in a way that makes your breath hitch. It's not gentle. It's deliberate, like he's mapping territory he still claims.
"Don't," you whisper again, but your body betrays you, leaning into the touch.
"You don't want me to," he murmurs, voice gravelly, eyes locked on yours with that intensity that always undoes you.
The denial dies on your lips.
Then there's no space left. His hand cups the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a firm tug that sends sparks down your spine. His mouth crashes into yours — hot, demanding, tasting faintly of club whiskey and the mint gum he chews before competitions.
It's messy from the start. No tentative exploration. Just months of pent-up frustration pouring out — lips bruising, teeth grazing your lower lip hard enough to sting. You gasp into it, and he takes the opening, tongue sweeping in deep, possessive, like he's starving and you're the only thing that ever filled him up.
Your hands fist in his shirt, yanking him closer until your bodies collide — chest to chest, the heat of him searing through thin fabric. His free hand slides to your waist, fingers splaying wide over your hip bone, digging in just enough to anchor you against the wall. The pressure makes you arch into him instinctively, hips pressing forward until you feel every hard line of him — the ridges of his abs from endless core work, the insistent press of his arousal against your thigh.
He groans low into your mouth — a sound that vibrates through you — and breaks away just long enough to drag his lips down your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin under your ear. His breath is ragged, hot against your neck as his teeth scrape your pulse point, then suck hard enough to leave a mark you'll have to hide tomorrow. "Mine," he breathes there, the word muffled, possessive, even as his hand slips lower, palming your ass and pulling you flush against him.
You moan — can't help it — the sound pulling another growl from him. Your nails rake down his back under his jacket, feeling the flex of muscle beneath, the faint ridges of old training scars. It's frantic now, kisses turning sloppy as you tilt your head back, giving him better access. His mouth works your throat, collarbone, the exposed curve above your costume's neckline — licking, biting, soothing with open-mouthed kisses that leave your skin tingling, flushed.
But then it shifts. Slows. He pulls back just enough to look at you — foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in sharp pants. His eyes are wrecked, pupils blown wide, a strand of dark hair falling over them. One hand cradles your face now, thumb brushing your swollen lip, almost tender amid the wreckage. The other stays firm on your hip, thumb circling slow, teasing circles that make your core clench.
"This is so fucked up," you breathe, voice wrecked, even as your fingers trace the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the stubble rasp against your palm.
"Yeah," he agrees, husky, leaning in to steal a slower kiss — less war, more worship. His tongue traces yours languidly this time, savoring, while his hand slides up your side, thumb grazing the underside of your breast through fabric. It's electric, intimate, the kind of touch that remembers every curve.
You melt into it, legs weakening as you hook one thigh around his hip, pulling him impossibly closer. His hand supports you there, gripping your thigh with skater's strength, bodies rocking together in a rhythm that's all instinct — grinding, needy, the friction building heat that pools low in your belly.
He breaks for air again, lips hovering over yours, noses brushing. "Tell me to stop," he whispers, but his hips don't stop rolling against you, deliberate, torturous.
You don't. Instead, you surge up, capturing his mouth in a kiss that's all tongue and teeth and whispered curses between breaths — "fuck, Ilia" "please," his name like a plea. Hands everywhere now: yours shoving his jacket off his shoulders, feeling the broad span of his back; his tunneling under your top, calluses dragging deliciously over bare skin, cupping your breast, thumb flicking your nipple until you whimper into his mouth.
It's endless, consuming — anger burned out, leaving only this raw, aching need. Sweaty, breathless, marked.
His hands hook underneath your thighs lifting you up, never removing his lips from yours. You guys stumble through the room until your back is pressed against the mattress.
He finally removes his lips from yours, swollen and red. He reaches for the hem of your top before stilling. “Can I take this off?” Your breath stills in your throat nodding. He shakes his head lightly “no baby, I need words.”
“Please take it off.” It comes out whinier than intended, but he makes quick work pulling the shirt over your head before reaching up to pull his own shirt off.
He connects your lips again. Softer and quicker this time. “You’re so pretty.” He mumbled against your lips groping your chest.
He trailed his mouth down your neck and chest drawing soft moans from you before reaching your stomach, kissing it gently as he pulled your skirt off.
His fingers traced light circles around your clit over top of your underwear. “Ilia-“ you choked out “stop teasing me and just fuck me.”
He huffed out a laugh at your desperation, “you’re so fucking needy.” But he started pulling down the last of your clothes anyway.
Your body shivered as the cold hit you, his fingers working their way up your thighs again. His head dipped down to leave soft kisses along your thighs and in between your legs. “Fuck” you groaned.
Ilia moved onto his knees pulling you closer to the edge, tongue licking a strip across your pussy making soft whines slip out. His tongue drew soft circles around your clit before he closed around it sucking lightly.
Your hand immediately flew to his blonde hair, back arching slightly at the sudden direct contact. “Jesus Christ” you groaned.
Hearing your noises only motivated him more, slipping two fingers in and moving them the exact way he knew you liked from the countless times he’s been in this exact position before. Your moans only growing more intense cutting the silence around you.
His lips disconnected from your clit. “Think his touch would ever be this good?” He mumbled against your body the vibrations sending waves through you.
You shook your head rapidly. “No.” He said, his voice low. “I need you to say it.” Never once letting up on his work down there.
That sent a surge of heat to your core. God you hated how attractive it was.
“No.” You moaned out. His mouth disconnected from your clit again. “No what baby?”
You let out a frustrated groan. “No he wouldn’t feel this good.”
You could feel his smirk against your warm body, “that’s right, good girl.” His praise only sent you closer to the edge as his tongue eagerly lapped your wetness.
Your hands pulled tighter at his scalp, forcing low groans out of his throat. Any thoughts of keeping your volume down had gone out the window as his fingers and mouth brought you closer to finishing.
“Ilia- fuck, please, I’m so close.” You whimpered, thighs tightening around his face. And just as quickly as he started his mouth left your body, desperate whines escaping you before you could stop them.
He quickly discarded the pants and boxers he was wearing, “move up more and turn around.” He demanded, hand stroking his own cock.
You groaned, head leaning back. “Ilia please” you complained but scooted up towards the headboard anyway.
His body crawled over top of yours, connecting your lips again, hand moving to toy with your nipple.
He broke away just slightly “there’s no more condoms” he mumbled against your lips.
You should care. “I don’t care, please I need you.” You whispered against him instead.
That was enough for him to grip your hips, flipping you over. “You have to be quiet.” He said, tip teasing your entrance. “Don’t want anyone else hearing you.”
“Oh my god” Your voice dripping in annoyance “just hurry up and-“ he rammed into you before you could even finish your sentence, drawing out a sharp moan.
“Fuck oh my god” you moan out as you feel him stretching your walls. His relentless pace hitting the perfect spot inside you.
“Please, fuck, ilia.” You beg.
His grip on your hips tightened enough you could swear he was gonna leave bruises on them. “God you sound so good begging for my cock.” His voice panting. “You like the way it feels filling you up, dont you pretty girl.
“Yes, fuck, ilia.” You say through breathless moans. “You feel so good.” The small praises he gave you while pounding into you went straight to your heated core.
“I know, baby.” He moaned out “such a slut for it aren’t you.” His hand tangled itself at the base of your scalp.
You couldn’t help the tears that pricked your eyes. “I’m gonna cum please.” Your voice breaking and breathless.
“Such a good girl, cumming around my dick.” He mumbled through pants
The familiar coil in your stomach tightened before cracking open.
“Fuck oh my god.” You said louder than you intended “Ilia- feels so good.” You cried out into the pillow underneath your head.
You could feel his dick twitching as you clenched around him.
“Shit-“ he threw his head back groaning. “Tell me where you want to me to cum right now.”
Your whimpers filled the room “inside please-“ desperate to feel his release despite how bad of an idea it was.
Ilia didn’t seem to mind either, his hand gripping your ass as you felt his hot cum filling you up.
“Fuck- you feel so good” he moaned out riding his high.
You groan softly as he pulls back, shifting to pull you against his chest. Your breathing is heavy, eyes half-lidded as exhaustion sets in.
“You okay?” he pants, fingers threading through your hair.
“Mhm.” You nod weakly. He links his hand with yours, lifting it to press a soft kiss to your knuckles.
“We’ve gotta stop doing this,” you whisper, eyes drifting shut.
“I don’t wanna.” He plants a kiss on your forehead. “You look like you’re gonna pass out, baby. Stay here?”
You think for just a second.
You should say no.
You want to say no.
But instead, your head nods yes.
Ilia pulls you closer, his hand tracing lazy patterns up and down your spine. “Anything you want, love.”
Love.
He stopped calling you that right after the breakup.
In any other moment, you’d tense, push back, tell him he has no right.
But you’re already half-asleep, and he’s so warm. So instead, you let out a soft hum, letting your body succumb to sleep in his arms.
❀ Warnings: NSFW, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, alcohol, club setting, social smoking, sex, crying, mental health issues, fwb
❀ Summary: You meet him at a club and what should end as a one night stand unravels into something much more than that.
❀ Note: Sooo feels like everyone in this community has gotten stuck on the club scenarios and tbh I kinda love it. Anyways, this is quite horny but also very sweet so I hope you enjoy!
❀ °˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖° ❀
You meet him under neon lights where music plays so loudly you can’t hear your own thoughts. Hot bodies press against each other and you keep getting pushed back and forth trying to make your way outside for a breather and maybe a cigarette if you can convince someone to give one to you.
He catches you by the wrist when someone pushes past you, knocking you off your feet and right into him. His drink spills over a little as he stumbles to catch you.
“Woah, careful!” He half-heartedly shouts after the guy who almost knocked you over. The rude guy doesn’t even acknowledge Ilia’s words, pushing on through the crowd.
Ilia turns to you instead, steadying you against his chest.
“You okay?” He asks, the words spoken against your ear to make you hear the words over the music. You nod, half shouting a thanks before you push away and continue your way outside.
You meet him again outside a while later, a cigarette between your lips as you’re searching your pockets and bag for a lighter. He promptly shoves a hand in his friend's pocket and fishes a lighter out, holding it out for you.
“Thanks,” you mumble, leaning closer, holding the cigarette between your lips as you light it in the flame he’s holding out for you. He can’t tear his eyes away from the sight.
He shoves the lighter back into his friend’s pocket and nods. “No worries,” he replies a little hoarse and raises his glass in a small toast. You breath in a long drag, letting the smoke curl around you as you breathe it out. You hold it out for him but he shakes his head.
“Thanks, but I’m good,” he nods, sipping his drink instead.
You put the cigarette back between your own lips then with a sort of finality, “Suit yourself.” He stays beside you as you finish the borrowed cigarette, offering you his Cosmopolitan when you eye it as he brings it to his lips. It’s not awkward, well it’s a little awkward, but mostly it’s a comfortable silence, a quiet moment of fresh, cold air and peoplewatching. His bandana is a bit crooked and you reach out before you can even think about it and push it up again. He lets his gaze linger on your face as you do so, not looking away even when he brings his cup up to drink.
“What?” You wonder, a little dazed but a soft smile resting easily on your lips. He shrugs.
“Nothing,” he insists.
You raise an eyebrow in disbelief. “You don’t look at someone like that if it’s nothing.”
That has a faint blush dust his cheeks and he averts his gaze, turning to look out over the sea of people instead. You wait for him to continue but he doesn’t elaborate at all.
“Come on,” you prompt. “Out with it.”
Ilia turns to you again, giving you a long look. Then he steps forward, fast enough to catch you off guard but slow enough to give you time to pull away. When you don’t, his lips come crashing down on yours. Your hands tangle in his hair, he seems to place his drink away somewhere, or maybe he just lets it go, because both his arms wrap around your middle, hands pressed flat against your back and holding you impossibly close. His lips are warm against yours, the taste of cranberry and cigarette smoke mixes together in some sort of messy concoction, but god it’s so fucking hot.
You pull away first but only enough to suck in some air between your kiss swollen lips.
“You don’t even know my name,” you manage to get out in between your gasping breaths. “I don’t know yours.”
At the same time he lets out a low groan, “You’re so fucking gorgeous.” It has a blush dusting your cheeks and a shy smile spreading on your face. He mouths a kiss to the corner of your lips, eyes fluttering close.
“Ilia,” he breathes out against your cheek. It has a shiver running down your spine.
“I’m Y/N.”
He nods once, trying your name on his tongue but you can’t fully hear him say it. Then he’s back against your lips, a little softer now, not as desperate, but still hungry.
”Get me out of here?” You ask between his kisses. He nods eagerly, pulling away, leaning in to steal one last kiss, and then he grabs your hand in his and starts pulling you towards the exit. You fumble for your phone with your free hand, sending a message to your friends that you’re leaving.
“Yours or mine?” He wonders.
“Whatever’s closest,” you decide. “I’m half an hour walk away.”
He tugs you in the opposite direction of your home at that. “I’m only 15 away,” he explains.
He leads you home, hand clasped in his and you exchange giggling small talk and stolen kisses here and there. You learn that he’s got two cats at home, he likes video games and recently got himself a real pc for gaming, that he’s a professional athlete doing figure skating on an Olympic level and suddenly you feel very small beside him. He notices.
“Hey,” he nudges you with his shoulder. “I’m just a guy like any other.”
You shake your head in disbelief, “No you’re not.”
“Maybe not in every way,” he agrees with a shrug. “But in most ways that matters.”
You smile softly. “What ways matter?”
You pass under a streetlight, he pulls you a little closer.
“Like this, right here,” he nods, gesturing between you. “Right here, right now, I’m just…”
“Ilia,” you finish softly for him. And even though you’ve known him for all of 45 minutes, something deeper settles between you.
The rest of the short walk is filled with soft small talk and way too romantic gestures for a one night stand. He twirls you around when you’re walking across a bridge bathed in golden city lights and twinkling stars.
When he finally opens the door to his flat for you, you step inside, kick your shoes off and let him drag you inside to his bedroom. You fall back on the bed and Ilia doesn’t waste a second to climb over you, capturing your lips in a kiss, hands wandering along your sides and playing with the hem of your shirt.
“Fuck-“ he mutters as you pull away from the kiss to pull your shirt over your head and toss it on the floor. “You’re stunning.” He’s back to kissing you in a second, mouthing a line of kisses along your jawline, across your cheek and then finally capturing your lips. His mouth on yours is warm and his hands leave a burning sensation in their wake as they travel your skin.
“Please,” you gasp into his mouth and he smirks slightly at your reaction. The tip of his fingers have dipped into your waistline, tugging teasingly. You fist the material of his shirt, tugging at it and he pulls the shirt over his head and drops it on the floor.
A whine slips past your lips as he tugs your waistline down a little, pressing kisses to your lower stomach.
“Come on.” It’s breathy and needy, but god, he loves it.
At his insistent looks you lift your hips so that he can slide your jeans down your legs, leaving you in only your underwear. Your knees fall apart at their own accord, letting him settle against you, hips pressing into yours and pulling a moan from you.
“Just fuck me already,” you beg, a mumble against his lips as he devours your mouth with his.
He chuckles, “Eager are we?” It’s teasing but his hands still slide down your body, tugging your panties off and pressing the pads of his fingers against your core. You mewl at the contact, hips bucking up to meet him and he groans at the feeling of how wet you are.
“You just- gosh, you sure take your time,” you groan as he slips a finger inside. It doesn’t take long before he slips another in, as if he’s decided to prove your previous statement wrong.
“I’ll try to hurry up.” The promise is a whisper against your collarbone. As he scissors you open he mouths wet kisses down along your body, across your chest, over both nibbles, sucking lightly on them, down along your ribcage and sides, over your navel and hips, to the inside of your thighs as your legs fall open more for him. Then, finally, as he curls his finger inside of you, he presses a kiss to your core, sucking messily on your juices that are dripping down on his sheets. You bite down on a scream at the sensation, hips bucking and knees instinctively closing around his head.
“Fuck-“ you moan, tangling your hands in his hair as he eats you out.
“You taste so good,” he groans into your core, pressing his tongue into you and curling his fingers just right. The sensation has your hips twitching and the knot in your stomach finally unravels and you cum on his tongue with a loud moan that you try to muffle behind your hand.
He reaches up to pull your hand away, “Please don’t.”
He works you through your high until you’re almost scrambling away from him in overstimulation. Then he crawls up your body again, kissing you, sweeter this time, but the taste of yourself on his lips make it almost pornographic.
Feeling like you haven’t put very much effort into this hookup, you reach down between your bodies, slipping your hand past his waistband and grasping him in your hand. He’s hard and heavy, and he groans against your lips at the feeling of your hand around him.
“Fucking hell-“ he laughs breathlessly but it bleeds into a long groan as you begin working your hand along his length. He reluctantly pulls away to push his pants down his legs and kick them off. They land on the floor with a dull thud but Ilia’s kissing you again before you can hear it.
“How do you want me?” He murmurs as he mouths at your pulse point.
You sigh softly. “Don’t care,” is your answer and he doesn’t seem to have the patience to think about something else other than the missionary position you’re already in. A giggle slips past your lips at his carelessness and you pull away from his kiss to rummage through his bedside table.
When you find what you need you shut the drawer and toss him the foil package.
“Get that on, you’re not hitting one without.”
He nods, fumbles with the package and then rolls it on with a grunt. Then he’s back against you, settling against your hips, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance.
His words asking for affirmation are accompanied by a kiss against the corner of your lips. When you nod, giving him the go ahead, he presses inside in one, smooth motion, drawing a moan from you as he groans loudly in your ear. The moment your hands come up into his hair when he begins to thrust into you, he knows he won’t last. You feel way too good and he’s been turned on since your body first pressed into his in the club when he caught you.
“Fucking hell-“ he groans. He’s all around you, your legs resting on his hips, his forearms cageing your head and his forehead pressed against your shoulder.
“Ah- aha,” you agree, your voice breaking off as he hits home just right, the tip of him pressing against your cervix.
He’s all consuming and intoxicating. A drop of sweat falls from the tip of his nose as he buries his face in your hair, breathing in a deep, shaky breath, his hips stuttering.
“Ilia-“ you mewl, back arching up against him. A metal chain necklace that hangs around his neck gets pressed between your bodies.
He moans your name right back to you, a slurring phrase is Russian slipping out when you clench around him.
“I’m- fuck, I’m close,” you murmur, tugging him down to pull him into another kiss. He goes willingly, tangling his tongue with yours, nibbling on your bottom lip, teeth clashing slightly.
He moans against your lips when you arch up, nails scratching against his shoulderblades. You cum with a shout of his name muffled against the warm skin of his shoulder. He follows soon after, collapsing onto your chest, your name with a touch of a Russian accent spilling from his lips and his hips stutters. You’re both breathing heavily, chests heaving when he’s worked you through your highs of pleasure.
“That- that was-“ he barely gets the words out between the huffs of breaths but you understand what he means.
“Yeah,” you breathe out in agreement, hands carding through his hair lazily and he hums in appreciation. Exhausted, utterly spent, and drunk on pleasure, he barely remembers to pull out and toss the used condom before pulling you close and letting your eyes flutter shut, falling asleep. It’s a stranger's bed, but you can’t remember the last time you felt so much at home in someone else’s arms.
-
After that, you keep in contact. Yes, it was supposed to be a one night stand but neither of you seem capable of taking more than a couple of steps away from each other before turning right back around and ending up tangled in each other’s sheets again. Or on the sofa. Or in the shower. It’s never ending pleasure and you live off of the high it brings. The high he brings.
One late night after he’s had a bad practice, he’s got you hoisted up against the wall in your shower, arms hooked around your knees holding you up, his cock pressing deep into you as his groans echo across the walls.
Another day, he picks you up on his way to the rink, bringing you a hot chocolate and a blanket so that you can keep warm during his morning practice. Then he takes you home to his, slowly fucking you on the sofa as a useless reality show plays on the TV. Long, deep drags of his cock along your walls, mouth leaving wet kisses along your shoulder and hands massaging your hips.
“I don’t have time for a relationship,” he told you after the second night you spent together, laying in his damp sheets facing each other.
You’d only smiled, kissed his nose, giggled at the way his face scrunched up at your action, and told him, “that’s alright.”
He calls you one night, long after the moon has risen in the sky. You expect him to ask you to come over, or ask if he can come over to yours, but instead you’re met with silence, save for his shaky breaths and muffled sobs that he tries his hardest to keep in. He doesn’t even get a greeting out, too afraid he’ll break down completely if he tries. You don’t ask. You just talk to him about everything. After a long while, he finally manages a “thank you”, voice raspy and stuttering breaths. You fall asleep still on the phone.
The next time you see him, he’s back to usual. You don’t ask what it was about. He offers you a sincere thank you but other than that, he’s kissing you just as vigorously as usual.
Of course, the lines inevitably blur. He takes you out for dinners, you cook him dinner at your flat when his practices run over and he gets home later than he expected. You go shopping together, watch movies, he tries to teach you how to do a proper spin on skates - you fail miserably. It has him laughing loudly so it’s really not a loss in the big scheme of things. His mother gets you a birthday present. You buy his parents flowers and a bottle of wine when he brings you over to their house for dinner. But you both agree - insists - on the fact that you’re only friends.
What really takes the cake though is when his mother calls you.
You’re sitting at home, watching a film Ilia had recommended you, sipping on a cup of tea when your phone buzzes. The unknown number makes you hesitate but you gather your courage and answer anyways. Thank fucking god for that.
She introduces herself hastily, voice a bit strained. She tells you Ilia had come home to visit but he’d gotten quiet very quickly, locking himself away in his room. She knew of your situation, how you and Ilia danced around commitment and an official relationship. But she’d called you nonetheless. And how could you say no?
So you tell her you’ll be over as soon as you can while you throw on a hoodie, his hoodie, pull your shoes on and get outside. The sun has just started setting, bathing the world in a golden glow. In a hurry, you get in your car and drive to his parents place. His car’s in the driveway and you park next to it, jumping out and dropping your sunglasses on the seat. Tatiana opens the door for you before you can even get the chance to knock.
She pulls you in for a hug. It’s a bit unexpected but you figure it’s more for her than it is for you so you indulge her.
“Thank you for coming,” she tells you when she finally pulls away.
You smile gently, “Of course.”
You know the way to his room, she shows you anyways. But she leaves you alone after that, letting you have the space.
Knocking on his door leaves you without an answer so you try pressing the handle down to just go inside but the door’s been locked.
“Ilia?” The words are soft, careful. Finally you hear a rustle of sheets from the other side.
“What are you doing here?” Is his hoarse answer. He doesn’t open the door, but at least he’s acknowledging you.
“Tatiana called me.” You figure it’s best to be honest.
You can hear him heave a sigh. “You didn’t have to come, you can leave.”
A beat. Two.
“Do you want me to?”
The silence is long and heavy. Then the lock clicks open and the door slides up just a smidge. Enough for him to reach out and pull you inside, slamming the door closed again behind you, pressing you against the door. But he doesn’t kiss you. He just wraps his arms around your waist, collapsing against your chest, tucking his head under your chin.
“Hey,” you mumble softly, arms resting over his shoulders. “What has happened?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs. It’s so terribly unconvincing it’s almost laughable.
You nudge him gently, “This isn’t nothing.”
He looks up then, eyes rimmed red and chapped lips. “Just…” he sighs heavily. “Loud inside my head.” At that, you only nod and pull him back in, a hand in his albeit dirty hair. He’s had a manic week. Practices had gone bad all week, he couldn’t sleep, eat or do anything other than lay on the couch and rot between his horrible practices, scrolling online as if the world was any kinder on there. Then he decided to come home, thinking it might take some pressure off of him, letting him relax, but when his parents had started talking about practice and nagging him about all sorts of things, it’d just become too much and he’d resigned to locking himself in his room. As he tries to explain it all to you, a few tears escape but he manages through a couple of hiccups and shaky breaths.
“Want to go to mine instead?” You offer, thinking maybe getting him out of here would help at least a little. He nods and lets you lead him out of his room. He gets his shoes on and goes outside while you brief his mom on the situation. She feels bad, you can see, but you give her a quick hug and assure her he’ll be fine and that she’s done nothing wrong.
When you finally get outside, Ilia’s waiting by your car.
“You aren’t driving yours?” You wonder. He shakes his head.
“I can get it another time.”
So you hop inside and drive you both back to your flat. He’s out of the car faster than you, pulling you along to your door.
Well inside he kicks his shoes off as if he’s actually living there, taking your hand and dragging you to the sofa. There he collapses in your arms.
You can’t do anything other than let him. If this is what he needs, you’ll give it to him. You do get a bit concerned though when he starts kissing along your jawline, his hands wandering up under the material of his hoodie that you’re wearing.
“You sure?” You gasp as he sucks gently on your pulse point. He nods, whispering a plea against your skin.
“Need something else to think about,” he mumbles, dipping his hands in your waistline.
What can you do except indulge him. You both know sex isn’t the most healthy way of coping, and you’ll convince him to go talk to someone after you’ve finished. But for now, you switch your places, straddling his hips, and do your utmost to get him on other thoughts.
Afterwards you’re laying spent, sweaty and naked on your couch. The tips of his fingers run along your back and yours trace figures across his chest. Maybe this is all there is to your relationship, no matter how much longing is residing in the chambers of your hearts.
Or maybe you crossed that threshold long ago. Maybe it was that time he texted you he’d be late from practice when you’d made plans to meet up (fuck) later, and you’d cooked him some homemade pizza for when he actually did arrive. Or maybe it was that time he took you out to a museum and you spent the day admiring the artworks and he’d spent the day admiring you. Or perhaps it was that time he flew you out to Paris when he got a few days off during a competition. You explored the city together, eating croissants, wandering the streets, kissing on top of the Eiffel Tower because “you have to experience it once in your life.”
Maybe, in between all the heated moments, you’d blurred into something more without even acknowledging it. In fact, maybe love had been what this was about since the very beginning, when he’d caught you in the club and then lit your cigarette for you and shared his vodka cranberry. When he’d twirled you on that starlit bridge, when he’d brought you along to the rink and pulled all the stops to make sure you weren’t cold during his practice but you’d come willingly even if it meant freezing your ass off. When he’d called you that night, sobbing on the phone, and you didn’t press or question him. You were simply there.
Maybe it was all just love. You just didn’t see it.
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