previous chapter | series masterlist I next chapter
artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: you make your way back home.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, canon-typical violence, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
word count: 2.2k
"My darling, there are no walls or secret gardens in me for you. You have the keys to all the doors."
- Albert Camus
The flight home felt different. And the first class cabin no longer surprised you. Neither did the tea waiting at your seat. You smiled faintly to yourself and looked back out the window.
You watched clouds drift past as New York finally appeared beneath them and your stomach tightened immediately. Outside the window, winter had begun to loosen its grip. Snow melted in uneven patches along rooftops and afternoon sunlight gleamed warm against glass skyscrapers. The city looked like it was waking up.
The apartment you shared with Dani was strangely small after everything. Familiar. Warm. You dropped your suitcase just inside the door and stood there for a long moment, staring at it. Dani glanced over from the kitchen, “You gonna unpack?”
You looked down at the suitcase. “...Probably not. A smile tugged at her mouth. “Didn’t think so.” A knowing silence settled between you. Finally you exhaled. “I think I might throw up.” Dani laughed, and you rubbed your palms nervously against your jeans.
“You don’t have to forgive everything today.”
You looked up. “I know.”
“You can love him... and still be angry.”
Your throat tightened immediately and you nodded once. Dani walked over, squeezed your hand gently, and smiled.
“Go home, babe.”
By the time the cab pulled up outside Matt’s building, your heartbeat was pounding in your ears so loudly you could barely think around it.
The doorman looked up as you stepped inside. Recognition softened his expression immediately, “Welcome back, Miss.” Your throat tightened, and you stepped towards the elevator before you could lose your nerve. The doors slid shut softly behind you.
And as the penthouse floor began rising closer your pulse thundered so hard, you were half convinced Matt would hear it before the doors even opened. Then immediately you wanted to laugh at yourself because... well, of course he would. That realization hit you all over again suddenly. Matt. Daredevil. The man could hear your heartbeat from floors away.
Your stomach flipped when the elevator chimed softly. Then the doors slid open, and you stepped inside.
And there he was. Black t shirt. Gray sweatpants. Hair messy like he’d been dragging his hands through it all day. Matt stood frozen near the couch like the world had stopped turning. Behind him, evening light was gleaming through the massive penthouse windows. And for one terribly beautiful second neither of you moved. After weeks apart, after oceans and heartbreak and silence, there he was. There you were.
Then a blur of white fur launched across the apartment. Dilly practically flew toward you at full speed, bell jingling wildly while tiny desperate meows echoed through the penthouse. “Oh my- baby-”
You barely had time to crouch before she climbed directly up your body frantically meowing and crying at the same time. Your eyes burned instantly as she shoved aggressively beneath your chin like she was making sure you were real. You laughed through your watery eyes immediately. “Did your daddy spoil you rotten while I was gone?”
Ahead of you, Matt physically stumbled. Like his coordination abandoned him entirely the second words left your mouth. You looked up slowly, and the expression on Matt’s face nearly shattered you. Relief so overwhelming it looked painful. His throat worked hard once as you stood with Dilly still cradled tightly against your chest.
Matt took another step towards you before stopping. Like he was afraid moving too fast might scare you away again.
“Hi,” you whispered.
That did it. Matt crossed the distance instantly. Desperate. One second there was space between you and the next his arms had wrapped around you so tightly you could barely breathe. Your eyes welled up immediately.
“Oh-” Matt whispered shakily into your hair. “Oh god, sweetheart-” Dilly protested with a dramatic mewl from being pancaked between you two before leaping out of your arms. Neither of you noticed, because Matt was holding your face now like he physically needed to confirm you were real. His hands trembled. You’d certainly never seen that before from him. Not ever.
“You came home,” he whispered.
The raw disbelief in his voice destroyed you instantly. Your eyes overflowed. “I had to,” you whispered back before you could stop yourself, "you were waiting."
Matt made this wounded broken sound low in his throat and suddenly pulled you against him again hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. You clung back immediately, weeks of missing him crashing into you all at once. His warmth and the feeling of his heartbeat beneath your cheek instantly soothed you.
Matt buried his face against your neck breathing you in desperately like he’d been starving. “I love you,” he said suddenly. “I love you so much.”
Your knees nearly gave out and you cried harder instantly. Matt’s hand moved shakily through your hair while he pressed desperate kisses against your temple and forehead and cheeks like he couldn’t stop touching you now that you were finally here again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered roughly, “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I should’ve told- I should’ve trusted you.”
“I know,” you whispered tearfully.
His eyes closed when you pulled a hand away from its spot on his back to touch his face. He looked exhausted, like the time apart had hollowed him out. Your thumb brushed gently beneath one of his eyes. “I missed you too,” you admitted softly.
His forehead dropped against yours while his hand tightened almost painfully around your waist. For a long moment neither of you spoke.
He refused to let go of you for a long time, like he was afraid if he loosened his grip you might disappear again. Your eyes drifted slowly across the room. Then toward the hallway to the bedroom. You pulled gently from his arms, and he followed immediately behind you while you crossed the apartment silently.
The hidden latch sat tucked into the shelf, where it apparently always had. You stared at it for a moment, then reached forward calmly and pressed it. The shelving shifted open with a soft mechanical sound.
But you didn’t hesitate this time before stepping inside. The room greeted you exactly as you remembered, sleek, dimly lit, utilitarian. Matt hovered near the doorway behind you so quietly he almost disappeared into it.
You walked slowly deeper into the room, and your fingertips brushed across one of the helmets carefully. “God,” you whispered softly. “You were really doing all this while I was memorizing multiplication tables." Matt let out an involuntary huff and you looked back at him.
And suddenly there he was, tired. Human. Fifty two and exhausted. You saw it now, that weariness beneath everything. The careful way he held himself sometimes and how his shoulders carried a certain stiffness. “How often do you even go out anymore?” you asked gently.
Matt answered immediately. “Once a week, oftentimes less.” You nodded slowly, encouraging him to continue. “Mostly recon now. Intel gathering and helping the others coordinate things.”
“I’m not…” he exhaled quietly. “I’m not doing what I used to.” Your eyes softened immediately, eyebrows scrunching together slightly. “You’re tired.” Matt looked at you for a long moment. Then finally, “Yeah.”
You walked closer slowly. “Others? Other heroes I'm assuming.” The corner of his mouth twitched faintly. “You make it sound ridiculous.”
“It IS ridiculous. You probably know Spider Man.”
Matt laughed softly through his nose again. Then finally, because you’d asked, because you came back, and because he wanted to give you everything now, he told you. Everything.
Luke.
Jessica.
Frank.
Peter.
You listened quietly while Matt spoke openly for what might’ve been the first time in his life. He didn't seem to be downplaying anything, and you realized something devastating as he talked. Matt had spent decades carrying this alone. No wonder he’d hidden it so fiercely. This room wasn’t secrecy for secrecy’s sake, it was survival.
You moved slowly toward him then until barely inches remained between you. Matt went quiet instantly, head tilting. Your hand lifted gently against his chest. Rapid heartbeat beneath your palm. “I think,” you whispered softly, “you should’ve let me love all of you.”
His face crumpled while emotion flooded through him too fast to hide. And suddenly tears burned your own eyes again too. Matt’s hands slid shakily around your waist. “You still can’t possibly know what you’re agreeing to,” he whispered roughly.
You looked up at him. “I know enough.” His breathing wavered, and then finally, you whispered, “I love you too, Matt.”
He kissed you before his name even fully left your mouth. Desperate. Reverent. One hand cradled your jaw while the other pulled you impossibly close against him like he wanted you fused directly into his chest forever.
Neither of you rushed to leave. The questions kept coming naturally. Some were serious and some were almost absurd, but Matt answered every one.
The conversation drifted with you as you wandered back into the penthouse, never quite finding a stopping point. You spoke while wandering into the kitchen for glasses of water, while leaning comfortably against the counter shoulder to shoulder, while Matt absently reached for your hand whenever there was even an inch of space between you. Neither of you seemed willing to let the other out of arm’s reach for long.
By the time the bedroom door eased shut behind you, the city beyond the windows had long gone dark. Matt’s discarded shirt landed over the back of a chair. You slid it on without asking.
The mattress creaked in that familiar way as you both settled under the covers. After Matt settled on his back, he didn't hesitate before opening one arm. You immediately scooted closer until your head found its place over his heart. His heartbeat greeted you instantly. Steady. Familiar. Home.
His arm settled around you reflexively, fingers drifting slowly along your back beneath the t shirt you’d stolen, tracing absent little circles like he was soothing himself.
Eventually you tipped your chin up to look at him. His face had softened in the quiet, and the lines around his eyes seemed gentler now. Your hand lifted almost without thinking, brushing a few unruly strands away from his forehead. “There’s more gray,” you teased.
Matt huffed, “Thanks.”
A smile tugged at your mouth. “I like your grays, Matt.” He tilted his head down slightly toward your voice. “Do you?”
“Mm," your fingers wandered gently through the hair at his temples. “Very distinguished.” You smiled, leaning up to press a kiss to his stubbled jaw. “My grumpy old lawyer.”
That earned a real laugh. Low and warm. Your chest tightened painfully. God, you’d missed that sound so much.
Matt’s eyes slipped closed almost immediately beneath your touch. Your fingertips continued their languid path through his hair, comforting him. Matt leaned into it so subtly you weren’t even sure he realized he was doing it.
Your thumb brushed lightly over the faint scar near his temple and his eyes opened. His eyes darted around unfocused, almost feeling like he was trying to meet your gaze. You leaned up and kissed him. Matt answered with the smallest broken sound before one hand came up to cradle your cheek. The mattress shifted slightly beneath you both as he moved closer instantly until the two of you were on your sides and there was barely space left between your bodies.
His right arm underneath you was wrapped firmly around your waist while his other hand drifted slowly across your face. Cheek, jaw, the nape of your neck. His fingertips trembled slightly every now and then. You didn’t think he even realized they still were. His thumb brushed beneath your eye gently. “I kept trying to remember your face while you were gone,” he murmured against your lips.
Your breath caught instantly, pulling away to look at him. Matt’s expression shifted slightly like maybe he regretted admitting that much vulnerability. Too late now. “You know what the worst part was?” You shook your head slightly against the pillow. “I couldn’t hear you anymore.” Matt swallowed hard. “No heartbeat, humming in the kitchen. Or even your terrible reality shows at two in the morning.”
You gasped softly, “My reality shows are incredible." But you were giggling before you even finished, and Matt immediately smiled.
“Missed touching you too,” he admitted softly. Your cheeks instantly heated and his soft smile immediately turned smug, apparently picking up on the subtle rise in your body temperature. “That’s not what I meant,” he murmured, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. You narrowed your eyes, and a quiet laugh escaped him. “It wasn’t!" But a moment later he added, “...Maybe a little.” You snorted, swatting lightly at his chest. He caught your hand instead and pressed a kiss into your knuckles before brushing another against your forehead.
He lingered there afterward, forehead resting against yours, and when he finally spoke again, his voice had gone quiet. “I thought maybe if I kept the apartment exactly the same,” His fingers tightened slightly against your back. “maybe you’d still know how to come home.”
You immediately leaned in and kissed him. Slow. Sleepy. Matt sighed against your mouth, and when you pulled back he followed instinctively chasing another tiny kiss, pulling you closer afterwards until your legs tangled fully with his beneath the blankets. He nuzzled his nose with yours, then softly he murmured, “Missed my princess.”
The name settled warm and familiar in your heart instantly. You tucked your face back against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm beneath your ear, before sleep finally claimed you.
notes: reader was gone for 16 days. and yes, matt counted.
next chapter will be a smutty one, so gird your loins. 🔥
previous chapter | series masterlist I next chapter
artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: Dani receives an unexpected call during your layover.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, canon-typical violence, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
notes: Dani POV yesss
word count: 2.9k
"Dearest, I beg of you, sleep properly and go for walks."
-Franz Kafka
It's entirely possible that Heathrow airport was the physical manifestation of hell, specifically after seven hours stuck in it. Dry air, bad coffee, crying babies, and fluorescent lighting designed specifically to make your eyes twitch.
By hour six, you’d completely crashed. Emotionally. Physically. Everything. You were curled sideways across two airport chairs wearing Matt’s hoodie with your backpack tucked beneath your head while soft snowfall drifted beyond the massive terminal windows outside. Dead asleep.
Dani sat nearby scrolling aimlessly through her phone, one airpod in while guarding both your carry ons like an exhausted raccoon with a crumpled up takeout bag from the trash. She glanced up occasionally to check on you. You looked heartbreaking. Mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes, and your hands tucked into the sleeves of the hoodie. Completely dead to the world from emotional exhaustion. Her chest tightened every time she looked at you.
Then her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
She almost ignored it, but paused when she recognized the New York area code. Dani frowned slightly before answering quietly. “Hello?” It was silent on the other end for a minute. Then, "Dani.”
Her eyes widened immediately. Oh, this fucking man. She looked instinctively toward you sleeping nearby before standing quickly and moving farther down the terminal. “You have some nerve calling me,” she hissed quietly. On the other end of the line, Matt absorbed the hit without hesitation. He certainly deserved it, whatever it was that he did. "I know."
“No, I don’t think you do.”
Silence. Dani glanced over her shoulder toward you still sleeping across the chairs. “I don’t know what you did," Matt’s breath caught, “And honestly? I don’t care right now.”
“You know what I can’t figure out?” Matt said nothing. “What exactly you thought was going to happen when you called me," a muscle jumped in her jaw, “Did you think I was gonna help you?” The silence on the other end answered for him and Dani let out a short, humorless laugh. “Seriously. Walk me through the plan.”
“Dani-”
“No. I’m curious," her voice dropped, “You call me. Her best friend. The woman currently sitting next to her while we're stranded in this airport for hours." she swallowed hard. “And then what?” Dani shook her head. “You thought I was gonna be on your side here?”
“No.”
Dani blinked. “No?” His voice was soft when he spoke, almost deferential, "No, I didn’t think you’d be on my side.”
“Then why are you calling?”
It was silent for a moment. Finally, “…Because you’re with her.”
Dani opened her mouth. Then closed it again. Damn it. For the first time since answering the phone, she didn’t have a comeback ready. Because there wasn’t really anything to say to that, he wasn’t asking her to take his side, and hadn't even tried defending himself. Every shot she’d thrown at him he’d taken without argument.
The line stayed quiet as on the other end, Matt seemed to be waiting, possibly anticipating more yelling. She didn't. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded rough. “…Is she okay?”
Dani almost rolled her eyes. What a stupid question. Of course she wasn’t okay. She'd cried herself to sleep in the middle of Heathrow wearing his hoodie. But the irritation faded almost as quickly as it appeared. Because geez, he sounded awful.
Dani leaned against one of the walls outside the gate and rubbed a hand over her face. “She’s exhausted,” she admitted finally. “She cried basically the entire flight." The line went quiet again, and she heard him exhale shakily. “She hasn’t really eaten,” Dani continued reluctantly. “She’s mostly just... quiet.”
“She gets that way when she’s overwhelmed,” he said softly.
Dani was silenced for half a second. Because of course he knew that. Of course he did. In that moment she understood something horrifying, these two idiots were catastrophically in love. Great. Fantastic. She shook her head, focusing back on the call, and glanced at the departure board nearby. “And this stupid layover is making everything worse.”
“How long is the layover supposed to be?”
Dani blinked. "Twelve hours.”
Silence. Then Matt muttered a curse. Oh my god. Dani actually laughed once in disbelief. “Matt, are you seriously getting mad about a layover right now?”
“She gets migraines when she’s tired and dehydrated.” Dani shut her eyes slowly. Insane. This man was insane. “And Heathrow’s too loud-,” Matt continued quietly, more to himself now. "must be so uncomfortable. She hates sleeping sitting upright because her neck always hurts afterward.” Dani pinched the bridge of her nose. “You are unbelievably irritating.”
For a moment, all Dani could hear was his breathing. When he spoke again his voice sounded strained, “Please.”
The desperation in that single word softened her despite herself. “What?”
“Don’t tell her I called.”
Dani frowned immediately. “…What?”
“I mean it. I don’t want her thinking I’m trying to pressure her.”
God. She should hang up on him. There was a muffled sound on the other end of the line, and when Matt spoke again, his voice sounded oddly careful. “Can you check your texts?” Dani blinked. "Why?”
“I fixed the Athens flight.”
Oh my GOD. Dani looked down at the phone in her hand and sighed, brows furrowing. “…You already knew about the layover.” It was comically silent on the line. Dani closed her eyes. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am serious. She shouldn’t be in coach for another four hours after a twelve hour layover.” The offense in Matt’s voice at the concept of you being uncomfortable was so genuine Dani almost laughed, “There is something seriously wrong with you.”
“Probably.”
Dani opened her messages. And there it was, two first class boarding passes for the Athens leg. Good lord. “There’s a lounge access code too,” Matt added quietly. “She needs actual sleep.”
Dani stared through the terminal glass at you, still curled up asleep in Matt’s hoodie. And despite every instinct telling her not to, Dani’s annoyance finally cracked just slightly into reluctant sympathy. “She’s really hurt, Matt.” The silence on the other end of the line went uncomfortably heavy. Matt’s voice cracked when he answered, “I know.” Dani looked down at the upgraded tickets again. Then quietly, “What am I supposed to tell her?”
Matt was silent for several seconds. Finally, “Anything, a raffle, your parent's miles. I don’t care.” Then softer, "Just let her rest.”
By the time Dani gently shook your shoulder awake, you felt half dead. Your body ached from sleeping curled awkwardly across airport chairs and your eyes still burned faintly from crying so much on the flight out of New York. For one disorienting second you forgot where you were entirely. Then Heathrow’s fluorescent lights came back into focus. Right. London. Leaving. Matt. Your chest tightened instantly.
Dani must’ve seen it happen on your face because she immediately spoke before the spiral could start. “Hey." Her voice softened. “I got us an upgrade, and lounge access.” You blinked sleepily at her. “What?” Dani waved her hand. “My parents’ loyalty points thing. I think it was some kinda raffle? I don’t know.”
Normally you would’ve questioned that immediately. Tonight, you barely had enough energy to keep your eyes open. “Oh,” you mumbled softly. Dani stared at you for half a second looking almost pensive. Then quickly, “Come on. You need real food.”
You followed her numbly through the terminal wrapped in the warm hoodie with your backpack hanging loosely from one shoulder. The lounge doors opened. And immediately everything changed. Quiet. Warm lighting. Soft chairs. Actual calm. You nearly cried on sight.
Dani watched you carefully while you wandered farther inside looking dazed. Then your eyes landed on the refreshments table and immediately lit up for the first time in almost two days. “Dani.” She turned. Your voice sounded small and almost surprised.
“They have my tea.” Chamomile vanilla. Your comfort tea, and you were already moving toward it sleepily. “And look-” You picked up a wrapped chocolate with genuine soft delight. "My favorite." You didn’t notice anything strange about it at all. Why would you? This was your first time in any kind of luxury airport lounge.
You settled heavily into one of the chairs afterward with tea curled between your hands while Dani watched you slowly come back to life. Enough that your shoulders loosened slightly for the first time since leaving New York.
“You okay?” Dani asked quietly.
You nodded after a second, speaking honestly. "I think I forgot human beings need actual sleep.” Dani smiled faintly. “Yeah. You’ve been kind of going through it.” Your eyes drifted tiredly toward the terminal windows. Snow moved softly through the London night outside. For one terrible aching second you wondered what Matt was doing right now. Then immediately pushed the thought away before it could hurt too much.
The boarding announcement for Athens came almost too soon afterward, and somehow things got even more ridiculous from there. You stared blankly at the first class cabin when you boarded. “Dani.” She refused to meet your eyes. “What?”
“This is insane.” They looked less like airplane seats and more like tiny private hotel rooms. You turned slowly in disbelief when a flight attendant immediately offered you both champagne. “People live like this?" Dani snorted, “Apparently.”
You collapsed into the seat in absolute exhausted awe while an attendant whisked your carry on away before you could even process what was happening. “Where did my bag go?” you whispered. “It’ll be under the plane,” Dani assured you quickly.
Eventually more luxuries began appearing. First hot towels, then a blanket softer than your actual bedding. Then came the unbelievable food. “This feels illegal,” you muttered at one point while staring at a dessert tray.
You finished before curling beneath the blanket. And for the first time since finding the hidden room, you relaxed a little. The attendants dimmed the cabin lights while you put on headphones and started one of your comfort movies. After about only twenty minutes in, your eyes drooped heavily. Dani looked over from her seat beside you. “You should sleep.”
You nodded weakly. Then quietly, “This is really nice.” You settled deeper into the blankets after removing the headphones, bundled beneath first-class blankets while soft cabin light glowed around you. You were out in just a few minutes.
Athens greeted you with cold sunlight. The city was spread beneath dull, gray winter skies like something ancient and half asleep, all pale stone and distant hills and soft seafoam colored air. You stared out the taxi window silently the entire drive from the airport. Exhausted. Jetlagged. Heart sore in ways you still didn’t know how to touch directly.
Dani mostly let you be. She occasionally pointed things out quietly, a cafe tucked between buildings, bitter orange trees lining sidewalks, and cats curled in storefront windows. But mostly she just sat beside you while the city passed by around you both.
Then the taxi stopped, and you immediately frowned. “Dani.” She avoided eye contact instantly. “This cannot be our cheap hotel.” The building looked elegant in that understated expensive European way, with cream stone, arched windows, warm lighting glowing behind the glass doors. The kind of place where people honeymooned.
Dani coughed awkwardly. “The website upgraded us." You stared at her. “They upgraded us from what? Our cardboard box?”
“Europe’s weird,” Dani muttered quickly while grabbing her suitcase. You were too tired to fight her on it, so you sighed and grabbed your own luggage. Besides, the second you stepped inside the suite, your brain stopped functioning anyway. “Oh my god.”
The room was stunning. Not gaudy offensive luxury but warm and intentional. Soft neutral fabrics. Tall windows. A balcony that was overlooking the distant Acropolis. The entire suite glowed gold despite the winter early morning clouds. You walked farther inside slowly like you were afraid touching anything would cost extra. “Dani.” She dropped dramatically onto one of the beds. “I know.”
You wandered toward the balcony in a daze. Outside, Athens stretched endlessly beneath the pale winter sky. And there towering above the city was the Acropolis. Ancient. Massive and timeless. Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
Suddenly you were picturing Matt kneeling in front of you crying again, and your chest hurt immediately. No. Not now. You pressed your palms against the cold balcony railing and forced yourself to breathe. Behind you, Dani quietly unpacked, thankfully pretending not to notice you trying not to cry again.
The first two days in Athens passed in a thick haze. Like your body needed time to remember how to exist again. You slept. A lot. The jetlag mixed with emotional exhaustion so heavily that sometimes you woke up disoriented, forgetting for a few blissful seconds that your life had cracked open in New York. Then reality would settle back in all over again. Still, the distance helped.
The hotel became a cocoon almost immediately. Mornings were spent wrapped in blankets drinking coffee, beside the enormous windows while winter light spilled across the room. The afternoons required you take long baths, warm and cozy foods from room service, and many half asleep conversations with Dani. Evenings were full of tiny cocktails in the hotel lounge while live musicians played softly.
You'd started wearing your own clothes again instead of Matt’s hoodie by the time you'd arrived on the first day, though at night you still slept in it.
And outside, Athens waited patiently. On the third evening, you finally left the hotel properly. Just a walk, nothing particularly ambitious. The ruins near your hotel glowed pale gold beneath the setting sun while cold air drifted softly through olive trees nearby.
Winter Athens felt strangely intimate. No massive tourist crowds or chaos. Just ancient stone and quiet footsteps echoing through the pathways. You walked beside Dani silently for a long time. Your coat pulled tight around you against the chill. Then finally, “I think I’m still in shock.” Dani glanced toward you gently. “Yeah,” she admitted, “I think you are too.”
You stopped briefly near a crumbling marble column. The Acropolis rose above everything in the distance. Ancient, and watching. Your eyes burned faintly, “I miss him.” The confession slipped out before you could stop it. Raw. Honest.
Dani didn’t answer immediately. Instead she just moved closer beside you and slipped an arm around your shoulders while cold wind stirred through the ruins around you both.
Your best friend watched as you slowly swam your way back up to yourself. The city helped because it demanded your attention. Athens wasn’t delicate, it was loud and layered and and full of life tucked between ruins thousands of years old. And eventually you started participating in it again.
You and Dani wandered everywhere. Tiny cafes tucked into winding streets. Tavernas and flea markets. Stone stairways lined with cats sleeping in sunlight. You took pictures constantly. At first it was mostly absentmindedly. Then with genuine effort. And Dani noticed the shift immediately. Because creating had always been the clearest sign of you returning to yourself.
The first time you stopped dead in the middle of a street to photograph an alley because of the way the shadows hit the buildings Dani nearly cried from relief. You looked up from your camera, “What?” She smiled, “Nothing.”
Athens loved you back. Local shopkeepers flirted with the two of you shamelessly. Old women complimented your hair and cafe owners always gave you both free extra pastries. One bartender called you a 'prinkípissa' and you laughed so hard you nearly choked on your cocktail. It was the first real laugh Dani had heard from you since New York.
Matt didn't bother you or make any attempts to reach out. The restraint was honestly making Dani’s job harder because she wanted to hate him. Instead she kept finding herself watching you heal inside the space he'd quietly arranged for your comfort.
It happened another three days later, when you were asleep again. You’d come back from exploring Plaka late one evening flushed from cold air and carrying an array of tiny shopping bags. Postcards, handmade beaded jewelry, and other random trinkets you absolutely did not need.
After walking almost 20 thousands steps through Athens photographing the cats, olive and eucalyptus trees, and tiny stalls, you’d crashed face first into the hotel bed sometime around sunset. Dani stepped quietly onto the balcony when he called. Athens glittered below beneath the winter night.
“You lasted almost six days,” Dani said by way of greeting. Matt was quiet for a second. “…I was trying not to bother you.”
“Funny. That’s not usually your strongest skill.” Dani could practically hear his embarrassment in the silence that followed. Then he asked, “…Is she asleep?” She glanced through the balcony doors. “Dead to the world.”
Matt hesitated briefly. “…How was today?” It was surprisingly vague. Like he couldn’t bear hearing directly about your emotions quite yet. Dani leaned against the railing. “She’s better when she’s distracted.” Matt went quiet. Then, “Did she eat?” Dani laughed despite the serious tone, “You are such a dad.”
“Well... she forgets when she’s upset.”
Dani closed her eyes briefly. Because again, he knew you too well. “She ate,” Dani admitted. “And she took about four hundred photos today.” He spoke soft enough Dani almost missed it. “Good.”
That single word held devastating relief inside it. Dani glanced back through the balcony doors. You were sprawled diagonally across the massive hotel bed barefoot, still in your clothes, while your camera sat abandoned on the nightstand beside you. For the first time since New York, you looked peaceful.
And suddenly Dani understood something, Matt really wasn’t meddling because he thought luxury would win you back. Loving you had become something instinctive to him. Automatic. He literally did not know how to stop taking care of you. Meanwhile you remained blissfully unaware.
notes: imagining Dani's face when she first realized it was Matt calling sends me into a fit of giggles.
also just picture matt having karen read him the flight number from the selfie/figuring out what airport they're in so that he can meddle 🤭
previous chapter | series masterlist I next chapter
artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: you take an unexpected tour of Matt's penthouse.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, canon-typical violence, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
word count: 4.4k
Her story is not just crimson pomegranates, all of the splendour of spring bends to her will... and before her fury, even Death himself pales.
- Nikita Gill
Small moments were beginning to stitch themselves together into something suspiciously close to a real life. Neither you nor Matt seemed capable of stopping it anymore.
Dilly adjusted obscenely fast to penthouse living. Which honestly felt right. The tiny white Persian immediately established herself as the ruler of the apartment, destroyer of Matt’s discarded ties, and an absolute princess.
Matt pretended to be annoyed every single time she climbed onto him while he worked. Which would’ve been more convincing if he didn’t automatically move any files out of her way when she did.
One morning you walked into the kitchen to find Matt standing barefoot at the espresso machine,still sleepy, while Dilly sat perched on his shoulder like a tiny fluffy parrot. You nearly dropped your coffee. “Oh my god.”
Matt looked offended immediately. “She climbed up there herself.”
“Sure she did.”
Matt scratched gently beneath her chin while pretending this was normal behavior. Your entire chest hurt in the sweetest way.
Another night you ended up tangled together in bed sometime after midnight. You languidly took pleasure in eachother, skin warm beneath the tangled silk sheets while snow drifted silently past the large windows.
You laughed breathlessly into Matt’s shoulder afterward while he pressed lazy kisses along your neck. “So clingy,” you teased softly.
His arms slid securely around your waist beneath the sheets as a comfortable and content silence settled softly afterward.
The apartment felt unusually quiet without Matt in it. Snowflakes clung softly against the windows while pale afternoon light spilled across the bedroom floor in long golden shapes.
You’d spent most of the morning editing and posting promo photos for the bar, curled beneath a blanket with coffee and Dilly draped dramatically across the couch cushion next to you like she paid rent.
Now, though? The little tyrant had entered what you’d started calling 'gremlin hour'. Meaning zoomies. Pure chaos.
You laughed lightly while Dilly launched herself across the bedroom after a feathered toy, skidding wildly across the hardwood before it disappeared beneath the built in shelving along the far wall. “Oh no you don’t,” you called immediately.
Her tiny bell jingled mischievously. You set the other toy in hand down and walked over, crouching in front of the bookshelves while Dilly stared out from within the shadows of the bottom shelf with enormous innocent eyes. “You’re literally rich now,” you informed her. “You have an entire cloud castle and yet you insist on living in a bookcase.” Dilly blinked. No remorse.
You reached beneath the shelving, fingers brushing around for the toy, and braced your other hand on a higher shelf. You unexpectedly felt something tucked into the molded edge. You frowned slightly. “Hm?”
Dilly immediately became fascinated too, tiny paws batting curiously in an attempt to be picked up. You laughed softly. “What in the-?” The latch gave with almost no pressure. Then, a quiet mechanical click echoed somewhere inside the wall.
You froze when the shelving shifted. Only slightly at first. Then slowly, silently, part of the wall slid inward. Your jaw dropped immediately. “Oh my god.”
You actually laughed. A genuine startled laugh. Because of course this dramatic man had a hidden room in his penthouse. Of course he did. “Are you secretly Batman?” you muttered under your breath.
Dilly chirped curiously beside your knee. The hidden doorway continued opening with eerie smoothness as dim light spilled softly from inside. You stood slowly as you waited, still smiling a little in disbelief. At first your brain supplied only ridiculous possibilities:
Secret wine collection
Billionaire style panic room
Some rich person security setup
Maybe something kinky honestly
Especially after the office incident. Your face warmed briefly at the thought.
“Matt,” you mumbled to yourself, amused. “You are so weird.” Still half laughing, you stepped inside. And then the amusement began to fade. Because the room beyond wasn’t what you expected at all.
Not luxurious exactly, or cozy in any way. It was… Sharp. Minimal. Purposeful. The lighting inside was low and cool against dark concrete and steel. Everything inside the room had a place. Everything clean. Precise. Controlled. Utilitarian. But expensive, very expensive.
Your smile faded completely.
Dilly padded curiously past your ankles into the room first, tiny bell jingling softly in the strange silence. You followed automatically. Confused now. The air even smelled different in here. Metal. Leather. Something medicinal underneath it all. Your stomach tightened faintly.
There were cabinets. Medical supplies? Equipment you didn’t immediately recognize. And along one wall, rows of meticulously organized weapons.
You stopped walking entirely as the breath left your lungs slowly. Not toys. Not decorative. Real. Batons. Clubs. Blades.
Your stomach flipped in confusion. What…? The room suddenly felt colder. You stared silently around the space while your brain tried and failed to connect what you were seeing to Matthew Murdock.
Lawyer Matt. Sleepy morning Matt. Matt holding Dilly like a baby and making you coffee barefoot in the kitchen. This room didn’t belong to him, it couldn’t. You took another slow step inward anyway.
Dilly wandered farther inside fearlessly, tiny collar bell jingling softly against the cold stillness while you stood frozen near the entrance trying to make sense of what you were looking at.
Your pulse had started beating faster now. Every instinct told you this was wrong. Private and hidden for a reason. But another part of you needed to know, needed to make it make sense.
Your fingers brushed lightly against one of the metal batons resting on the wall. Heavy. Real. Used. You stared at them for a long moment before looking away quickly. No. No, that didn’t- That couldn’t-
Then your eyes landed on the shelves farther back. And your entire body went cold. Helmets. Red. Not decorative. Not replicas.
There were several of them lined carefully along the shelf. Your heart stopped completely. You stepped closer before you even realized you were moving. And suddenly, violently, memories started colliding in your head.
Teenage you staring at blurry news footage. The devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Daredevil. Your stomach twisted so hard it hurt.
“No,” you whispered aloud instantly. Because your brain rejected it immediately. Matt was blind. Matt was honest with you. Matt slept curled around you at night with Dilly tucked at your feet. Matt kissed your forehead while making coffee every morning. He would never hide this from you. This didn’t belong to him. It couldn’t.
You turned sharply away from the helmets like distance alone might make the thought disappear. And that’s when you noticed the small button embedded in the wall near the far side of the room. Your pulse hammered unevenly now. You shouldn’t touch it, you knew that. But your hand moved anyway.
Click.
Another smooth mechanical sound echoed softly through the room, then part of the wall slid open. And behind it were suits. Red. Black. Armored. Different versions arranged meticulously on the wall. Some newer. Some older. Some visibly damaged and one was even torn along the ribs. Bloodstained. Your knees nearly gave out.
Oh my god. Oh my god.
The room tilted violently around you. You stepped closer in disbelief, fingertips brushing shakily against the strange fabric. The suit underneath was unmistakable. Daredevil. Not inspired by. Daredevil. Matt. Your brain finally stopped fighting it.
And suddenly everything crashed into place all at once. The occasional bruises he called “blind man accidents.” The old injuries beneath your fingertips that he’d allow you to touch while never telling you what caused them. Your stomach lurched hard. “Oh my god,” you whispered again, but this time it sounded broken. Because now you could see it. Every scar. Every wound. You suddenly remembered tracing the long pale mark across his ribs one night while half asleep. Matt had gone quiet afterward.
You thought it was intimacy. You knew he'd had a difficult childhood, and knew all about his father who was a boxer. You were certain he'd tell you about the scars in due time.
Your vision blurred suddenly. The realization hit in waves now, not just that Matt was Daredevil, but that he had been Daredevil your entire life. Since you were little. Since before you knew him. Since before you knew what love even was. This wasn’t a phase or some secret hobby, this was him. Half of him. And he never told you.
You stumbled backward hard enough to hit the edge of the leather chair behind you.
The impact startled Dilly, who chirped softly nearby. You barely heard her. Your chest hurt. You sank onto the leather chair automatically, your breathing coming in shallow with every following inhale. Shock. You pressed a trembling hand over your mouth. Matt. Your Matt. Your sweet Matt who held your face like something precious.
Tears blurred your vision immediately now. You looked back toward the suits helplessly. Toward the masks. Toward the life hidden beneath the one he’d built with you.
All the things you’d always known about Matt finally had somewhere to land. The protectiveness. The anger. The scars. The way he often times carried tension in his body like he was anticipating a fight no one else could see. You’d seen those pieces before,. You just hadn’t known what they added up to. All this time, Matt had been offering you only half a story.
By the time you heard the penthouse doors open, the sun had already started setting.
The apartment glowed dim gold beneath the winter evening light spilling through the windows. You hadn’t moved much. At some point you’d made it out of the hidden room and onto the bed. Barely.
Now you sat near the edge of the mattress bundled in one of Matt’s hoodies with Dilly curled in your lap, purring softly against your stomach while your hands rested motionless in her fur. The hidden doorway still stood open beside the bed.
A wound in the wall. A wound in everything.
You’d tried to think, really. But every thought only spiraled into another. Matt laughing against your mouth. Matt bruised and exhausted. Matt refusing to let you go home drunk and alone before he even had the right to worry about you. Matt kissing your forehead before work. Matt standing bloodied in alleyways, while you slept in his bed unaware.
Your chest hurt. Nothing felt real anymore.
You heard Matt come inside. And for one horrible fleeting second, everything in you reacted automatically. Warmth. Relief. Home. Because it was Matt. Then reality crashed back in so violently it made you feel sick.
Down the hallway, you heard the soft rustle of his coat and the muted sound of a paper bag shifting in his hands. Then his voice drifted easily through the apartment. Warm. Happy. Completely unaware. “Sweetheart?”
You closed your eyes immediately. Oh god. The sound of him nearly broke you. Matt moved farther inside the apartment. You could hear him setting his keys down.
“I brought that dumpling place you like.” Your throat tightened painfully. Another pause. Then softer, “Thought maybe we could walk through the park tonight before it gets too cold.” The tears burned immediately behind your eyes again. Because he sounded so normal. So safe. Like the world hadn’t just split open.
Silence stretched through the apartment. At first Matt didn’t react. You knew his rhythms now. You could practically picture him loosening his tie. Taking off his glasses. Waiting for you to answer. Matt had finally reached the hallway.
The apartment became deathly still. Then finally, Matt appeared in the bedroom doorway. And stopped. You looked at him for the first time since finding the room.
The sight hurt so badly it almost stole your breath. He still looked like Matt. Dark shirt. Snow melting faintly against the shoulders. That silvered hair messy from the brisk winter wind. Hand still gripping the takeout bag. Beautiful.
And behind you, the hidden room stood open. Exposed. Matt went completely still. You watched the exact moment he noticed it. Understood it. His face drained of color instantly, and the takeout bag slipped slightly in his hand. And suddenly something about that detail, those stupid dumplings, made this all feel even worse somehow.
Because he’d come home thinking about dinner. About a walk. About you. Meanwhile you’d spent the last hour in a near catatonic state.
His mouth parted slightly like he wanted to say something. Nothing came out. Then finally, so quietly it almost didn’t sound like him at all, “…You found it.” He didn’t move closer. Didn’t touch you. He just stood frozen in the doorway staring somewhere around your chin, watching his entire life collapse in front of him.
Dilly shifted softly in your lap, tiny paws pressing sleepily against your stomach while Matt stood frozen in the doorway like moving too fast might shatter whatever fragile calm existed in the room.
Your throat hurt when you finally forced yourself to speak. And your voice sounding normal somehow made everything worse. “No." Matt went stiffer somehow. You stared past him instead of directly at him. At the hallway. At the normal apartment outside this room and this lie. Your fingers twitched faintly in Dilly’s fur. “I didn’t find it.” You swallowed once. “Dilly did.”
Silence. The words settled painfully. Because suddenly this wasn’t you digging through his things, suspicion, or distrust. It had been an accident. You trusted him completely.
You laughed once softly then. Not because anything was particularly funny, but because your brain honestly didn’t know what else to do. “We were playing.”
Matt closed his eyes briefly. The takeout bag finally slipped from his fingers onto the floor beside him with a soft crumple. Neither of you paid any attention it. Dilly stirred at the noise and blinked sleepily toward Matt. He tilted his head towards her for half a second before looking back at you.
And oh. That look on his face. You’d never seen Matthew Murdock look so frightened in your life. Terrified. Of you. Of losing you.
Your body moved before your brain caught up. You carefully lifted Dilly from your lap onto the blankets beside you and stood from the bed on shaky legs.
Matt reacted instantly. Desperately. “Wait.” The word cracked slightly.
You froze anyway. Because despite everything, some part of you still responded to him automatically. Matt heard it. You knew he did. His breathing had gone uneven now. Panicked.
“I can explain,” he said quickly. “Please just- please don’t leave yet.”
You stared at the floor. Incapable of looking up because every time you looked directly at Matt now your brain split in half trying to reconcile Matthew asleep beside you, with the room beside your bed. You wrapped your arms tightly around yourself. And quietly, confused, you asked, “…How?”
Matt went completely still. Then slowly, carefully, he stepped farther into the room. Like approaching a wounded animal. “I was nine,” he said softly. You shut your eyes immediately. Oh my god. Matt’s voice sounded strange now. Raw. Like every wall he normally kept around himself had shattered the second he found that hidden room open. “The accident I told you about,” he continued quietly. “The truck carrying chemicals that blinded me.”
You finally looked at him then. Matt swallowed once. “It did take my sight.” A pause. “And…it gave me everything else.”
Everything else?
Your stomach twisted painfully. Matt unfocused gaze drifted briefly toward the open hidden room before looking back at you. “I can hear heartbeats,” he admitted softly. “Track movement from feeling the air currents.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Can easily map spaces,” a humorless breath, “I can hear most things in the city if I focus hard enough.”
You stared at him in complete silence. And suddenly memories began crashing into place again. Matt saw the realization hit you and his face crumpled slightly. “I wanted to tell you-” the words came fast and jumbled, “I did.”
Your breathing must’ve changed because Matt’s voice went frantic again. “I swear to you,” he said quickly. “Sweetheart, I swear-”
The endearment made you flinch. Matt noticed. And that hurt him visibly. You saw it. His voice dropped lower afterward. “...I’ve been doing this for over twenty years.”
You sat back down onto the edge of the bed because your knees suddenly felt weak again. Matt watched you carefully, seemingly terrified you might disappear if he blinked wrong.
Your gaze flicked involuntarily toward the room again. Matt tracked the movement, and a soft broken laugh escaped you suddenly. You pressed shaking fingers against your forehead. “I don’t understand,” you whispered. Matt moved then. Slowly. Carefully. Until finally, he lowered himself onto his knees in front of you. He didn't touch you, one of his hands settled on the bed next to where you sat, clutching the blanket anxiously. Open and begging without pride now.
Matt Murdock- stubborn, composed, impossible Matt- looked completely shattered. “I was already slowing down.” He swallowed. “Before you.”
“I just…” A weak laugh. “I never had a reason to believe there was anything waiting for me on the other side of it.” Your heart lurched painfully. He looked down briefly before continuing. “And then you happened.” Your eyes widened slightly and Matt gave a tiny nod. “I wanted…” He stopped and cleared his throat. Tried again. “I want a life with you.”
Silence. Pure devastating silence. Matt finally looked up at you fully then. No walls. No charm. No deflection. “I know I should’ve told you.” His voice cracked softly. “I know. But every time I tried-” He stopped again. There wasn’t a good ending to that sentence.
You stared at him kneeling there between your knees while the hidden room stood open next to you both like exposed ribs. Suddenly the shock cracked open enough for the hurt underneath to finally breathe. And once it started, it wouldn’t stop. Your eyes burned instantly.
Matt heard it before you even spoke. You saw the exact moment he realized the silence was ending. “You want a life with me?” you repeated softly. Matt swallowed. “Yes.”
Your laugh came out broken. “You already had one.” The words hit him hard enough that you physically saw it. Matt’s shoulders tightened uncomfortably. You stood abruptly from the bed again because sitting still suddenly felt impossible.
Energy flooded painfully through your body now in waves of hurt, confusion, grief. You wrapped your arms tightly around yourself while pacing once across the room.
Matt stayed on his knees, staring in your direction like he was afraid to blink. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with this,” you whispered. Your voice shook harder now. “This whole time I thought-” You stopped abruptly. “I thought there weren’t any walls between us.”
“You know me, ” Matt said immediately. You spun back in his direction so fast he actually flinched.
“Do I?”
Silence. You pointed shakily toward the hidden room behind you in response. Your voice cracked hard when you finally spoke again. “Oh my god,” you whispered. “How many times have you come home after doing that and just… slept beside me like everything was normal?”
Matt’s jaw tightened and he looked away. You could tell what the answer was from his silence alone. Tears finally spilled down your face silently then. Hurt. “You should’ve told me.” Matt closed his eyes briefly. “I know.”
“No,” you snapped suddenly. “No, I don’t think you do.” Matt looked up immediately. Your breathing had gone shaky now. “I’m not upset because you’re Daredevil.” His expression broke slightly at that. “You clearly don't trust me, Matt.”
You watched tears immediately gather in his eyes. Like the words hit some exact vulnerable center in him. He looked down quickly, breathing uneven now. “I do, I-I trusted you with everything else,” he whispered hoarsely.
You huffed through tears. “But not this.”
Matt had no answer. Because you were right. Your chest hurt so badly now it felt hard to stand upright. You wiped angrily at your face. “Were you truly ever going to tell me?”
He went very still. And that silence, that tiny awful hesitation drove a knife into your heart. Your face crumpled immediately. “Oh my god.”
Matt stood abruptly then. "No- Sweetheart, no, listen to me-”
“Would you have just retired one day and never told me about any of it?” The question came out shattered. Matt stopped dead. You stared at him helplessly. “How could you do that to me?”
He looked like you’d physically struck him. “I wanted-”
“You wanted what?” you demanded through tears, “To just bury this?" You gestured to the open panel again, “To let me walk past that every day without knowing what was behind it?”
Matt looked destroyed. “I was trying to protect you.” You shook your head immediately. “No."
"No, don’t do that.” Your voice cracked on every word now. “Don’t make this noble.”
Matt recoiled slightly. You pressed trembling fingers against your mouth before the next words slipped out anyway. “And oh my god-”
You cringed, humiliation suddenly crashing over everything else. “Before the gala.” He froze instantly. You saw the exact second he remembered. Your eyes burned hotter immediately, and now he looked sick as you shook your head in disbelief.
“I was standing there in that fitting room laughing about my stupid crush on Daredevil when I was a kid.” Matt’s eyes shut hard. Like the memory physically hurt now. “And you just LET me!” His face crumpled completely. “You let me sit there and make a complete fool out of myself.”
“You are NOT a fool,” he said immediately.
The raw sincerity in his voice only made tears spill faster down your face. He stepped toward you instinctively. You stepped back immediately and the cold movement made his bottom lip tremble subtly. Your voice only shook harder. “Why?” The question came out tiny this time, wounded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Matt looked at you like he was standing at the edge of something fatal. “Because I need you too much to risk losing you.”
The words left your mouth quickly. Almost too quietly. “I can’t stay here right now.” Matt went completely still. For one terrible second you thought maybe he hadn’t actually heard you. Then, “Princess...” Not angry or defensive in the slightest. Pleading.
You looked away immediately and moved toward the dresser before your body could betray you and run back into his arms. You needed movement. Distance. Your hands shook as you yanked open drawers. Matt stayed frozen behind you for exactly three seconds before panic finally overrode whatever restraint he’d been clinging to. “Where are you going?”
You swallowed hard. “Dani’s. Our place.” Matt exhaled shakily as relief flickered across his face for half a heartbeat knowing you’d be somewhere safe. Then the devastation seemed to crash back over him immediately afterward. Because you were still leaving.
The room had gone deathly quiet as you shoved clothes blindly into a bag without really looking at them. Your hands wouldn’t stop trembling. Matt watched you for another agonizing few seconds before finally moving closer. “Please,” he said softly. Your eyes squeezed shut immediately. Don’t. Don’t use that voice right now. Matt stopped close enough that you could feel warmth radiating from him. “I know you’re hurt.”
You laughed once shakily through tears. Hurt. God. That word felt too small for this. “You should’ve told me,” you whispered again. Matt’s breathing hitched hard. “I know.”
You grabbed a sweater blindly. Then another. None of this felt real. Behind you, Matt finally reached carefully for your wrist. Barely even touching, more asking than anything. When you looked at him, oh. Tears tracked openly down his face now.
“Please don’t go like this,” he whispered.
Your entire body folded in on itself. A sob finally escaped your throat before you could stop it. And Matt moved instantly, his arms wrapping around you carefully at first. Like he thought you might shove him away. But the second you broke enough to lean into him even slightly, he clung. One hand against the back of your head. The other tight around your waist. Forehead pressed into your hair. You cried harder immediately. Because he still felt like home. And that made everything unbearable.
You pulled back slightly, your fists landing weakly against his chest before you could think better of it. Then again. Again. Small helpless hits more than anything else. “You lied to me,” you cried. Matt didn’t even flinch. “I know.”
Another shove. “You lied.”
“I know. Sweetheart I-”
Again. “How could you do this to me?”
Matt’s arms tightened painfully around you. “I’m sorry.” The words sounded wrecked. Destroyed. You finally pushed harder against his chest until Matt let you pull away. The loss of his arms felt immediate and cold.
Dilly chirped softly from the bed. Both of you looked over instinctively as the tiny white kitten blinked up at you innocently from the blankets. Your shared life was almost mocking you at this point. Your throat closed painfully.
You crouched slowly beside the bed and gathered Dilly carefully into your arms. Matt's head turned sharply away as she rubbed sleepily against your chin. You kissed the top of her tiny head softly before setting her back onto the blankets. Then quietly, without looking at Matt, “Take care of her.” When you finally looked up Matt’s face had crumpled completely.
The little kitten immediately hopped off the bed and trotted after you when you picked up your bag. Tiny bell jingling softly. Matt bent quickly and scooped her gently into his arms before she could reach the hallway. The kitten meowed in confusion toward you.
You almost stayed. God, you almost stayed. Matt stood there holding Dilly against his chest while tears slid silently down his face. He didn’t try to physically stop you again. You reached the apartment door before his voice stopped you one final time. Quiet. Broken.
“I love you.”
The words shattered your bleeding heart. You froze as Matt’s breathing shook in a quiet sob. It was obvious he hadn’t meant to say it like this. Not now. Not while losing you. But it was too late.
And after a long horrible silence, you walked out anyway.
notes: i'm sorry...
our poor old man just wanted to share some dumplings with reader and take a walk😭
✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist✦
✦summary: soldier boy never liked soft things, until he met you. suddenly, there's nothing more important in the world✦
✦warnings/tags: Soldier Boy x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (he's a hundred), angst, switching pov between ben and reader, softer!ben, canon divergance, pining, plot to earn the smut (dirty talk, posessiveness, teasing, praise and degredation kink, size kink, dry humping, body worship, dom!Ben, nipple play, finger sucking, begging, manhandling, oral f!reciving, pussy spanking, overstimulation, clit abuse, creampie, monster dick ben, rough sex, this man is a sex god fr fr, edging, dumbification, dacryphilia, hyperspermia, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11k✦
✦author's note: request! i love that old man✦
Butcher said he knew a librarian, and Soldier Boy snorted.
“You think some moldy, four-eyed broad is going to help us fix this? Some gal who’s never gotten her hands dirty in her life?”
“I think we’re runnin’ outta options,” Butcher said, shooting Soldier Boy a look of challenge. “You got better ideas, I’m all ears. ‘Till then, we’re goin’ to see my girl.”
Soldier Boy had opened his mouth, ready to suggest many better ideas—he was full of them, a real strategic genius—when Hughie cleared his throat from his side. He had a hand up, like he was going to touch Soldier Boy’s shoulder, but thought better at the last second.
“She’s- You’ll like her, I think,” Hughie twitched, struggling to hold Soldier Boy’s gaze, but still trying. He’d never say it, but Soldier Boy admired the weed, twitchy kid’s tiny balls, for not giving up and running to the hills. Bravery wasn’t exactly in the cocksucker’s favor. “You’ll like her a lot more than us.”
That almost made Soldier Boy laugh. “That ain’t gonna be hard, kid.”
But screw him north, south, and to Tinseltown, the cocksucker was right.
They walked into the library, and the first thing Soldier Boy noticed was that it was warm and cool all at once. Like stepping into a building made of springtime. Sunlight poured in, but there was a soft hum in the background from the fans. The furniture was cozy, but everything was perfectly clean. Butcher called out a name, lazily bouncing on his feet, and an angelic voice called back.
“Be right there!”
Butcher smirked. Hughie shifted nervously, shooting Soldier Boy looks like he’d explode in this little fairy book house. He wouldn’t. Place wasn’t worth wasting his bomb on anyways.
Then you floated into view, and Soldier Boy felt the ground under his feet shift. You weren’t a molding, self-important, four-eyed bitch. If this was a fairy book house, you were a fairy. If you had the voice of an angel, it was because you were an angle, and the world twisted itself to give you everything you needed. The sunlight bended, hitting you like some scene from those romance movies he’d always refused to shoot. You floated more than walked. You smiled like you knew everything, and it didn’t even piss him off.
Soldier Boy hadn’t been a teenager in almost a hundred years, but suddenly he remembered. How it felt for his face to heat and his cock to twitch and his heart to race under his palms. He kicked himself silently, gritting his jaw and standing a little taller. He was a grown fucking man. An American icon. A hero. He wasn’t going to tip over his fucking feet like some kid, especially not for some pretty girl that probably looked down on him. On everyone. The smart ones always did.
They were also the most fun to get in bed. They got bratty, then stupid when he fucked them nice and slow. All the mocking and sass draining out of their pussy, onto Soldier Boy’s hands and cock. Sharp eyes go dazed and sneers fall into open, shocked lips.
You’ve got those sharp eyes, as you take their little group in. They’re like a hawk, picking them apart with a single look. A hawk in a doll’s body. A sexy, smart little doll.
But there’s no sneer. Even as you glare at Butcher, you’re more pouting than anything else. Solider Boy wonders if you’d pout while begging for him, or just get defiant and bitchy. He’d love to find out.
“You’re getting blood on the carpet,” you tell Butcher, and he shrugs.
“Ain’t you worried about where I’m leakin’ the blood from, love-“
“No.” You cross your arms, lifting you chin. “You’re going to clean it up.”
Butcher’s shoulders curve slightly. Like a scolded fucking child. “C’mon, I got other shit to be workin’ on-“
“Then you shouldn’t have dragged blood on my carpet.”
“But- I got work I needed ya for-“
“Hughie can tell me about it.” You offer Hughie a small smile, and he waves in return.
Soldier Boy stands a little taller. Maybe you just haven’t noticed him yet.
“Clean,” you snap at Butcher, turning on your heels and marching back between the shelves.
Butcher looks at Hughie and Soldier Boy, like they’re supposed to save him from this shit. Hughie gives him an apologetic smile, and follows you into the back. Soldier Boy grins, clapping Butcher on the shoulder before following.
“You didn’t tell me she was a firecracker-“
“She ain’t a firecracker,” Butcher muttered, rolling up his sleeves and glaring around the entryway for whatever people use to clean things. “She’s a fuckin’ problem.”
Soldier Boy smirked, looking back to where you disappeared. “Even fuckin’ better.”
Butcher snorted, giving Soldier Boy a strange, half-amused look. “Good luck with that one, Gov. Don’t blow the fuckin’ job.”
Soldier Boy flipped him off. He’d never blown the job over a woman before—not even an ethereal, enchanting one—and he’s not about to start now. He stood in the corner of your little office, while Hughie asked you questions about books and chemicals and other, smartass shit that Soldier Boy’s never bothered with. He always had people like you on payroll, to give him those answers when he needed them, but usually he didn’t. You punch anything hard enough, it breaks. And he was pretty fucking good at punching.
He said that, at one point. Hughie sighed like he was in physical pain—kid was fucking dramatic—and you just gave him a curious tilt of your head.
“You’re good at punching?”
“I’ m the fuckin’ best.” Soldier Boy pushed off the wall, crossing over to the desk. “Could show you sometimes. Teach you how to defend yourself.”
“Hm.”
You looked him up and down, and Soldier Boy found himself puffing out his chest and flexing his arms. He’d dealt with hard to get girls before. They always cave, when he chases long enough. When he gives them a bit of a show, and promises them it’ll be worth their time.
“What would I be defending myself against?” You asked, soft and sweet. Your voice was like honey. Soldier Boy wanted to get trapped in it, like a fly.
“There are evil people out there,” he drawled, leaning over the desk.
You didn’t lean away, but you blink, and Soldier Boy hears your heartbeat skip. Any reaction is a good one. Meant he was doing something to your body, and that was the first step in getting his foot through the door.
“But I’m here to protect you,” Soldier Boy winked, and stuck out a hand. That was his favorite line. It always fucking worked. “Soldier Boy, doll. Pleasure to meet you.”
Usually, that line made women of all ages and makes swoon. They’d bat their lashes and giggle if they were easy, roll their eyes and flush if they were hard, get starry-eyed if they were innocent, or twirl their hair of they were just as sinful as Soldier Boy himself. But you looked him up and down, and your heartbeat was at a steady baseline. You watched him like you were trying to read him. Like he had thoughts written over his face, and you were skimming through them. Through him.
“I know,” you said, taking his hand and shaking once. Your fingers weren’t trembling. Your smile was kind, but controlled. “Nice to meet you.”
Soldier Boy blinked, hand still hanging in the air as you turned back to your computer. He’d felt an unsteady heartbeat under his fingers, when you’d touched. But it wasn’t yours. It was his. He wasn’t fucking nervous. His mouth was oddly dry. He cleared his throat and stood back up, trying to strangle some fucking dignity into his body. He wasn’t about to fold in half like some fucking pussy. He just hadn’t gotten properly laid in too fucking long. You were pretty. That was fucking it.
You helped Butcher and Hughie with the job, tracking down books and flipping through them with nimble fingers. Soldier Boy imagined them wrapped around his cock, and forced himself not to rub himself through his pants. He wasn’t about to be that fucking pathetic, no matter how much it hurt. No matter how he couldn’t look away from you for a single second, in case you just turned into mist and turned out to be some kind of fucked up hallucination.
Soldier Boy watched you, as you read and spoke to Butcher. You were polite. Please and thank you and tiny fucking giggles that made his balls heavy. It would be fun to fuck all that out of you. All those sweet words pouring out of your lips, as you’d cry and sing for him.
Butcher seemed to respect you, which said something Soldier Boy wasn’t sure how to hear. Nothing and everything good. When Hughie told you what supes they were going after, you didn’t blink or crow uselessly about murder not being right. You’d just rolled up your sleeves and gotten to fucking work. Soldier Boy could appreciate that. No use in crying about shit that had to be done.
“How’d Butcher find someone like you,” Soldier Boy asked when it was just the two of you. You looked up with raised brows, he almost fucking balked.
Pretty fucking doe-eyes that ripped right through him. Fucking dangerous.
“Someone like me?” You echoed, and he grunted.
“You’re too fucking gorgeous to be tangled up in this shit-“
“Am I?” Your lips twitched. “I wish someone would’ve told me that. I would’ve kicked you out.”
Soldier Boy opened his mouth, his tongue dragging over his lips. You kept fucking smiling and talking, and he was asking you to smile and talk, but it did something drug-like to his brain and he didn’t fucking like it.
“You know, I used to watch your movies as a kid,” you said casually.
Soldier Boy smirked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He could fucking work with that. “Yeah? You a groupie?”
That got another, breathy little laugh from your lips. Christ, the sound was addicting. “Not quite. I’m not- That’s not really something I do.”
“Somethin’ you do? The fuck does that mean.”
You shrugged. “Hero worship.”
Soldier Boy frowned. The fuck were heroes for, if not to be worshipped. “You think you’re too good for that shit? For getting wet from seein’ someone you want on a screen?”
That got a flush. It’s the best fucking color he’d seen, on your face. He wanted to kiss over it, make it bloom down your neck and over your tits.
“I bet you were a dirty fuckin’ girl, weren’t you,” he leaned further forward, and dared to reach over the desk. To brush his fingers against your arm, and revel in the way you shivered from his touch. “Had posters of me in your room, didn’t you. Used to touch yourself, thinkin’ about me breaking through the fucking wall and taking you right there.”
You blinked at him, with those pretty fucking eyes. They were glossy, now. Another step. He was closer, to what he wanted, and it was the best damn feeling in the world.
“Well, I’m here to make dreams come true, doll,” he traced down your arm, and your breath caught. “Just tell me how you want it, I’ll fuck you ‘till you’re too cross-eyed to read this shit.”
He jerked his head to the books, and waited. This was the part where you told him to bend you over the desk, to pin you to the wall, to pull you into his lap and let you ride him until you passed out.
But instead, you fucking laughed. You pulled your arm back and giggled, shaking your head like he’d said something funny. Soldier Boy’s mouth fell open, and he felt like a fucking idiot. You flipped through your little book, ignoring his dumbfounded expression. He opened and closed his mouth like a damn fish, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
“My favorite was Ghosts of Hanai,” you told him, offering another one of those mind-numbing smiles. “Did you know it was a book first?”
Soldier Boy did not know that. He couldn’t remember how to speak, to tell you that.
“It’s a really good book. Obviously you’re not the main character- In the book- But I kind of liked the adaptation anyway. It wasn’t as- You know- Good. But it was more fun.”
“I’ll show you fun,” he muttered before he could stop himself, and you just giggled again.
If you did that shit one more time, he was going to have to go into the bathroom to beat himself off. Soldier Boy knew why Butcher called you a problem, now. You were perfect, and infuriating, and he should’ve wanted to put your head through a wall for fucking laughing at him, but he didn’t. He wanted to hear that songbird sound again. He wanted to fucking get under your skin, the way you’d seeped under his.
“Bye, Soldier Boy,” you waved to him like a sweet siren, when they were ready to go. He grunted, and waved back.
“You sure she ain’t some kind of supe,” he asked Butcher in the van, and Butcher snorted.
“I’ve wondered, but nah. Just a fuckin’ human.”
Butcher gave Hughie some kind of secret look that Soldier Boy didn’t concern himself with. He was too busy thinking about you. He’d have to go back to you see you. He’d make up a reason why. But he wasn’t used to not getting things he wanted, and he was worried he might want you so much his annoying fucking heart was going to give out about it. He couldn’t allow that.
You’d remember him. You’d laugh for him more. He’d figure out what made you like him, and he’d do it, and then this annoying buzz in his bloodstream could fuck off.
This annoying fucking feeling better fuck off.
It wouldn’t fuck off.
Soldier Boy found himself back at your library after a week. If anyone asked, he’d say he tried to stay away. It would be to preserve dignity. To pretend he hadn’t been hoping they’d need more stupid books so he could go back and see you.
You were clinging to the edge of his every thought. That laugh, that smile, the magnetic way you’d spoken and sat and been. Gentle but not weak. Kind but not stupid. A rare kind of thing to be, when you knew the dark kind of shit that grew in the corners of the world. Part of Soldier Boy prayed it was just an act. That he’d talk to you a little more, and you’d be no better than the rest of them. Then he could fuck you and forget after, like he’d done with almost every other person on his long, stained list of bodies.
But you were just fucking like that. And it was insufferable and enchanting and fucking amazing.
“Soldier Boy,” you said when he returned, blinking in surprise, and something else he couldn’t read. “You’re… back?”
He grunted. “Obviously.”
“Do you need help with another-“
“No.”
You frowned at him. Did that little head tilt, and Christ, what he wouldn’t give to just bury his fucking face in your neck and breathe you in.
“I just here to get a book,” he heard himself say, and Jesus, you were doing something to him. He didn’t give a fuck about books. He certainly didn’t want one.
But you were here. And Soldier Boy had a feeling you wouldn’t be open to him just being here to see you.
And you lit up, when he said he wanted a book. Great. Now he was going to have to fucking read, just to get some pussy.
“What book?”
“A- Big one.” That had to be impressive. “Biggest you’ve got, doll.”
He winked, looping his thumbs through his belt. You made that face again, brow raising slightly. “Big as in long, or complicated?”
Soldier Boy shrugged. “Both.”
“Fiction or Nonfiction?”
Why were there so many kinds of fucking books. “Whichever one you like better. I trust you won’t give me something shit.”
That made your lips twitch, and it hit Soldier Boy like a rush of coke. His head got lighter and the world got sharper, and you smiled at him, and that heartbeat was his again. He really was worse than a fucking teenager.
“Wait here,” you told him, and he did. Like a fucking dog.
You came back with a massive heap of a book. There couldn’t be that many words in the world, let alone enough sentances to make something that long. Anything worth saying shouldn’t take more than a fucking page.
“Infinite Jest.” You passed him the book, and he stared at you. “Long and complicated.”
Soldier Boy grunted, not bothering to spare the book a glance. You were what he was here for, and if you just fucking walked away, he felt like he might explode.
“You like this thing?” He almost barked, and you paused, already a half-step back.
“It’s okay,” you said slowly. Actually fucking thinking about your answer. “I like his essays better.”
“Essays?” Soldier Boy frowned. “You like his fuckin’ book reports?”
You gave him one of those coy, honeyed half-smiles again. He was worried he was going to fucking drool. “Creative essays. Like- Book reports about your life.”
Soldier Boy nodded, glancing down to the book, then back to you. He didn’t want to read this shit. Book reports had, as far as he remembered, always been short. And he wanted to see what kind of shit you liked to read. What you considered good. “I want one of those. Instead of this.”
He’d meant it to be an order, but it came out without the usual edge he put in his tone. That edge was his best weapon. It had won him countless battles before they even fucking started.
But you just gave him that fucking look. The one where he felt flimsy and stupid and weak, his body all excited from your attention and his fingers itching to dig into your soft looking skin. You smiled, and he swallowed, drawing himself a little taller. He wouldn’t just fall into you. He refused to be that fucking weak.
“Read that first,” you told him. “Then we’ll talk about the essays.”
You turned and walked away. Soldier Boy let you go, because if he touched you, he was worried he was going to turn into more of a weak fucking lapdog than he already was. He wished he could read you—read that smile, those looks, the lacey tone you took with him and seemingly no one else—as well as you seemed to be able to peel him right apart. He looked back at the book, roughly flipping it to the first page. He tried to read the first sentence, but the words floated off the fucking page and didn’t even brush through his brain. He couldn’t read this shit.
Then we’ll talk, you’d said.
You’d talk to him, if he read this.
Christ on a Cross. He was going to try and read a book.
It took him a month. A month of staring at words in the dead of night, when he couldn’t sleep and no one was around to see. If Butcher caught him trying this shit, he’d never hear the end of it. Hell, he wasn’t hearing the end of it now, and no one even knew he was reading.
“Where you goin’, Gov?” Butcher barked as Soldier Boy moved to the door, and he scowled at the air.
“None of your fucking business.”
Then Butcher said your name, smiling knowingly, and Soldier Boy wanted to punch his teeth in. “You’re goin’ to see her again, ain’t you-“
“Said it was none of your fucking business,” Soldier Boy spat, raising a firm finger. “Not another word, or I punch your teeth into your asshole, you got that?”
Butcher just laughed to himself, and Soldier Boy ground his teeth. It wasn’t anything like your laugh, but then again, nothing was.
“Hi, Soldier Boy,” you greeted him without looking now. He wanted to think that meant something. That you were getting as obsessed with his presence as he was with yours. “Did the dictionary help?”
“Mhm,” he glanced at the sitting area, where a few old folks—younger than him, but wrinkled in a way he’d never be—were poking through the newspapers and chatting. There were some kids in the book section. Few teens giggling, somewhere deeper between the shelves.
No one paying him any mind. No one to look at him and wonder what the fuck Soldier Boy was doing in a library, why he’d needed a dictionary, like he was some dumbass who couldn’t speak or read or-
“I needed a dictionary,” you said, and Soldier Boy blinked. You were looking at him. Right at him. He felt it, in his heartbeat, and he never wanted it to fucking stop.
“What,” he said, stupid and drunk, and you smiled.
“I needed a dictionary. To get through Infinite Jest. The first time,” you amended, your eyes getting strangely softer the longer you watched him. “But- I still needed it.”
Soldier Boy’s hands curled into fists. “You read it multiple times?” This one time was feeling like it was going to fucking kill him.
“I read most things multiple times.”
He snorted. “Jesus.”
That made you blink. A faint flush creeped onto your face, and you looked back to your computer. Soldier Boy froze. Your heart was doing a little fucking stumble.
Interesting.
“You’re real fuckin’ smart, huh?” He tried, just to see what would happen.
Your heart did the little stumble again.
Jackpot.
“Maybe,” you mumbled, glaring at your screen. “I just- Like books.”
Soldier Boy snorted. “Yeah. Think I figured that one out myself.”
You hummed, not meeting his gaze anymore. You were getting quiet. He didn’t like it. Not like this. You’d be allowed to get quiet and shy when he was balls deep inside of you. Right now, he wanted to hear that pretty fucking voice, teasing and sassing and helping him, all at once.
“What kind of books do you like,” he asked, and it sounded lame to his own ears.
But you looked at him. And screw him up the ass and sideways, it was fucking worth it.
“What kind of books do I like?”
“That’s what I fucking said, isn’t it?”
You stared at him. He stared back, because there was one thing he wasn’t going to let himself do, and it was back off of this.
“Why?”
And Soldier Boy leaned back. Because you said it like that was a real question. Like he wouldn’t, obviously, naturally, want to know every fucking thing about you. Women liked it when someone listened, he’d learned over the years. He’d listen to whatever the fuck you wanted to say, if it got you closer to being in his arms.
“Because,” he said, and your lips tugged down into that pretty pout.
“Because why?”
“Can’t I just fuckin’ want know?” He snapped, and you leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms.
“No one ever just wants to know.”
Soldier Boy rolled his eyes. “Well, you’re looking at someone, doll. So get that through your pretty head.”
You blinked. Flushed. Wrapped your arms around yourself, like you were trying to stop that loud heartbeat from jumping right out of your chest.
“I like everything,” you said stiffly, and Soldier Boy smirked.
“Everything, huh.”
You shrugged, and he leaned over the desk. Your breath hitched, and he knew his features were turning wolfish, but he didn’t fucking care. You seemed into it anyways.
“Everything,” he breathed, and your lips pressed in a nervous little line. “Show me what everything is, then.”
And I’ll show you everything, gorgeous. He thought about saying it. Thought about how you’d melt and get nervous and he’d have his in.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t figure out why—what the fuck was wrong with him, what the fuck you were doing—but the words got caught, and he didn’t say them. He had you where he wanted you anyway, he rationalized. Talking to him. Smiling at him. Breaking you right now would be too fucking easy.
Since when had he not wanted easy.
Maybe since you pulled him through the bookshelves with light, delicate fingers on his wrist. Like you were afraid of breaking him. Since you talked and talked and talked, and he realized how fucked he was.
He wasn’t listening to you talk to fuck you. He just wanted to hear you talk, about books and ships and history and romance and any other fucking thing you wanted. He went home with a book he hadn’t gone there for, because you said it would help him keep trudging through Infinite Jest, and it did. He finished it that week, and marched back into your library with a prideful grin, slamming the monster of a book down on your desk.
“Done,” he declared, and you smiled at him like you were fucking happy, and it did something to his chest he didn’t want to name. Something fucking gooey and light. Something dangerous and strange.
“Did you like it?” You asked him, like it fucking mattered.
Soldier Boy nodded, and you beamed.
“I have something for you, next.”
Of course you fucking did. You were just perfect like that. And the next thing was a damn picture book, but when he glared at you, you just giggled and pushed it further into his hands.
“Trust me,” you said, and fuck him, he did.
He took the damn book, because you were the one handing it to him, and he’d read it, because that smile was the best thing he’d ever damn seen.
“Bye, Soldier Boy,” you said when he walked away, and he paused.
Soldier Boy. The character, in the movie you hadn’t liked as much as the book. “Ben.”
You blinked, and he sighed.
“My name is Ben.”
“Oh- Okay,” you flushed, and there it was again. That little skip in your heart. “My name is-“
“I know your name, doll,” he drawled, and you bowed your head. Shy and adorable and he was so fucked.
“Right. I- I knew that.”
He chuckled, grinning down at you, and that hawk sharpness in your eyes was gone. You looked like a fucking bunny, and screw him, he wanted to bend you over right there. He brushed his fingers with yours, and you made the tiniest fucking sound.
“Bye, pretty girl,” he said, and you mumbled another bye of your own.
Soldier Boy took a deep breath through his nose, and smelled it. Heady and thick and purely fucking you.
You were turned on. It made his own cock twitch in response, throbbing and begging him to coat itself in that sweet slick between your legs. To feel the way it would stick and slide against him, to cover himself in you and make you his and-
He took a deep breath. He’d be back tomorrow. He’d keep testing it, until you snapped. You made him chase, he’d keep fucking chasing. He didn’t want to just take you anymore. He wanted to make you admit it. That you wanted him as much as he wanted you.
He was worried that wasn’t fucking possible. That no one had ever wanted anyone, as much as he wanted you.
Feelings were so fucking annoying. He still refused to name them. You’d do that for him, with all your smart words and pretty eyes.
Soldier Boy looked over his shoulder before he walked out the door. You were watching him. He smirked, waving a hand in goodbye. You flushed and looked frantically back to your computer.
He’d get you where he wanted you. Didn’t matter what he’d need to do. He looked at the book in his hands. Comic, you’d called it. He’d give it a shot. For you.
He was starting to worry, about the type of shit he’d do for you.
“What’s your thing,” Ben grunted at you one day, and you frowned.
“My thing?”
“Everyone’s got something that gets them in this shitty game,” he said. “They kill someone you love? Help someone you hated. One of those soft little fuckin’ pussies try and do something to you?”
A small, angry part of him flared at that. Anything that had touched you would burn.
“I mean- It’s just the right thing to do,” you mumbled, looking back to your book, and Ben snorted.
Of course you’d do the right fucking thing. He knew you better now. He shouldn’t have bothered to be surprised.
You liked things too much. You were too soft and too hard in all the strangest places. You never looked at him like you were afraid, and you praised him for finishing comic book after comic book—you’d been right, he liked those things, more than he’d say aloud, but you knew—and then you’d flush when he gave you a little too much attention and get sassy when he tested you.
He knew about your past now. There were darker parts that made him angry. Happier shit that made you smile, and made him want you to smile about him one day.
You knew about his past. More than he’d ever told the tabloids. He’d found it slipping out of him, the longer he was around you. But you had that effect on him. Flowing over his like the fucking ocean and catching him in your tide. He didn’t fight it. Anything that made you look at him, that let him tease you, and made you all fucking soft and sugary.
Ben brought you dinner now, like some kind of delivery boy. But you always smiled at him, and asked him how his day had been, and damn him that kept making it worth it. You kept making it worth it. He was allowed in your place now, and he didn’t question why. He’d just been there, and you’d been going home, and he’d been allowed to walk you there. It wasn’t too far from the library, and pretty fucking small, but it smelled like you. Felt like you. So he liked it, and he found a reason to be there almost every fucking day, and that reason was food or your safety or another comic book. You’d talk and he’d listen, then he’d talk and you’d listen, and fuck him, he felt better than he had in longer than he wanted to admit. In maybe forever. And it was all fucking you.
“Wow.” Hughie had said to him, about a week ago. “You really don’t just want to like- You know. Bang her.”
Ben had grunted, not bothering to respond. All the shit he said just made them bigger asses. Butcher had taken to asking him to read every single piece of paper they came across. Frenchie had been making kissy faces behind his back, and asked him to make out with a book. The only reason Ben hadn’t crushed his skull with a single hand was that he’d be kicked out, and you’d probably frown upon that upon that.
“Heard you been reading,” MM had grunted to him. “Didn’t know you knew how.”
Ben had ignored that too, mostly because he hadn’t know he could read either. But he was getting better at it. Helpful to have a good motivator.
You.
He didn’t want to just fuck you anymore. He wasn’t sure what the fuck he wanted. You smiled and the world felt in order. You said his name and it sounded like being called home. Fucking you would be a benefit—you’d only gotten hotter, the longer he’d looked, and his shower and pillowcases knew your name as well as his dreams did by now—but he also liked just… sitting here. Talking. Like some cucked, pathetic little housewife-
“Why do you do it?” You asked, and Ben paused.
“Do what? Fight?”
You nodded, watching him with that judgement free curiosity. He frowned at his burrito, hoping it would give him the answer. He didn’t fucking know. He never thought about that kind of shit, unless you asked him to.
“Couldn’t you just… leave?” You asked softly, and he glanced up at you under heavier eyes.
“You want me to leave, doll?”
“No.”
You’d answered so quickly. It made him feel a million feet tall, and decide that maybe flying wasn’t that fucking bad, if this was what it felt like.
“But- Do you really want to do this forever?” Your voice was so quiet, Ben was worried you were trying to tread lightly around him. He never wanted you to do that. Not with him. If he was getting raw and weak, you had to fucking come down with him.
“Nah,” he took a large bite of his burrito, speaking through the mouthful. “Sick of it. All of it. Been lookin’ for something better-“
“Ben,” you chastise, holding out a napkin. “Chew.”
He rolled his eyes, but chewed. You smiled, waiting patiently for him to finish. He never fucking knew how you did that. Put up with him, when all the members of Butcher’s team looked like they wanted to throttle him every damn second. He used to like it like that. To be satisfied, with the way people would glare at him and not be able to do a fucking thing about it.
But you just… liked him. And that felt better than anything else.
“Looking for something better,” he said after he swallowed. “Y’know. Not this shit.”
“What does better look like?”
You asked it gently, and he doesn’t need to think about it.
Better looked like you.
“Still figuring that out, doll,” he muttered, and something taut flashed over your features. Ben frowned. Times like this, he really fucking wished he could read you.
“I hope you figure it out soon,” you mumbled, and Ben swallowed.
He did too.
You’re getting confused, but Ben is a confusing man.
Everything you’d heard about him—from Butcher, Annie, and the TV—said that he’d be a monster. An impossible, murderous asshole who’d snap you in half to get what he wanted. Over sexual and disrespectful. Arrogant and cold.
And he was arrogant. He was impossible, and a bit of an asshole. He’d flirted with you like he couldn’t help himself, and looked at you like he wanted to eat you alive.
But then he actually read the book. He smiled at you, and got soft around edges you hadn’t even noticed were so sharp. It had been like watching barbed wire unravel. Concerning and strange and… endearing.
Ben was surprisingly endearing.
It was like he’d never just had a friend before. He wandered after you in the library like a puppy, and leaned over your desk with squared shoulders like he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing himself.
“What’s that,” he’d ask you every day, about almost every thing, and you’d shove down a laugh. Under all the gruffness and anger, he mostly just seemed confused. About the world. About you.
So at least it was mutual. The uncertainty.
Because for everything you understood about Ben—his loneliness, his age, his strange puppy like demeanor—you didn’t get this. What he meant to you. What you meant to him.
You’re afraid you’re in love with him. That somewhere between take-out dinners and telling him you read romance books, he stopped being just Ben and became yours.
Not yours.
No one else’s. He says he hasn’t gotten laid in forever. Between visiting you and working, you’re sure he hasn’t had time to mess around in a bar or alleyway. That makes you smug, in a way that sits too brightly in your chest. You don’t want him to find that kind of feeling anywhere. You wish he’d ask for it from you.
He makes moves. He flirts and teases and smirks when it pools between your legs, nostrils flaring and eyes gleaming. Like he fucking knows. But he never does anything about it, and you’re going insane.
You mean something to him. You had to. He’s not the kind of man who would’ve stuck around this long, if he didn’t. But he’s also not the kind of man to deprive himself of things. If he wanted you, he should’ve fucking taken you by now.
Hughie turned red, and mumbled something about this not being his business, when you brought it up.
“Just- Talk to him,” he’d pleaded. “Not me. Never me- I- I like life.”
You’d frowned, but Hughie had frantically changed the subject. He seemed to know something you didn’t. They all did.
“He’s fuckin’ obsessed with you,” Butcher had drawled, when you’d asked him. “That’s what we know.”
Your face had burned. “It’s- No he’s- I mean- I know he- He likes women, and- I’m one- But- Just sex-“
“Love, he could find sex on the street or gutter if his dick needed a tug,” Butcher had rolled his eyes like you—pacing and wringing your hands—were the insane one. “He read for you. I’m real bloody sure he didn’t even know what the fuck a book was, ‘fore he laid eyes on your pretty fuckin’ face.”
You’d smacked Butcher. He’d laughed, and started asking more mission-related questions.
You’d obsessed over it all day. Obsessed with you. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. You were you and Ben was Ben. He was Soldier Boy. The handsome face you’d grown up fawning over, the big man on the TV screen that seemed untouchable. You’d almost fainted when you saw him, something like a survival instinct locking over you and stopping you from becoming a downright pathetic schoolgirl. You tried to divorce him in your head, from the idealization of a childhood crush.
But you couldn’t. He was meaner and kinder and smarter and cruder than anything you’d managed to dream of. His praise made you dizzy and his mocking tone sent a pool of desire between your thighs, and then he did the dishes when he thought you weren’t looking—you think he might be under the impression you’ll believe they’re just doing themselves—and asked about your interests and didn’t fuck around.
He was supposed to fuck around. To make it easy on you, to get over the infatuation.
He hadn’t. And now you’re so far gone you spend every day gorging yourself on his attention.
Obsessed.
Pretty girl, he calls you. You’d like to be his pretty girl, if he’d just put a claim on you. You wish you could drink enough to be brave. You wish he’d be selfish again, and just fucking take you.
But you’re going to have to do this the hard way. The way that cleaves you in half, if there’s a single wrong serration. If he just carves your chest open, takes your heart, and doesn’t offer his in return.
You have to try. Because if you don’t, you’re going to be here forever.
He brings you your favorite food, tonight. He sits with his knee bumping yours, and it makes your head so clouded you almost forget your plan.
“Do you have… anything?” You ask, your voice barely more than a nervous breath. “That you want to do?”
Ben gives you a sideways, almost confused look. “The fuck does that mean?”
“I mean, just- What are you planning to do?”
“When.”
“In the future.”
“Ah,” he shrugs, raising his burger back to his mouth. “This.”
You swallow. That’s not helpful. “This?” You prompt weakly, and he nods. “You mean- This?” You wave a hand around the room, and Ben’s lips twitch. “Me?”
“You?”
He says it like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and your heart shrinks.
That’s what you thought. You never should’ve listened to Butcher and Hughie, you knew that wasn’t what he meant, you fucking knew it and- God, you were so fucking stupid, to think he’d want you back.
“Nevermind,” you mumble, and Ben stiffens.
“Doll-“
“I’m getting a new shipment of books tomorrow.” You don’t want to talk about this anymore. “So- I might be too busy to eat lunch-“
Ben snaps your name, and you stare at your hands.
“I- Um- I don’t know how long it will take, so you don’t have to come over-“
Ben grabs your wrist, his touch almost searing into your skin, and when you look up, he’s staring at you. He’d moved to kneel over you. Your noses would brush if you twitched. His breath fans over your face, and you’re embarrassingly slack under his hand.
“Ben…” You whisper, because you don’t want to do this. You don’t want whatever fragile thing you had—even if it was just friendship—to break.
But he doesn’t move back. He never really has.
“You’re sulking,” he mutters, and you try to bow your head, but he catches your chin with two fingers. Tilts it slowly back up, forcing you to hold his gaze. “Why.”
Your voice is tiny. “Doesn’t matter-“
“The fuck it doesn’t matter. What’s wrong with you.”
“Nothing,” you try to avert your gaze. It’s impossible. “I just- You’re- I’m-“
You cut yourself off lamely. Ben leans in closer, jaw ticking as he scans over your features.
“You want it to be you?”
Your mouth falls open. “I- What?”
“My future.” He rasps. “You want it to be you?”
“Do you?”
Your mouth falls open. “I- What?”
“My future.” He rasps. “You want it to be you?”
“Do you?”
You expect him to laugh, but the lines on his face just deepen. He lets out a sharp breath through his lips, then smirks.
“Maybe I do,” he almost purrs, tipping your chin a little futher back. “What then, doll?”
You gape at him. So close. Saying words he won’t be able to take back, but not enough to make you melt. You’re still guarded. Still careful.
“Say it,” you whisper, because you have to be sure. “The- The whole thing.”
Ben frowns. “Doll-“
“Say it,” you almost plead. “If you mean it-“ Please fucking mean it. “If this isn’t just- If I’m not just some fixation, Ben, please say it-“
He crashes his mouth over yours, and your words turn into a long, hungry whimper. His lips are chapped and warm. Soft but firm, the kiss demanding but controlled. His hand slides into your hair, the other coming up to cup the back of your neck, and you melt into his strong body. His tongue traces over your lower lip, and you whine softly.
You get breathless embaressingly fast. Your thighs press together, but he’s not making it easy on you. His hand on your neck drags down your spine and splays possessively on your back. He pulls you closer, humming in satisfaction when you brace your fingers on his thighs. His knee pushes between your legs, and you grind down against it without a thought.
“Christ,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, smirking as you pant and cling to his jeans. “Needy little thing, ain’t you?”
“Ben,” you whimper, and he hums.
“’S alright. I’m gonna take care of you.” He hooks his arm under your knees, the other sliding under your arms. “C’mon.”
You wrap your arms around his neck as he pulls you into the air, pressing your face into his neck. He carries you steadily to the bedroom, setting you down with suprising gentleness on the bed. You blink hopelessly at him, as he draws back up. He still hasn’t said it.
And like he can read your mind, Ben smirks and flicks your nose with his thumb.
“Not a fixation,” he says. “Just my pretty fuckin’ girl.”
You flush, but refuse to cave that fast. “That’s not saying it.”
Ben snorts. “Jesus, woman-“
“Say it.” You snap, before—under the burn of his gaze—adding a mumbled, “Please.”
Ben chuckles. He peels off his shirt, and you almost forget to be stubborn. His big. Even bigged than he looks with his shirt on. His skin is tanned and soft, his boobs might be bigger than yours, and you can see the flex of thick, well built muscle with every breath. Your tongue flicks over your lips, and he smirks.
“You’re real fuckin’ demanding, you know that?”
“You- You’re supposed to- Ben-“ Your protests fall flat, as he trails a light touch up the underside of your leg. “Ben- That’s- You’re- Not playing fair-“
“I’m not tryin’ to play fair, doll,” he teases. “I’m tryin’ to get you ready.”
“Ready?” you squeak, and he hums, squeezing under your knee.
“Want you to be nice and relaxed for me,” he murmurs. “Gonna use this pretty fuckin’ body right. Make you wet, make you fuckin’ stupid.”
He pushes his fingers under the hem of your shorts, and your breathing is staggered and shallow. You lean back and push into his touch all at once, and Ben’s grin widens.
“Look at that. Already playin’ nice.”
You try to glare at him, but he lean back down, pressing you back into the mattress with a deep kiss. Your fingers shoot into his hair, as his weight settles between your legs. It forces them open, his budge pressing right against you clothed, aching pussy. You hadn’t even let yourself fully feel it—the vastness of your desire—because you’d been worried it would’ve just consumed you entirely. That you’d turn into some sex-crazed lunatic, imagining Ben above you and touching you and kissing you. You would’ve turned into a puddle that spent her days in bed with a vibrator, dreaming of what she couldn’t have.
But now you have it. You have him. Kissing you like he’s trying to let you consume him. He groans, with every whimper he draws from your lips. His hips roll against your core, and your breath catches. Your cunt feels like it’s almost in pain, from the neglect of intention. You scratch at Ben’s shoulders and belt, trying to drag him closer and tear every barrier between you apart with only your nails.
Ben catches your wrist, and pins it over your head. You thrash and strain, and he just chuckles, dragging his thumb over soft skin.
“Look at you,” he rolls his hips down again, and your back arches off the bed. “How the fuck could you think I wouldn’t want this?”
You blink at him, breathing through your mouth, and Ben leans down. His kiss brushes the very tip of your nose. You mewl, wired and desperate, and Ben laughs. The mockery of it only makes the heat between your legs stronger.
“You make me fuckin’ crazy,” he says, jaw clenched tight. “Make me… Feel things.”
“You make me feel things too,” you breathe out, and Ben stills.
“Yeah?”
You almost giggle at the slack, worshipful look on his face. Guarded but leaking with a hope you’re sure his old, old heart doesn’t know how to recognize. You don’t strain against his pull on you. You just lean up and brush a kiss over his jawline.
His whole body shudders. You sink back into the cushions, beaming as his wrecked expression. A low growl rolls through his chest, and his eyes go so dark it’s almost predatory.
“You,” his voice has dropped, so impossibly deep. “You…”
Words seem to fail him. You don’t mind. You don’t love Ben because he’s a man of words. You have enough of them as it is. You surround yourself with them, and there are only so many in the world that can express this. The electric, new and fragile and hungry thing between you.
You love Ben because he’s a man of action. And you know he’s not going to be able to say he loves you.
So he crashes back down, and shows you instead.
It starts with open mouth kisses, over your collarbone and throat. You head tips back, your mouth going slack, and Ben moans against your skin.
“So fuckin’ responsive.” He snakes a hand under your body, giving you ass a firm squeeze. “Knew you would be. Sensitive fuckin’ doll, probably getting fuckin’ soaked from just a little touching.”
Humiliations burn with arousal in your gut, deep and hot and intoxicating. You are soaked. You can feel it every time you shift against him.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Ben coos, kissing a particularly soft part of your neck. “I know how bad you want this. I can fuckin’ smell it.”
Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “You- You what?”
“You heard me,” he pushes your shirt slowly up, thick fingers brushing over the soft skin of your stomach. “Every time you got needy, doll. I could almost taste it.”
“And you- You never-“
“You’re the one who said to be sure.”
His tone is mocking, but his touch is hot and his expression is shockingly soft. You flush under the attention, unsure what to do yourself. Just splayed on the bed for him to play with, dazed and confused. Ben grins like a wolf, and tears off your shirt without a warning. You almost protest, but he doesn’t give you the chance.
“No bra,” he takes on perked nipple, rolling it between his fingers with a dangerous smile. “Fuckin’ slut.”
You swallow, watching with wide eyes as he lean over your chest. Electricy shoots through your body, as he wraps his mouth around your neglected nipple, sucking lightly as he plays with the other one between those infernal fingers. You stare at the ceiling with fluttering lashes, lost in the warmth of his mouth. His tongue flicks, and you whimper. Ben’s teeth graze against you, and a weak noise of his name falls from your lips.
He smirks, dragging more kisses over the curve of your breast. He gives your nipple one last flick, then kisses over the hurt.
“Already bein’ so quiet,” he teases, toying with the band of your shorts. “Think I might need to make you scream, doll. Make you prove how bad you want this cock.”
“I- I want it-“ You stammer, pushing up on your elbows. “Don’t- I want it-“
“Shh.” Ben presses his finger against your mouth, and your jaw snaps shut.
He blinks. You swallow, trying to drag up the strength to resist him again, but it’s too late. He’s seen it. How fucking desperate you are to please him.
“Jesus,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “You’re- Chirst.”
Your cheeks burn. You try to roll onto your stomach, but Ben catches you and rolls you back. You pout at him, silently pleading with him not to make this a fucking thing, but he just keeps examining you. His gaze burns over your skin. You think you’re going to fucking explode.
Slowly—almost carefully—Ben pushes his thumb into your mouth. You take it, batting your lashes and loosening your jaw. The pad of his fingers tickles the back of your throat, and you suck lightly, eyes fluttering shut. Ben massages your thigh, and your legs fall further open.
“This what you really fuckin’ wanted, huh,” Ben mutters, and you hum, swirling your tongue around him. “You’ll do anything I fuckin’ tell you.”
You hum, sucking harder. You eyes burn, and you squeeze them shut.
Ben taps your cheek with his free forefinger. “Open.”
You obey, blinking through the shame, not letting yourself slack on his thumb. You flick against it, the same way he’d played with your nipple, and his throat bobs.
“Fuckin’ dangerous,” he says, and you don’t understand why he thinks that. You’re the pathetic one here.
But Ben pulls his thumb back, and with a softness you didn’t know he had, he leans down and brushes his lips against yours. It’s a restrained, teasing kiss. You think you’re going to cry, but then he pushes his knee back against your core, and you can only gasp against his mouth.
“That’s it, doll,” he mutters. “Relax for me.”
“Be- Ben-“ You blubber, already fucking ruined. “Touch me, please-“
He deepens the kiss, his tongue pressing into your mouth with such demand you almost sob. He knee grinds itself against you, moving back only so he can rip your shorts and panties away. Your breath hitches, as two massive fingers drag their way through your cunt.
“What a fuckin’ mess,” Ben growls. “I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I. Not fuckin’ my pretty girl like she needs.”
You whine, nodding like a bobblehead. Ben pulls slightly back, kissing a stray tear on your cheek.
“Fucking crybaby,” he hisses. “Barely even done anything yet, you’re going to be a fucking wreck when I’m done.”
God, you are. There’s no way around it. Those two fingers are curling right against your weeping pussy, and if he doesn’t do something soon, you’re going to fucking scream.
“I’ll give you something to really cry about.” Ben slams a quick, harsh kiss back on your lips before pulling away. “No cumming, ‘till I say. You got that?”
You stare at him, and the softness is gone. His jaw is set, his eyes sharp, and his voice a rough command. Usually, you’d laugh at his attempts to boss you around, but right now you’re barely more than putty in his arms. You nod, and Ben huffs in satisfaction.
“Good girl.”
Your cunt squeezes around nothing. Ben must smell the gush, because his nostrils flare and his fingers dig into your hips.
“Been waitin’ too fucking long for this,” he says, kissing his way down your body. “Going to take my fuckin’ time, doll. Think I’ve earned that much, keeping my cock in my pants long as I did.”
You mewl an agreement, and Ben laughs.
“Anything I say,” he mutters to himself, pulling your legs over his shoulders. “Too fuckin’ good to be true.”
You’d argue this wasn’t good, if it wasn’t the best feeling you’ve ever experienced. You’re completely at Ben’s mercy, one massive hand massaging your ass as the opposite parts your pussy folds, giving him a good look at the evidence of your desperation.
Ben hums in approval, and your pussy clenches again. He laughs, kissing the inside of your thigh, and blows a puff of cool air against your clit. Your hips fly off the bed as you cry out, and Ben slams them down with a single hand.
“Stay still.” He orders, and you whimper in acknowledgement.
You’re going to try. You’re really going to fucking try, to listen. To be good for him.
But he does’t make it fucking easy.
Ben dives headfirst into your pussy, and you almost fucking scream. You knew he was experienced, but this feels like someone’s mouth fucking you with a sex machine. A hot, messy sex machine that has rough lips and a thick tongue, plunging in and out of your gaping cunt. His nose drags against your clit, rubbing into it over and over like he’s trying to set you off, and you grab at the sheets to try and achnor yourself.
“Be- Ben- Fuck-“ He makes out with your clit, and your eyes roll back in your head. “Oh- Oh my god-“
He pulls back, smacks your pussy, and pushes his face back into your core. Your body doesn’t even seem to know how to process it, every nerve so lit up that it’s scrambled and dazed. You’re almost, literally, overloaded with pleasure.
Ben keeps eating you out with the fervor of a starved man. He uses his whole face, tonguing you like he’s trying to memorize the way you squeeze around him. Whenever you cry out for him, he spanks your pussy, and you can’t tell if it’s a punishment or reward. Maybe both, if the way your cunt pulses with every hit is an indication.
He hits your pussy again, right when you’re so close to the edge you can taste it, and you almost cum. The only thing that stops you it is physically yanking yourself back, trying to escape the intensity of his touch.
Ben grabs you and drags you back. You whine, looking up at him with glossy, tear stained eyes. He wipes them away with his thumb, glaring down at your open, wrecked expression.
“The fuck did I say about moving?”
“I- I didn’t-“
“You did.”
He plants one hand on your lower abdomen, spanking your pussy with the other. Once. Twice. Your eyes roll back and the tears roll down your cheeks, but Ben just sneers.
“You wanna cum, doll?”
“Yes- Yes, please-“
“Then be fuckin’ good.”
He spanks your pussy again, and pushes his face back in. Your cunt is so abused and raw it only takes a few seconds to work you back up to where you were before. You try not to move, but then Ben—like he wants you not to listen—flicks his clit back and forth over your clit, so fast it feels like a vibrator. Your thighs lock around his head, and your back arches off the mattress.
This time, Ben doesn’t pull back and spank you. This time is worse. He just… Keeps going. He’s strong enough to keep your hips steady against his face. He grabs your ankles, and forces them to stay around his head. You can’t get away from him, as he works your pussy. You thrash in the sheets, crying out and shoving his head as it becomes borderline impossible to hold your orgasm in, but he doesn’t fucking stop.
You’re crying, loud and pathetic, and Ben just moans against your cunt. You roll onto your stomach, trying to crawl away as your traitorous pussy grinds against his face, and Ben slaps your ass. One arm leaves your body—though it doesn’t help you at all—and you hear skin slapping behind you. You manage to twist over your shoulder, and almost cum just from the sight.
Ben, jerking himself off as he keeps you pinned to his face. His cock is thick and big, bigger than anything you’ve ever see. It’s almost pretty, and that’s not something a cock should be. He’s leaking with pre-cum. You want to lap it off of him.
He slams you further onto his face, and you mewl, collapsing back into the matteress. You might pass out, with the effort to keep your orgasm in. You can barely think, barely speak. You’re just sobbing into the sheets and lost in the pleasure.
Then it stops.
Ben pulls away, and the loss is worse than the torture. You cry out, babbling something like his name, and Ben’s lips slot gently over yours.
“Doin’ so fucking well, babydoll,” he mutters. “Just a little longer. It’ll feel good.”
You nod, trying to chase his lips when he pulls away. He hums in amusement, pressing a kiss to your neck, and drags your ass up into the air. Your knees are already wobbly. You wouldn’t be able to stay up, if Ben didn’t wrap an arm around your stomach and force you up.
“Never seen someone so fuckin’ gorgous when they cry,” he mutters, rubbing that thick cock between the lips of your pussy. “Think I just like you wet, honey. Wet and fuckin’ sweet.”
He gathers some arousal with his fingers, then reaches over to press them against your lips.
“Taste,” he orders, and you obey thoughtlessly.
You don’t taste bad. Just… Strange. You moan, but mostly because you like Ben’s fingers being back in your mouth.
“That’s it,” Ben coos, lining himself up against your entrance. “Keep suckin’, pretty girl. Know it helps.”
You hum, and you’re too gone to actually think about what he said. It helps.
Then Ben starts to push inside you, and it becomes obvious what he meant. You squeak around his fingers, and Ben shushes you, slowly. Pushing every inch in so slowly, letting you adjust before giving a little more. You’ve never been strenched this wide, had such deep an angle. You keep sucking on his thumb, trying to find something to do with your body but seize up and wiggle. Ben thumbs slowly at your clit, helping it get further and further in.
“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, his balls pressed against the curve of your ass. “Fit me like a fuckin’ glove, doll- Christ-“
Ben leans fully over you, his body blanketing yours and his hand splaying back over your stomach. His face presses into the crook of your neck, his thumb pulling out of your mouth so his hand can wrap around your throat. He grinds his hips down, and you mewl, fresh tears falling from your eyes.
Ben kisses them away, rolling his hips again. His cock hits so deep inside you, you think you see stars. Just having him in you is cruel. You’re so full, with so little friction, it’s a wonder you’re not sobbing.
But Ben takes mercy, squeezing your neck gently before whispering, “Sing for me, babydoll.”
He pulls almost fully out, slams back in, and you scream. It’s a broken, delighted sound of pleasure, and Ben groans against your skin. He lets go of your throat, letting your cheek press into the mattress, and grabs your hand. Your fingers tangle together, as you pant. There’s nothing you can really do but take it. The size of him along, it knocks the air clean from your lungs. Ben presses demanding kisses, over your face and neck. You try to kiss him back, but you mostly just writhe and cry out his name.
He’s like an animal, with all his grunts and growls of your name. Every thrust drags his cock over your g-spot, splitting you open over and over until you’re just a ball of tears and nerves in Ben’s arms. His thumb wanders back down to your clit, rubbing tight, harsh circles, and you scream. The Zpressure in your body feels seconds from exploding, and you really don’t think you can take much more.
“Be- Ben-“ Your eyes cross, as he keeps pounding into your gushing cunt. “Ooooh- Bennn-“
“I know,” he kisses your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, his hips snapping down like a drill. “Soak my cock, pretty girl. You can do it, come on-“
The permission is all you needed. Ben’s hips snap forward, the head of his cock angled to drive into that gooey spot, and you come undone. Your orgasm is blinding and powerful, sweeping through every inch of your body. It lasts, as Ben fucks and fingers you through it, unraveling you so completely you think you black out for a moment. All you remember is a heavenly, strangely pure kind of floating feeling, and Ben’s growled praise in your ear.
“Good girl,” he hisses, and you coo, pussy fluttering and weeping. “Fuckin’- Gonna fill you up, doll, fill you up real fuckin’ good- I’ll be leakin’ out of this pussy when I’m done, let everyone know who the fuck you belong to- My girl, my fuckin’ girl-“
Ben’s thrusts grow jagged, his hand moving back to your throat, and you make a blubbering sound of agreement. He chuckles, choked and rough.
“You’d fuckin’ love that. Bein’ full of me, bein’ mine, bein’- Fuck-“
Ben cums, thick ropes of cum spurting into your cunt. There’s so much of it, so much of him, you can almost feel it in your throat. Almost fucking taste it. He tries to fuck you through it, but soon his release is dripping down your thighs and spraying back to your calves, and he pulls out. A stream of it hits your back as he moans, and you only squeak when Ben rolls you over and paints your stomach and tits white as well.
It’s a glorious fucking sight. Ben in all his glory, his cock wrapped in his fist and coated in your juices, his chest heaving as he moans your name and cums all over your body. When he’s done he doubles over, crashing his lips against yours and kissing you with so much fervor, you could almost think no sex had happened at all.
He pulls back, and you giggle. You don’t know why. It just feels like the right fucking thing to do, with how softly he’s looking at you. How unbelievably fucking lucky you are. Ben raises his brows, rolls his eyes, and presses a softer kiss to your lips.
“You think this is funny?” He mutters, but there’s no venom in his voice.
You nod, smiling up at him, and he sighs.
“You’re lucky,” he mutters, and he has no idea.
You press a kiss to his lips, and they twitch up. His eyes soften again, as he takes you in. So fucked out you can’t even speak.
“Good?” He mutters, and you nod like a bobblehead.
So good. So fucking worth it, for the months of mind games of questions, with how fucking good it was.
Ben smiles. And you can read it all over his face.
How he really does feel the exact same way.
“Told you I’d take care of you,” he grunts. “My fuckin’ girl.”
And you are. And he really, really fucking does. He cleans you up and feeds you. Gets you water and crawls into bed, lighting up a joint but keeping you tucked tight into his chest. You look up at him with a dazed smile, and he looks down at like some adoring, devout follower of a secret religion.
“We should get married,” he says suddenly, and you laugh, finding enough of a voice to respond.
“Date me first, smart guy.”
He grunts, pulling you closer and kissing the top of your head. You both know there isn’t much dating that will need to be done, to get you on board. But Ben’s going to try anyway. And you love him for it. How willing he is, just for you, to really, always fucking try.
✦End note: eric kripke WISHES he had my vision of soldier boy ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦summary: everything was fine between you and dean until you moved into the bunker. everything is tolerable until you get hurt on a hunt. dean loses his mind. and when you try to apologize, dean tells you exactly why.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, pining, average dean winchester emotional intelligance, shameless smut (dry humping, knee riding, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, oral f!reciving, pussy slapping, fingering, breif mentions of spanking, dean's dirty talk, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, crying, creampie, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 10.3k✦
✦author's note: old dean you've done nothing wrong ever. murder? what murder? i can't hear you over how fine he is.✦
“She should stay in the car.”
“I’m not staying in the car-“
“It’s a small nest.” Dean doesn’t even acknowledge you, tapping his thumb on the wheel as he addresses Sam. “She’d just be an extra block, you know we can clean that place up blindfolded and ball-gagged-“
Your nose wrinkles. “Why would you be ball gagged-“
“We leave her with a knife.” He keeps ignoring you. “Lock the doors, crack the windows, and we’re in and out like-“
You slam your feet into the back of Dean’s seat, cutting him off with a grunt. He whips around to shoot you a glare, and you stick out your tongue.
“What the hell was that.”
“I’m not a dog, dipshit.” You snap, and he scowls.
“I know you’re not good at listening, sweetheart, but I didn’t call you one-“
“It was implied.”
Dean rolls his eyes, giving Sam a you see what I gotta deal with expression, like he’s not the one making the whole fucking issue.
“I’m not staying in the car.” You repeat, louder than before, and Dean chuckles dryly.
“Yeah. You are.”
“I’m not-“
“You are-“
“You lock me in here, I’ll start screaming-“
He gives you an unimpressed look. “I’ll gag you.”
You grin at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Kinky.”
Dean jaw clenches. You beam. Somewhere in the background, Sam sighs.
“Guys…”
“You’re staying here.” Dean snaps. “That’s that.”
“You’re not the boss of me, Winchester-“
“The hell I’m not-“
“You don’t offer me health insurance-“
“None of us get health insurance, sweetheart, that’s why I’m telling you to stay in the car-“
“Guys.” Sam sighs, looking between you with the same, exhausted expression as usual. “We only have until the sunrise, and it’s already 4am. Can you please do this after?”
You don’t look away from Dean. He doesn’t look away from you. You raise your brows mockingly.
“He’s talking to you, Dean. Can you do this after?”
Dean narrows his eyes, and he opens his mouth to bark something at you that you probably would’ve deflected now—using taunting words and matching his harsh tone—then cried about later. In the safety of your bedroom, where Dean can’t see you. The only place that you can go to let everything out. It’s safe in your room. Dean never even knocks on your door, always sending Sam in his stead. But you don’t go to his room either. It’s an unspoken rule that you’ve never had steady enough feet on the ground to bother breaking. You’re pretty sure that if Sam doesn’t kill you both over this, he’s going to strangle you later for making him a messenger pigeon.
But you need that solace. That quiet, where Dean can’t shake your world with sneers and glowers. It hits something raw in you, a wound that you’ve never bothered to stich up or cauterize because you love the bleeding too much. It pours all over your hands when you hug your stomach, out of your mouth like bile when you try to defend yourself—to make him stop just seeing you as some stupid, naive civilian girl he needs to heard around—and out of your eyes when you cry over all of it.
The things that do make you that naïve civilian girl. The things that make you barely any better than a teenager with a crush, wandering around after the boy you like and pulling at his sleeve for just an ounce of attention.
No one can blame you for falling for the hero who saved your life and swept you off your feet. Offered you a new life, taught you how to shoot a gun with his arms around your body—you can still feel him sometimes, when you rub your shoulders—and told you that he’ d always keep you safe.
Dean had been straight out of a romance book. You’d let yourself get starry eyed, you’d daydreamed that he lingered around you out of affection rather than obligation. You’d been an idiot, and you’d gotten comfortable, and when Sam said you had a knack for the lore and were more than welcome to stay, you’d said yes without a thought.
You’d thought Dean would’ve been happy.
But you’d told him, and he’d looked like he was going to put his fist through a wall.
Everything had shifted, like a picture into the negative. Dean stopped seeking you out for anything, stopped training you, almost stopped looking at you all together. In the first months, he’d walked out of a room the moment you entered. At one point, you’d overheard him having a very loud fight with Sam about letting you stick around.
He hadn’t been speaking to Sam either. They’d gotten over it, because they always seemed to. Your second foolish fantasy was that Dean would get over whatever you’d done to him—you’re still not all that sure—and decide that he actually did like you. That he’d remember how good things had been at the start, and if you proved yourself to him, everything would go back to normal.
But it’s been a year.
And normal is this now.
Dean hates you. He must hate you. There’s no other reason he’d argue with Sam about bringing you on hunts, even when they need the extra hands or your research. And even when Sam wins the fight—which is always, you think he might have a cheat code that makes Dean always agree with him, and you’d very much like access to it please—Dean still acts like you don’t exist. Or worse, like you do, and it’s the bane of his entire life. For the whole fifteen hour drive, and you get handed snacks without eye contact and checked on like you’re a dog he’s making sure didn’t piss all over his precious car.
For the entire hunt, you’ve been able to feel his attention burning through you. Whenever you’d look over, he would’ve already looked away, but you could feel it. And you’re the one who tracked the nest and identified the mutation in these vamps that made them daywalkers, but when you’d looked to Dean with a hopeful smile for approval, he’d looked away again.
You might’ve sat in the bathtub with the water burning yours shoulders and useless tears sliding down your cheeks after. Clawing at your face like you could remove the pain, remove all the love you felt for him with all the brutal precision of a hungry animal. But if you did, it’s none of his fucking business.
And you might not want to join in on the actual hunt—that sounds gross, and bloody, and kind of scary—but Dean doesn’t get to win. You can handle it, and if you can’t he’s there.
It makes you feel safer than it should. Dean always makes you feel safer, and you hate him for it.
The thing about loving him is that it’s not so much a choice as something that slammed into you like a comet. Dean left a massive depression in something so vital you think it might be your soul, and now it blooms all the time. Alone and in the dark, finding sunshine in every piece of him that’s worthy of such a feral, unyielding devotion.
It’s most of him. He’s still that hero who saved you, and your body knows it better than your head sometimes. He opens doors for you even when he keeps his gaze fixed firmly over your head. He makes you coffee in the mornings before stalking out of the room like you make the whole place reek.
He’s going to keep you safe, even if he bitches about it and shouts at you the whole time.
And it’s so easy to love him for all of that. In the end, most of your desperation isn’t really to stop loving him.
It’s to scream loud enough that he stops pretending he can’t hear it. That he saves you again, even if it’s from yourself.
You win the argument about going into the house. For all his postering and deep, commanding grunts and threats, Dean’s not actually that good at telling you know. You’ve told Sam it’s because you have the numbers against him. Sam always gives you a strange look and says uh huh, like you’re supposed to know what that means.
“You stick with me.” Dean snaps, pulling out his dainty little baby gun and passing it into your hands. “You wanna speak, think five times, then don’t say it. These things are noise-sensitive, they hear you breathe, they rip you up.”
“I know.” You grumble. “I discovered them.”
Dean sighs heavily, just loud enough for you to know he heard you. “I don’t want you out of my sight.” He mutters, and you give him a flat look.
“So you’re planning to look at me today?”
He shoots you a glare, saying your name in a low warning, and you roll your eyes.
“Never mind.” You mutter under your breath, like a petulant child. “Guess it’s easier to look at ugly things when they’re in the dark.”
That makes him flinch back, like you punched him in the gut. He’s going to say something again, and you really don’t want to hear it.
You stalk over to Sam, leaving Dean gaping and rigid at Baby’s truck. Sam looks between you, but doesn’t bother to ask what you’re fighting about. He rarely does, and it’s always followed by an annoyed now, like it’s somehow your fault Dean thinks everything you do is a sin. What are you two doing now. Why are you mad at him now. Why is Dean being an idiot now.
He’s always an idiot. A handsome, insufferable idiot you want to sucker punch, then make out with until you can’t breathe. If you tried to hit him, maybe he’d catch your wrist and pin you to something. His massive body crowded over yours, his face inches away, lips brushing as he shouted at you, then gave up when you moaned—he’d be too close, his crotch pressing you down, you’d probably moan—and started touching and kissing you until your legs gave out and you were putty in his hands and he worshipped you with the same soft attention he used to offer-
“Stop flirting and fall in.” Dean snaps at you and Sam, standing in complete silence.
Sam rolls his eyes, and hisses something to Dean when they walk past each other that makes Dean look murderous. You flush—thankfully hidden in the dark—and grip your baby-gun tight as you follow.
“Stay with me-“
“I know.” You snap, not looking him in the eyes. “I’m not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, and you can’t tell if it’s an agreement or dismissal. You’re not sure which would be worse.
The moment you’re in the nest, you remember why you don’t usually do this. Why you actually prefer waiting at the motel for them to come back, or just staying in the car with an anxiously bouncing knee. You always ask to go with them because you hate the dread. Hate watching them—both of them, because you might not be in love with Sam but he’s sort of your only friend anymore—walk out the door for what always might be the last time. They never think it will be.
You do. Every time, Dean pulls out of the parking lot with your heart in his dumb, big hands, and you know it could stop beating any second. That you won’t even know until you get a phone call, and a part of you withers that’s never going to be reborn.
So you ask to go with them. To help. Do first aide, be extra hands, anything so you don’t just have to wonder if they’re okay.
But then you actually get here, and you hate it.
It’s scary. Scary and quiet and loud all at once. You have to physically yank yourself back from grabbing Dean’s forearm and clinging to him. He radiates heat, and this barn is so fucking cold, and you’d like to go back to the car now, thank you very much-
Everything happens so fast. It always does, on a hunt.
You find the vamps. Sam offs one, Dean gets another two, and your fingers tremble but you manage to kick a third back into Dean’s machete. He gives you an approving look, and you feel like you’ve grown wings.
Then another on comes out of nowhere. Slams into Dean and starts driving him backwards.
You scream, and shoot. It won’t kill them, but it’ll distract.
And it does.
The vamp stumbles when you hit his calf, dropping Dean to the floor. It turns on you with glinting eyes, and lunges.
You’re thrown to the ground with teeth gnashing near your throat. There’s a roar in the background, and you feel a rush of pain through your stomach as the vamp hits you. Heat burns over your neck, and your arms are starting to get weak, and-
All the noise stops. The body over you slumps.
You open your eyes to find Dean standing over you, just like that first time he saved you.
Only now, he looks like he wants to cut off your head next.
He’s staring at you a strangely furious and pallid expression all at once. There’s something glinting in his eyes that you can’t place. His breath is heavy through his nose, and he’s not even blinking as he scans over you.
His eyes widen, when he sees the blood blooming through your shirt. He drops his machete, bends down, and scoops you up into his arms.
The rest of the night is a little hazy.
Dean carries you to the Impala. He smells good, like leather and pine trees and something a little spicy. He looks really good, too. Covered in blood and grease and so angry he’s almost feral. His hands are warm, and make you feel fuzzy when they brush over your stomach, checking the wound.
The whole thing feels like a dream. Especially after he coaxed some painkillers down your throat, and the world all becomes just color and Dean’s undivided attention, pressing over you.
He doesn’t speak to you the whole time. He’s humming something, fingers brushing over your bare skin, and the feel oddly light. Almost shaky.
You breathe out his name. You don’t know why. Through the drugs, it’s sort of the only word you know.
His hands still for a heartbeat, then grab you a little tighter.
Before you pass out, your vision swimming and thoughts covered in a fog, you could swear you see him bow his head against your chest. He holds your hips tight, lips brushing against your exposed stomach.
Your weak fingers reach up, brushing through his hair. A deep sound rumbles from his chest, and it’s soothing.
The world goes peacefully dark, and Dean stays wrapped around you all the way into your dreams.
He hasn’t spoken to you.
It’s been three weeks, and Dean hasn’t said a single word.
It’s worse than before. Worse than it’s even been. Even those first months after you moved in permanently, he’d at least acknowledge your existence. It had been via avoiding you like the plague and snipping and glaring, but at least you’d known he could still see you. That he still thought of you.
Now, he’s treating you like a ghost.
The first week you’d expected. The drive back from the hunt had been tense, everyone dead silent. Rest stops happened when Dean decided they would. Sam never once asked him to turn down the music. You turned your face into the window and hid behind your jacket, hoping to hide the shame burning through you.
Dean had been right. You couldn’t handle that hunt.
But he hadn’t even rubbed it in your face. Hadn’t done an I told you so.
When you got back to the bunker, he’d shoved the door open and marched inside without looking back. Sam had rubbed a hand over his face, given you an apologetic look in the mirror, and you’d just shaken your head.
“He’ll get over it-“
“It’s fine, Sam.” You’d muttered. “I’m fine.”
You were not fine.
You hadn’t even been able to sit up without Sam’s help. He’d half carried you out of the car, a hiss of pain escaping your with every movement, and when you’d finally gotten on your feet you’d looked up to find Dean standing in the doorway.
His hands had been fisted at his sides. He’d been staring at you like he wanted to say something, jaw clenched so tight you could see a vein.
You hadn’t quipped. Hadn’t pushed. You’d just watched him, praying he’d do anything but just stand there. Part of you had wanted him to yell. To let out all the anger you could see simmering behind his gaze, so you could all move on.
But Dean had turned, and stalked back into the bunker.
The ignoring had begun. And you didn’t think you could last a day of it, let alone almost a month.
When you’re in the same room, he pretends you’re not even there. If you’re talking to Sam, he cuts you off like he didn’t hear. If you pass each other in the hall, he looks firmly ahead and bumps your shoulder. If you’re blocking him from getting something in the kitchen, he just reaches over you like you’re part of the room.
His chest presses against your back, and your breath hitches. You bow your head, fighting the instinct to moan and push back into him. He’s so warm, a secure and unwavering pillar of resolve that you want to worship at the feet of forever. He’s sturdy, he’s safe, his muscles flex around you and his breath is warm on your neck and he’s acting like you don’t even exist.
It’s cold when he pulls away.
You retreat to your room, and lie on the floor until you’re out of tears.
Part of you wonders if Dean even knows what he’s doing to you. He can’t. He thinks you hate him with all the fever and loathing he hates you. There’s no possible way for him to understand that every second he ignores you, something in you cowers and whines. That you’ve been passing the door to his room just to try and run into him, even though that breaks the unspoken rule of never invading such a sacred space. That this is killing you more than the injury did, because at least that was allowed to heal.
Dean fixed you, there.
Here, he’s just clawing you wider and wider, until there’s a gaping pit in the cavity of your chest, and you’re about to fall through.
He’d been going out drinking every night. He comes back reeking of liquor and perfume, but he comes back. Every single night, he’s back around 1am.
You know, because you stay up waiting.
Dean always walks past your room, when he gets home. His shadow lingers under your doorway, and sometimes you swear you hear a thud against your door. As if he’s knocking, or just leaning there.
Breaking the rule himself.
It’s the only way you still know you’re not a ghost. That he still knows you exist.
But that’s it.
Otherwise, you’re nothing to him at all.
You can’t take it anymore. Sam says you haven’t been eating as much, but you barely even noticed. You’re too tired, from losing sleep. And everything tastes like ash, anyway.
Sam also says that Dean’s being a dick, but he’ll get over it. They went on a hunt a few days ago—they’re talking again, although from what you’ve seen it’s clipped, and they’re both still pretty pissed—and Sam told you he’d try to talk some sense into Dean and his silent treatment. You have no faith it will work. Sometimes living in the bunker feels like a pissing contest of who can be the most stubborn, if every contestant had an infinite bladder and thought they’d die if they lost.
You’ve been checking your phone for updates every ten minutes. You’re getting itchy and restless, and you can hardly breathe. What if this is it, and foul voice reminds you. What if he dies, and he dies angry at you, and you can’t even remember the last thing he said to you because it was a month ago.
The seams in you are coming apart. Sam sends you a brief text, saying the hunt is over and they’ll be back tonight. You don’t bother to ask how the talk went. If Sam even went through with it, you already know the answer.
But you can’t. You can’t keep living like this. That voice is only going to get louder, and you’re only going to waste away, and Dean won’t even notice with how determined he is to make you nothing at all.
You’ve been crying too much. Your eyes are red when you look in the mirror, and your lips are swollen.
Maybe you shouldn’t stay here. Maybe Dean’s right, and you never belonged here at all.
He once acted like you did. And you still don’t know what made him change his mind.
And you don’t want to leave. This is home. Dean is home, because despite everything you still think of him, and you feel safe.
You know that’s why it hurts so much. You’re not weak. You can stand to be ignored, and you’ve certainly had louder and more violent and cruel fights with people you’d actually been dating. But Dean being so mad feels like your heart is trying to eat itself. And you can’t take it.
It takes all night, but that’s the perfect amount of time. You go out to the grocery store and get everything you need, then haul up in the kitchen and bake like your life depends on it. A fairly big fraction of it does.
You think about writing I’m sorry or You were right on the pie with whipped cream. That feels like a little too much. Hopefully, that part will speak for itself.
When they get home, it’s with a slam of a door. There’s no shouting, but you have a feeling it’s because the fight already passed. You watch Sam give you a tight smile before slumping off to his room, and you know he tried. You appreciate it. But only you can fix this now.
“Dean.” You force your voice to be steady. It doesn’t work that well. “Dean.”
He looks up at you with a heavy, tired glare. He doesn’t speak, but he looks at you, and it makes you sit a little taller. You can do this.
“I’m sorry.” You push the pie forward, and he blinks.
“You’re sorry.” He echoes, like he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’re sorry?”
You nod, chewing your lip nervously. “Yeah. For- For the hunt. And anything else I did to you.”
“Anything else you did.”
“Um- mhm.”
Dean stares at you, and you push the pie again. Look down to it, then back to him, swallowing the nerves in your throat.
“I- I made you pie.”
“Yeah. I can see that.”
“Oh- Okay.”
The silence is suffocating. Your face is starting to burn, and you’ve never cried in front of him before, but the tears are insistent. The ache of loneliness, of just missing him, it’s insistent. Like a hurricane, devastating and impossible to ignore. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold them back, and that usually works.
It’s useless now. The first tears burn on your cheeks, and you wipe them away with trembling, frantic hands.
Dean rasps your name, taking a lurching step forward. As if someone shoved him, his hand reaching out before he yanks it back.
You swallow, and find a painful, barbed lump in your throat. You shake your head, and look to the side.
Dean repeats your name, his voice thick and strained.
You realize this is the first time he’s said it in a month.
A damn breaks in your chest. Something snaps near your ribs, and a pathetic, choked sob rips from your throat. You can’t stay here.
“I- I’m sorry.” You shoot to your feet, pushing the pie roughly forward. “It’s- It’s cherry.”
“Sweetheart-“
“The pie.” You clarify, staring at Dean’s knees.
“Yeah, I know-“
He takes a step forward. You take a step back, and he freezes.
When you look up, he’s watching you like you’d just smacked him in the face. You swallow, lip wobbling as you keep losing the battle against your own tears.
“I- I’m sorry.” You choke out, wrapping your arms around your stomach.
Dean works his jaw, shaking his head. “You said that already-“
“I- I know. I’m sorry-“
“Stop saying sorry!”
He takes a larger, firmer step forward. His voice echoes off the walls, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it stings.
Dean rubs his face, lowering back down to rough, low words as he says your name. “Just- Fuck- I don’t want a sorry.”
“I-“ You cut yourself off, shrinking further into your body.
He doesn’t want an apology. He doesn’t want you.
“I’ll go.” You whisper, looking down to his shoes.
Dean makes a choked sound. “You’ll- What-“
“I’m going to go.” You can’t be here right now. Can’t break down when you’re really not sure if he’ll pick you back up. “I- I’m-“
You swallow another apology, and duck past him. Dean shouts after you, so you walk faster. Almost running to the safety of your room, to the one place he won’t follow. Where you can fall apart alone, and wrap yourself in blankets you pretend are his arms, because you’re the exact, pathetic, stupid girl he thinks you are. You’re crying so hard you can’t breathe, and you hate him, and you hate yourself more for knowing you’ll still love him once the tears dry out.
There’s a knock on the door. The fight must have been that loud.
“Go away, Sam.” Your voice is muffled through the sheets.
Dean’s is muffled through the door. “Not Sam, sweetheart.”
You sit up, still holding your blanket to your face. As if he might somehow see you. There’s a long silence—he’s not supposed to be here, why is he here—and Dean coughs.
“It’s, uh- It’s Dean-“
“I know.”
“Oh. Okay.” He pauses, then, “Are you gonna open the door?”
You shake your head, then remember he can’t see you. “No.”
Dean grunts your name, and you raise your voice a little.
“Leave me alone-“
“No. We gotta- There’s stuff I have to- Fuck.” There’s a thump on the door. You think he’s leaning against it. “You’re crying, alright? Just let me in so I can fix it-“
“I’m fine.” You snip, and he laughs dryly.
“I can hear you. I know you’re still upset, and-“
“Why do you care?”
Dean goes silent, and you glare at where you think he’s standing.
“Why do you care, Dean. You never cared before-“
“That’s not true.” He snaps, and you roll your eyes.
“Don’t lie-“
“I’m not lyin’, I just-“ He cuts himself off. “Just open the door, alright-“
“Not until you tell me why you give a shit-“
“I just do, alright?”
“No, you don’t-“
“Stop- Stop saying that.” He’s not shouting, but you can hear him fighting against the urge. “Stop telling me what I care about, you don’t get to decide that-“
“I’m not deciding.” You push the words out, even as they burn on your tongue. “You just don’t get to act like you care about me when you wish I didn’t exist.”
The silence falls again. It’s thicker than before. So heavy it pulls your heart down to your stomach. You’re so sure he’s going to walk away, just leave you there to finally, fully break.
Instead, when he speaks, his voice is rough.
“Don’t say that.” He grunts. “I’ve never wished that. Not once.”
Your heart flutters. You want to smack it, remind it that it’s only hurting because of him. “Whatever.”
The door shakes again, as Dean’s shadow shifts.
Despite yourself, you lean closer.
“Open the door.” He says your name again, the tone a command.
You raise your chin. “No.”
“Come on, just open it-“
“Go away, Dean-“
“No.” It’s shockingly firm. You sit up in surprise. “No, I’m not- I’m not just gonna leave and let you go, no. That’s not fuckin’ happening, sweetheart, just- Open the door-“
His voice is getting louder, every word sounding more and more strangled. You shift to your knees, saying his name softly through your tears, but he doesn’t seem to hear.
“You can’t leave me, alright? You win, you fuckin’ win, I’m the idiot. You can stay and run me into shape, whatever the hell you want, just- just open the door, please-“
You’ve never heard him like this before. Rambling like a broken record. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was crying.
“I’m sorry for being a dumbass.” He’s not pushing the door anymore, but his voice is muffled and loud all at once. He’s leaning against it. “Sorry for being a dick, sorry for- For whatever the hell you’re cursing my name with, I know I deserve it, I was a douchebag and if you wanna hate me you got every right, but-“ His voice breaks. “Don’t leave me. Fuck- Please don’t leave me, please-“
You slide off the bed, gliding across the room like you’re in a trance, and open the door.
Dean stumbles forward, catching himself against the doorframe. He’s only inches away, and you can read it all over his face. How much he means every strangled word.
His hair is disheveled, his eyes red as he scans over your open, sad features, his jaw clenched so tight you think he might break his teeth. His arm flexes over your head, hand fisting and unfisting at his side. There’s a stain of a tear on his cheek, gleaming in his stubble like he’d half wiped it away.
He watches you like he’s a dog, bracing to be kicked.
You hold his gaze, letting your voice stay small. You have a feeling he’d cling to every word if you only breathed it out.
“You’re sorry.”
He nods. You swallow.
“Why-“
“All of it.” Dean mutters. His eyes are locked onto yours. It’s almost too much, making you feel molten when you need to be unmovable.
You look down to your fingers. “What you said?”
“And did. And-“
“Being a douchebag.”
He chuckles, but it’s more of a rasp. “Yeah.”
“For how long?” You look at him under your lashes, and maybe it’s a bit of a test, but you need to be sure he understands. The sheer magnitude of how this—all of this—has hurt you.
“The whole year.” He says immediately. “From when Sammy told me you were staying to- Shit, five freakin’ seconds ago. I’m sorry.”
You hear it again, even if he doesn’t say it.
Don’t go.
“You didn’t want me to stay here.” You say lightly.
Dean shakes his head. “That’s not true-“
“You told Sam he never should’ve asked me.” With all the bravery in your body, you meet his gaze. “You said you wanted me far away from here.”
Shame almost pours from Dean’s expression. He bows his head, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller. “I- Uh- I didn’t know you heard that-“
“You’re both very loud.”
“Ah.” He pauses, shifting on his feet. His handsome features twist into a tight frown. “But- That’s not what I said.”
“Yes, it is-“
“I said you should be far away from here.” He mutters. “Not that I wanted you there.”
“That’s the same thing-“
“No, it’s not.” Dean gives you a firm look, his voice dropping impossibly lower. “What I want and what’s right?” He chuckles dryly. “Ain’t ever really the same thing.”
For a long moment, you just watch each other. And he means it. Every inch of you knows that, right into your bones. But you’re still fragile from a year of him acting like you were nothing. And you want that to be enough, you want that so desperately. To just give Dean all of you to freely break, and trust that he won’t. But-
“What about me.”
Dean blinks. “What?”
“Am I right?” You raise your chin, crossing your arms over your chest. Dean’s frown deepens.
“Are you-“
“You’re sorry. You said you don’t me to leave.”
“I don’t.”
“So I was right.” You challenge. “I was right to stay.”
Dean swallows. You don’t waver.
“Do you care, Dean. If you don’t want me to leave then you have to tell me why you’d even fucking care-“
“I care.” He grunts, pressing further over you. “I care more than you can imagine.”
You snort. “I don’t know about that-“
“I can’t imagine it, sweetheart.” Dean reaches down slowly, cupping your jaw. You freeze. “Sometimes I- I can’t even work it out in my head. Can’t measure it, can’t justify it, can barely even understand how it’s possible.” His thumb drags over your cheek. “How much I fuckin’ love you.”
Oh.
Oh.
“Love is different than care.” You whisper, and Dean’s lips twitch.
“Yeah. But not by that much.”
You stare at him. He stares back, and when you don’t move away he drops his brow. Presses it against yours, his voice lowering gently.
“You don’t gotta forgive me. Just-“
“I love you, too.” You blurt, and Dean’s eyes shoot open. “And I’m not leaving.”
Dean swallows. Searches your gaze, like he’s trying to find the a tell that you’re lying. “You don’t have to-“
“Shut up.”
You grab his neck, and drag him down. You’re tired of talking. Of fighting and crying and being so far away. Even an inch feels like too much right now.
Dean must feel the same way.
When you pull him into a kiss, he’s rigid for a second. The brief, electric brush of your lips. Your noses bump, and your nails dig into his neck. He grunts, his hand on your doorway sliding down. You flush and try to pull away, but he’s not having it.
Dean melts over you so fast your brain can’t keep up.
He grabs your hip, blunt nails digging into your shirt, and tugs your head gently back as his lips work over yours. It’s so sudden you don’t immediately kiss him back, just grabbing the collar of his shirt for balance. Dean grunts, the hand on your hip sliding around your lower back. Grounding you against him as he almost bends you backwards, never once breaking the kiss.
His lips are softer than you dreamt of. Plush and a little chapped, but still so soft. He moves them slowly but insistently over yours, tasting and letting his tongue brush slightly. When you shiver and try to rise up a little higher, he meets you immediately. He kisses like he already somehow knows exactly how you like it. Easy but a little messy. Close, so close he’s almost eating your face while you try and claw closer. He tastes like salt from the tears, but under that is a little bit of cherry.
“You-“ You speak between kisses, dizzy from desire. “You ate the pie-“
“Tasted it.” He grunts, walking you back into your room. “Checkin’ it wasn’t poison.”
You lean back, glaring up at him. “I would not poison you-“
“I know.” He grins, kissing your pouted lips. “But I woulda deserved it if you did.”
You want to argue with that, too, but Dean’s faster. He kicks the door closed behind him, grabs your waist, and picks you up with barely a grunt. Your arms fly around his neck as you yelp in surprise, but the sound quickly falls into a loud, long moan when he pins you against the door.
His kisses are turning more frantic. Hungry and bruising, but still restrained. His hands stay politely on your clothing, his lips pressed over yours with only small grazes of his tongue.
You open your mouth in a long, shaky moan. Dean takes the permission, grabbing your jaw and tipping it a little further back. His tongue brushes over your teeth, and you wrap an arm around his neck. His chest is pressed right against yours, and it’s secure and sweet and hot. You’ve never been this hot just from a few kisses.
Passionate, messy kisses. With Dean. His broad fingers on your soft skin, and his solid body right against yours. You comb your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and he groans. The noise vibrates through you, and you shudder with that burning, needy heat.
Dean notices. Of course he does. He’s Dean.
“Do you want-“
“Yes.” You moan against his lip, trying to spread your legs. “God, Dean- Fuck-“
He sucks on your lower lip before releasing it with a wet pop. Licks over the hurt before travelling down. Over your cheeks, then your jaw, repeating the same motion. Your arms wrap tight around him, your hips bucking mindlessly up.
“Oh- Dean-“ Your nails scratch his neck, and he hums. “You- You can’t just- Holy shit-“
He shoves his knee right between your thighs, the sudden pressure a curse and a relief. Your hips roll like they have a mind of their own, and head dropping against Dean’s shoulder as you cry his name. He moans, his hand on your waist tugging at your shirt.
You grab it and move it under the fabric, moaning at the feeling of his rough callouses, his warm palms, how possessive just a light touch can be. His fingers splay, the tips pressing into your skin, and you’re fully humping him now. He hisses when your knee bumps into his hard crotch, and you giggle, dragging a hand down his spine.
Dean pulls back, watching you ride his thigh with hooded eyes and a lazy grin. “Something funny, pretty girl?”
You giggle again, pressing purposefully against the bulge in his jeans. He groans, pressing his brow to the top of your chest.
“Shit- You’re tryin’ to fucking kill me-“
“Nuh uh.” You breathe out, not caring how convincing it is. You can feel the pressure building in your core, but it’s not quite enough. You need him to give you more. “De- Dean-“
You grab his wrist again, trying to pull it to your ass, but he resists. He yanks his hand from your grip, sliding it up your ribs slowly. His thumb brushes under your breast, and you bow into the touch with another loud moan.
“Jesus.” He mutters. “You look fuckin’ gorgeous like this, sweetheart. Think putting you on my cock might turn me into a religious man.”
You grab his shirt, yanking desperately, and he clicks his tongue. His voice is deep and taunting, and he leans forward so his lips brush yours with every word.
“Easy, baby girl.” He coos, his thumb grazing over the curve of your breast. “Thought about this for so long. Wanna take my time with you, show you that I mean what I’m saying. Love these pretty tits,” he palms it as he speaks, grinning as you moan like a shameless whore. “And this smart fucking mouth.” He nips your lower lip. “And your whole, sexy fuckin’ body. Love it almost as much as that impossible, pretty head you got. And I’m not wasting my shot on making you mine.”
You shake your head, the wet heat becoming almost unbearable. “Al- Oh-“
Dean’s mouth attacks your neck and shoulders, and you have to take a deep breath to remember how to speak.
“Already yours, Dean, always been yours, always- Fuuuuck-“
He grabs you hips and moves them so your clit is always dragging against him, the friction from his jeans and your panties making your head spin.
“I know.” He mutters, breath warm against your ear. “You think I didn’t know, princess? That I didn’t see every time you’d give me those Bambi eyes and beat my cock in the shower that night, thinkin’ about what you’d let me do to you?”
You moan as shock and surprise burns on your cheeks, but it also floods south. Right to your core, making you squirm in his arms. Dean chuckles, watching you with a dangerous smirk.
“Thought it was just a crush, at first. Thought you’d get over it, move onto someone better-“
“No- No one better.” You breathe out despite yourself, and Dean’s eyes flash. “No one better, Dean, just you, just you-”
He grabs your jaw, kissing you long and rough. You whimper, pressing your tongue into his mouth. He pushes you further back against the door, kissing you with teeth and spit. You give in immediately, just trying to chase anything, anything he can give you at all.
“De- Dean-“
“Always someone better for you.” He growls against your lips, grabbing under your knee. He squeezes it tight before hiking it up, offering even more friction.
You moan, dropping your head back against the door. He’s almost fucking you through your clothing, his bugle pressed right against your throbbing pussy. Dean’s mostly just letting you grind down onto him, but every few moments he gives a shallow thrust of his hips, grinning when the pleasure shakes through your whole body.
“Look at you.” He coos, reaching up to smear some of his spit on your cheek. “You deserve the fuckin’ world, sweetheart. Deserve a guy with his shit all in order, someone half as sweet as you are-“
“You- You’re sweet-“ You gasp when he shoves his hips up, slamming right against your clit. “Holy shit- Dean-“
“I’m sweet.” He mocks, and it shouldn’t make you feel as needy and light as it does. “I treated you like shit, baby. Thought it would help you get over it, but look at you. You like this. Like bein’ my pretty fuckin’ slut.”
You let out a guttural, strangled noise of desire, and Dean taps his thumb against your lips. When you open them, he slides his thumb inside. You suck obediently, watching him under dazed eyes. His throat bobs, eyes blown out with lust.
“Good girl.” He mutters, lips twitching when you hum happily around him. “Oh, you like that, too. My good girl.”
He leans forward, whispering into your ear, and your eyes flutter hopelessly.
“You’re such a fuckin’ brat, sweetheart. You’d sass me and I’d think about kissing you nice and stupid, then giving you the whole fuckin’ world.”
You whine, and Dean pulls his thumb out to let you speak.
“Don’t- Don’t want the world.” You gasp. “Just want you, Dean, please-“
He hauls you off the bed, and your legs wrap around his middle. This time when he kisses you, he’s holding you over his body like you’re something for him to worship. He’s slow and sweet, just like you know he is. He tosses you down onto your bed before pulling off his shirt and prowling over your body. He pulls your pants down, kissing back up your ankle, your knee, your hipbone. He sucks your clit lightly through the fabric of your ruined panties, pinning your pelvis to the bed when your hips slam up.
You fist a hand in the sheets. “De- Dean-“
He hums, pressing you down harder. His tongue flicking, and you pant, desperately trying to wiggle out of his grip, to chase release.
Dean stops suddenly, chuckling when you whine like a spited child. Two fingers hook around the center of your panties, and he yanks away the ruins fabric like it was made of paper.
“So wet.” He mutters, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips. “You’re like a fuckin’ dream, baby, son of a bitch.”
He slaps your clit once, grinning when the reaction shakes through your whole body. You can almost see him making the metal note, before moving on. Dean grabs the hem of your shirt and tugs it over your head, kissing your tummy, your sides, the valley of your breasts and a tiny mark he’d left on your neck.
His lips meet yours, lazy and gentle. He palms at your exposed breasts, slowly kneeing your legs apart.
When he settles between them, he slows down even more, his breathing ragged and voice low and almost desperate.
“Say it again.” He mutters, and you hum.
“I want you.”
Dean kisses the corner of your mouth. “And- The other thing.”
“I love you.” You say, easy as breathing. “Love you, Dean.”
He grunts, planting a kiss on your nose. “Thank you, my love.”
You smile, letting your hands wander over the broad planes of his back. You’re still so close to the edge, tingly and aching, and maybe he’s just going to fuck you stupid like he promised right now-
Dean pulls away.
He sits up on his knees, one hand pressing you into the mattress. His thumb lingers just above your clit, capable of reaching it if he reaches. But instead he just watches you, shuffling out of his own pants and tossing them off to a corner of the room.
You swallow, salivating at the sight. He’s thick. Long and thick in every way you’d imagined. Broad and angry at the top, leaking with pre-cum that he swipes with his thumb. You’ve only see cocks like that made of silicone with a vibrator built in. You bought one once, feeling pretty brave. You’d given up very fast.
“De- Dean-“
“Yeah, baby?”
He squeezes your thigh, and you look up to him with wide eyes. “I- I can’t take that.”
“Yeah, you can.”
“No, I-“
“Shh.” He coos, thumb grazing over your clit. You shudder, grabbing his wrist.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna help, princess.” He says. “You’re gonna take it.”
He says it so certainly, you fucking believe him. He’s got a goddamn monster-porn cock, but his rich, deep tone has you convinced you can somehow fit it easy.
“Guess that’s why you’re so confident all the time, right?” You giggle nervously, and Dean raises his brows.
“Excuse me?”
“Just if- If I had- That-“
“You mean a big dick?” He drawls, and you flush.
“Um. Yeah.” You turn your face into the pillow, trying to hide. “Shut up.”
He laughs, guiding your face back up as he leans down. Dean kisses you slowly, and you hum dazedly into his lips. He starts to drag his thickness up and down your soaked cunt, and your mouth falls open in a loud moan.
“You’re so fuckin’ cute.” He mutters. “My girl.”
“Yours.” You echo, and he grins.
“Can we try something, baby? You trust me?”
“Mmmm,” you mumble, mostly thinking about the friction he’s giving, the pleasurable shock every time his dick bumps your clit.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You breathe, and Dean smirks.
“Good girl.”
Then he’s gone again. Your fluttering eyes shoot open, and you try to reach up but he slams you right back down. Pinning you to the mattress as he sits on his knees, watching you drink him in a slowly stroking his cock.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do.” He drawls, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “You’re gonna tell me exactly what you want me to do to you, then I’m gonna make you cum until you can’t even talk.”
You gape at him. “Wha- What-“
“You’re so smart, princess.” He taps your clit, and your breath hitches. “Talk.”
“Dean, don’t tease-“
“Not teasing. I’m dead fuckin’ serious.” He gives you a stern look. “You don’t tell me what you want, you don’t cum.”
You glare at him, and he just shrugs. He’s still pumping himself with thick, long strokes, and you’d kill him if you didn’t feel like a firework only he could set off.
“Touch me.” You grumble, and he gives you a flat, amused look.
“How.”
“I- I don’t know- With your hands- Oh-“
Dean’s thumb starts to rub around your clit, and your let out a shaky breath. The gleam in his eyes tells you all you need to know. You listen, you get a reward.
“Touch me there.” You breathe, nervous and breathy. “Keep- Keep doing that, Dean- Ooh-“
He snorts as you hug yourself, pressing his thumb directly down and making you squeak.
“Fuck-“
“You’re bad at this.” He observes, and you reach up to whack his forearm.
“I’ve never done it before, dick-“
“So I’m givin’ you a new skill-“
“You’re making me insane.” You whine. “Just- Just fuck me, Dean, it shouldn’t be that hard!”
“Yeah?” He grins down at you, letting go of his dick to rub your thigh. “Big words from the girl who’s not gonna do any of the work.”
You stick out your tongue, and he laughs.
“I knew you liked being a little cockslut, dripping just thinkin’ about taking me, probably gonna call me daddy and beg-“
“Shut up-“ Face burning, you kick his chest, and Dean catches your ankle, kissing it before moving it back to the bed.
“Well if it’s so easy, I should be guessing right-“
“I just want you to fuck me stupid, Dean!” You shout, the words desperately pouring out of you. “Just- Just take your hands and toss me around, use me and- and kiss me and touch me- Fuck-“
He’s rubbing your clit again, eyes almost black with desire. You push on, grabbing his arm to keep focus.
“Use- Use your fingers and make me cum on your hand.” You breathe out. “Then- Then flip me over and fuck me- Fuck me until I can’t talk, fuck me stupid, Dean, please-“
Your words fall off in a moan as Dean rubs faster, leaning down over your body.
“You want me to talk?” He rumbles, and you nod.
“Talk- Talk the whole time- Oh my god-“
“Tell you how good you’re doing for me?” He mutters, a finger teasing over your entrance. “How good your pussy feels, how crazy you make me, what a perfect fuckin’ girl you’re being when you take my cock-“
“Yes.” You whine, pussy squeezing as he presses that finger slowly inside of you. “Yes, fuck, yes-“
“You want it rough?” He pumps slowly in and out, his thumb still working your clit. “Wanna feel me? Be fucked like you deserve?”
You nod, babbling agreements. He drags lightly against your g-spot and you let out a shuddering gasp, scratching at his shoulders. Dean groans, adding a second one, pushing them knuckle deep and scissoring the thick digits inside you.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ He’s kneading that gooey spot, and you’d already been wound so tight. “Dean, oh my god- Yes-“
“And where am I gonna cum, princess?” He coos in your ear, setting a shallow, deep pace with his fingers. They open you up and massage your pussy until it’s fluttering, until there’s a fuse burning your tummy that needs to be lit, that needs Dean to light it-
“Inside.” You breathe. You need more of him. All of him. “Want you to cum inside Dean, God, please-“
He moans—fully moans—and rubs your clit in furious, tight circles as he kisses you.
“Knew you could do it.” His thumb flicks as he presses your g-spot, and you whine. “Cum for me, baby girl, show me what you’ve got-“
Your release hits you with a scream of Dean’s name, making your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. Dean groans, twisting his hand so his palm is flat against your clit, rubbing and pressing down until you’re trembling and trying to shove him away.
“Look at you.” He says under his breath, like he’s admiring some sort of art. “Look at you, so goddamn sexy, making such a mess on my hand. Bet you’re gonna look even better, getting wrecked on my dick.”
“De- Dean-“
“I know.” He mutters, pulling his fingers fully out. “Soon. I’ll fill you up nice and pretty, fuck you ‘till you can’t think. It’s gonna feel so good, sweetheart. This tight fuckin’ pussy, strangling me while you beg.”
He lands a sharp hit on your pussy, and you barely get out a broken plea before he’s grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your stomach. You squeal, scrambling for a grip on the sheets as Dean drags your ass into the air.
“Such a mess.” He hits your pussy again, and you press your cheek into the mattress, panting as heat floods your body. “Greedy little pussy, don’t even gotta do much to get you ready for me. No,” he pushes his fingers back inside of you, the angle letting his knuckles massage your g-spot. “Basically fuckin’ begging for it, trying to fuck yourself on my fingers. Dirty girl.”
You hadn’t even realized you were doing that. Fucking back onto Dean’s hand, ass wiggling in the air as his free hand soothes down your spine. You’re shaking, but already ready for more, the sensitivity from the first orgasm building you back up.
“Deeean-“ You whine, spreading your knees wider. “More, need more, please-“
“Ah. Just feel this.” He yanks his fingers out, spanking your clit three sharp times before shoving his fingers back in. “You asked me to touch you, I’m touchin’. Touching you real good.”
He starts to knead your g-spot again, kissing slowly up and down your spine.
“Want you to come for me again, baby girl.” He mutters, lips wandering over the curve of your ass, then your thighs. “You’re gonna cum until you can’t stay up, then I’m gonna fuck you. Alright.”
You nod, but there isn’t something he could ask you that you’d say no to right now. “Oh- Okay.”
“Awesome.” Dean sucks on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, pushing you higher in the air. “Hold onto something.”
Your hands fist in the sheets, right before his sinful mouth latches onto your clit.
You almost scream. Dean starts to make out with the bundle of nerves like it can kiss him back, shifting below you until you’re almost sitting on his face. His fingers keep grinding down onto your g-spot as his tongue flicks back and forth, your button sucked between his soft lips, and you push your hands into the sheets, almost unable to take the pleasure.
“Dean- Dean- I- I’m gonna- Fuck-“
A sharp spank lands on your ass before grabbing a handful of the fat and shoving you fully down. You cum with a scream of Dean’s name, the pleasure rolling through your body like a wave.
But he doesn’t stop.
Dean keeps you trapped against his face, working you so hard you see starts, then other universe. His stubble burns against you and it’s perfect, his tongue moving so relentlessly—in tight little kitten licks, working you into a blind frenzy—and the feeling to overwhelming you can’t even remember how to close your mouth. Dean drags you on his face when you try to pull away, chuckling against your pussy, and the vibration is too much.
This time when you cum, you’re shaking and boneless. You think you might be about to cry, but maybe that’s just how hot this is.
He still isn’t stopping, and you might be in heaven. Blissful and dumb from pleasure, just a fuck doll in Dean’s big, careful hands.
You’re about to cum again, and you didn’t know you could do twice, let alone four times.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “Can’t- Can’t do it again-“
Dean grunts, lifting you over his head. “Yes, you can.”
He yanks his fingers out, rubbing your clit quickly before flipping you back over. You blink up at him, the coil in your stomach burning to snap. You’re so cockdrunk and dazed you almost don’t feel it at first.
Dean’s cock, slowly pushing into you.
When it hits you, he’s already got the thick head inside. You mewl, trying to cover your chest as he presses in deeper, but Dean grabs your wrists and pins them next to your head.
“Let me see you.” He mutters, sounding just as wrecked as you are. “Wanna watch you. So pretty, fucking crying for me.” He leans down, kissing your cheek, and you sob with delight. “Feels good, doesn’t it. So- Shit-“ You clench around him, and he hisses. “So fuckin’ good.”
“Good.” You repeat, just trying to stay conscious as Dean drags through your oversensitive, abused pussy. “So, so good, Dean, so fucking- Ooooh-“
He bottoms out, and you could swear you feel him up your spine and in your mouth. You’ve never been so full before, never had someone hit so many sensitive spots inside of you, and it lights you up like a summer sky.
Your eyes cross, as the almost peaceful orgasm blooms from your womb to your lips. You smile up at Dean, twisting to tangle your fingers together, and he swallows.
There’s a soft shine in his eyes. Pure, utter affection as he watches you come undone around him. It even moves into his voice, all the teasing and dominant command coated in devotion.
“You’re so beautiful.” He murmurs, bowing over you until there’s no telling where you stop, and he ends. “Feel that, baby?” He gives a long, lazy roll of his hips, and you gasp. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s you, takin’ my cock. Just like I said you could.” He kisses you, repeating the motion. “Good girl.”
You pant, grabbing his bicep as he fucks slowly into you. He mutters low praise in your ear, bullying your pussy open with every thrust. You’d asked for it rush, but this is better. You feel priceless. You feel like Dean’s.
“Breathe.” He reminds you, and you take a stuttered gasp. “Good job, princess. Don’t want you passing out on me. Need to see those pretty eyes when I cum inside of you,”
You moan, body moving in a mindless rhythm with his, and Dean grins.
“Yeah, I’m gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Make this pussy mine, let it drip out, show everyone who fucks you so good.”
“You.” You whimper out. “You, Dean, ‘s you- Fuck-“
“Damn right it is.” He grunts, dropping his hips so he hits your g-spot even better. “You’re my girl, never gonna let you think anything else again.”
You nod, your breathing getting short and desperate. The room is filled with the wet sound of his dick sliding in and out of you. Your body is slick with heat and Dean’s kissing every inch of it he can reach. Grabbing and squeezing soft skin until you’re sure you’ll be covered in handprints and finger-shaped bruises in the morning, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
Not as his cock drives deep into your with every, precise thrust.
Dean kisses you, dragging his tongue over your upper lip, and your pussy flutters.
Oh. God. “Dean, I- I think-“
“I know.” He grunts, like he’s just attuned to that. “You can do it, baby girl.”
“No- No-“
“Yes.” Dean kisses the tears, streaming down your cheeks from overstimulation. “Do it for me, come on. Just feel it, let it happen. Bet it’s good, isn’t it. Nice and sweet, right here.”
He presses down on your pelvis, right over where the fire is building. You sob with pleasure, and Dean grins.
“That’s right, there it is, come on-“
You cum like you were struck by lighting. Every muscle in your body seizes, the pressure where Dean’s pressing breaking like a damn. You gush and squeeze around his cock, arching off the bed like you’re trying to take flight, and Dean drops over you with a shameless moan.
“Fuck- Fuck yeah-“ He presses his face into your neck as you milk his dick. “Holy- Christ-“
Thick spurts of Dean’s release fill you up. They’re hot, and you hug Dean’s head, whimpering in his ear as you take them. He’s kissing your shoulder, but it’s unmeasured and desperate, and you’re sure you’re having the same control issue right now.
The feeling is so consuming you can’t think of anything but Dean. You’re saying his name like a prayer, as he ruts into you, sloppy and desperate. Neither of you really come back to earth, as your orgasms fade. Dean just slumps over you, cradling your body in his arms, and you smile at the ceiling, completely fucked out.
“Shit.” Dean rasps, and you giggle.
“Yeah.”
“You know you could squirt?”
You shake your head, and he grins against your neck.
“Awesome.”
His cock twitches inside of you, and you hit his shoulders.
“Dean, oh my god-“
“Not now.” He groans, rolling onto his back and hauling you with him. “But later, right?” He gives you a hopeful, almost boyish look.
Like you might reject him while he’s still fucking inside of you.
“Cause I meant it.” He adds quickly. “Everything before, uh- This. Meant every word, promise, and- You can hit me or something, if that makes you feel better-“
You lean down, taking his sweet, dumb face between your hands and kissing him. Dean hums in surprise, but kisses you back immediately. One hand slides through your hair, the other up your spine, but he lets you lead. Looks up at you with a drunken smile when you pull away, like you’re some kind of god.
“I don’t want to hit you.” You say, tracing his tattoo.
He nods quickly. “Good. I mean- for me-“
“But you have to ask me out for real.” You give him a firm look. “And take me on a nice date.”
“I can do that.” He grins. “And then… You’re my…”
He trails off. Lets you fill in the space.
You think he got it right, just like that.
“Yeah,” you smile. “But you’re mine, too.”
And there’s nothing on Dean’s face that tells you he’s going to argue with that.
✦End note: im drooling. i know most of you prob dont read my main dean series, but every day i dream about getting to the end and just making him old and happy. very normal about how i want this old ass man.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦
✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
✦summary: you and dean hate each other. there isn't a moment you aren't fighting, just like there isn't a moment you don't wish he'd love you back, and there isn't a single second he doesn't want you more than you can imagine. ✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), jealous!dean, angst, overprotective dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, feral smut (manhandling, praise kink and degradation kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, stripping, thigh riding, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, light nipple play, begging, fingering, face sitting, jerking off, pussy slapping, rough sex, some edging, cockwarming, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11.5k✦
✦author's note: monthly voted fic! he's yearning so hard guys✦
The bar is loud, but you expected that. It’s what you needed. Between that and the drink in you hands, it’s going to quiet your thoughts. They get lost in chatter of the crowd, and the bass drum of the music. It pounds in your chest and dislodges your heart. You let it. You don’t want to feel it right now.
You check your phone, even though you’ve told yourself not to. The case is sticky from the bar counter, and you wrinkle your nose at the screen before you even read the messages.
Five missed calls from – Dean Winchester.
A sixth one comes through, your phone buzzing angrily. You roll your eyes, and for a long second you seriously consider drowning the damn thing in the abandoned beer glass next to you.
He doesn’t get to call you, like you’re some wandering child. He doesn’t get to get angry about you being out, when he’s the reason you’re here in the first place. And you told Sam to tell him that you’d be here. So really, this is Dean’s fault, then Sam’s, then yours.
The call goes to voicemail. You flip the screen back over, and take a long drink. If it’s really that big a deal that you’re out without him, he can put on his pants and come get you himself.
And he won’t. And that’s part of the problem.
Dean’s going to lecture you about safety when you crawl back in the morning, and you’re going to roll your eyes. He’ll ask you if you think something’s funny, sweetheart? You look him dead in his pretty eyes and say I don’t know, is it? He’ll get angrier. You’ll get angrier. Sam will try to mediate, and you’ll throw something at him before stomping off. Dean will chase after you, and wrestle you back into the room while calling you a brat.
When you get tossed down on the mattress, you’ll sink your nails into his shoulder, because you do every time. You want to drag him down with you, to make him feel this the same way you always have.
To big, too much. Too soft in all the wrong places, and too spiked everywhere else. There’s a sharp, angry shell around your heart that’s grown like an exoskeleton. It’s got wires and teeth that snap, whenever Dean gives you a little too much attention. You can never tell if it’s trying to eat him or latch onto him anymore. You don’t think it really matters.
Dean hates you. He thinks you hate him. He’s going to grab your knees and pin them to your chest, and you’re going to be the only woman in the world who he doesn’t notice flush against him. He’ll hiss that you can’t just go running around alone. That it’s not like you, to be reckless. You spit a fuck you, his grip will get tight, and he’ll shove you away to go take one of his long showers.
Sam will tell you to stop testing him. You’ll tell Sam to eat himself, and go back to sulking like a child in the corner.
Only Dean can do that to you. You hate and love him for it.
When you met—on a hunt that didn’t matter, until it did—he made you all giggly and dumb. Years of training and a mind that could never slow down, turned to goo from one roughish, lazy smile.
“You like trouble?” He’d asked you, trying even then to talk you out of a hunt.
“No. No one likes trouble.”
Dean had chuckled. “I don’t know about that, sweetheart. Most girls like you love it.”
You’d snorted. “Girls like me? What’s a girl like me?”
“Gorgeous.” He’d smirked, like he’d been dying for you to ask. “Smart. Mouthy-“
“Mouthy?” You’d cut him off, rolling your eyes. “Are you from the 60s?”
“No. But you’re provin’ my point.”
“You didn’t have a point. You were just trying to sleep with me.”
Dean had raised his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty. But- Is it working-“
“No.”
It had been. If Sam hadn’t come back to the car two seconds later, you would’ve climbed into Dean’s lap like a whore. Which wasn’t what you were. It wasn’t what you did. Sex with a half-stranger, sex in general, you didn’t toss your body around easily. You’d never been able to do the removing emotions part of casual sex. You’d always managed to come up with a million reasons not to, most of them looking something like have a hookup, get pregnant, the father’s already gone, the baby’s born with cancer, you love it anyway and it dies in your arms, if you’d been more responsible the baby would’ve solved climate change, everyone dies in a fiery explosion.
But you’d looked at Dean, and seen no death or path out that didn’t end in light. He’d grabbed your thigh in the dark of the car, and you’d flushed and smiled to yourself like a schoolgirl.
“You wanna know my middle name?” He’d whispered to you, later that night.
“That’s the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard-“
“It’s not a pick up line! I’m askin’ you a question-“
“But it’s going to turn into a pickup line.” You’d said flatly, and Dean had given you a boyish smile that almost made you forget that he was covered in vampire blood.
“You already know me so well,” he’d cooed, and you’d snorted.
“You’re predictable.”
“So you’re never gonna wonder what I’m thinking.”
You’d shoved his face away with a hand, still giggling. This was usually the point in a hunt where you started thinking about what came next. How long you had to get out of town, how much food you’d need to eat now before you got to your next stop—if you eat too much, you’re going to overstuff and get sick, if you don’t eat enough you’re going to be weak and pass out behind the wheel and cause a fifty car pile-up—and if there are any strings you needed to wrap up on the case.
But Dean had been smiling at you. And that had felt like the only thing that mattered.
“C’mon, ask me what my middle name is-“
You’d covered his mouth with a hand, shooting him a stern glare. His eyes had gleamed with affection, and something deeper you try not to think about now. It hurts too much. It makes you mourn for something that was never even yours to have.
“Only so you shut up,” you’d whispered. “What’s your middle name.”
You’d dropped your hand, and Dean had touched his lips like he was in some telenovela. You’d fought a smile. You’d never known someone could be so handsome it made your heart ache, and so cute you thought you’d explode.
He’d puffed out his chest, and grinned at you like he won the lottery.
“It’s Trouble-“
“It’s Adam.” Sam had called from the table. Dean had looked at him like he’d just murdered a puppy, and you’d laughed so hard you almost fell off the bed.
And you’d thought something was growing. You’d been a foolish girl, who thought the dorky, handsome hero in front of her would give chase, when she turned him down.,
If you could go back, you’d slap yourself in the face and tell you to get it together. Dean Winchester is Dean Winchester. You listen to the what the shadows whisper. You knew his reputation before he smiled at you in the low light of his car. You’re smart. Sam goes to you for research advice, you’ve come up with whole new ways to kill demons and trap angels. You fucking knew better, than to fall in love with Dean.
You should’ve known better.
You didn’t.
So you attached yourself to them like a little, leeching parasite. You followed them around, the Winchester’s shadow, and fell more in love with Dean, and got your heart broken every night when he slipped out of the bar with another woman on his arm.
You’d gotten mean. You’d started getting short with him, and he’d fueled the fire building in the cavity of your chest by being a dick. Suddenly you were too inexperienced for every hunt. Too young to be out alone—you’ve had that fight more times than you can count—or too tense and tightly wound to think clearly.
He’s the one who doesn’t think clearly. He’s the one who drinks himself to death after a hunt and has literally fucked monsters because he can’t be bothered to plan ahead. He drags you and Sam to towns because he’s got a good feeling about them. He tells you to just relax, princess, and you want to punch him in his stupid, pretty face.
But you still love him. You love him so much you think it’s going to kill you. And you keep that locked in the deepest chamber of your heart, because he never needs to know that you still get stupid and soft for him. If he finds out that the first time he tried to leave on a hunt without you, you almost started crying in the middle of the bunker kitchen, he’ll look at you like you’re crazy.
And you are crazy. You know that. You’re a fumbling, wild ball of worries and sneers, and Dean would never want a nagger. He’d never want a younger woman who acts like she knows better—even though you do—and who needs him to be perfectly attentive and affectionate every second of every day.
You’re in love with a man who hates you. And if you had to listen to him fuck that secretary through the wall all night, you were going to kill yourself on their bed.
So now you’re at this loud, disgusting bar, drinking something that you’re praying numbs the pain, and smiling so wide it hurts your face.
The abandoned beer’s owner came back. He’s a broad shouldered, smirking man with a clean cut face, and lighter hair. If you get a little more squint, he looks just like Dean. If you get a little more buzzed, he’ll sound like him too.
You hate causal sex. It doesn’t count if you’re pretending it’s Dean. It doesn’t count if it makes this stop hurting.
“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ here?” The man drawls, leaning across the bar.
You giggle, and it sounds distant to your ears. “Drinking.”
“Yeah?” The man smirks. “You like drinkin’, doll?”
You shake your head, swinging your feet and spinning in the bar stool. The man raises his brows.
“You sure you don’t? You’re goin’ through that thing fast.”
“It tastes bad.” You wrinkle your nose. “Feels good.”
The man’s smile turns wolfish. Your phone starts to buzz again, and you glare at the screen before shutting it fully off.
“Boyfriend?” The man asks, and you shake your head.
“He wishes.”
No, he doesn’t.
That’s the problem.
And you keep flirting—if it can even be called that, because you mostly babble about hating the drink you got and hating Dean and loving the man’s drink because Dean likes that one too—and the man’s hands find their way to your lower back and thigh.
“Why don’t I help you forget about Dean?” He winks at you, and you shrug.
The world is mostly just blurred colors and lights now. Everything feels awfully light, in a way you’re not sure you like.
But you like forgetting about Dean more. So even though you want to tell this man that it’s impossible to forget about Dean, you’re also just lost enough to want help finding your way out.
“Okay.” You beam at him.
You make it to the parking lot—his arm around your waist, herding you like a lost lamb—before Dean ruins everything. He always ruins everything.
There’s a shout of your name, almost ripping through the hazy fog of your drunken mind. You were feet from the man’s car. Just a few more steps from having fun, which you’re bad at doing, but maybe if you practiced, Dean would like you more.
From the look on his face when you turn around, it might’ve actually made him like you less.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He marches across the lot with a scowl, hands balled into fists and gaze fixed solely on you. “I almost made Sammy file a missing persons report-“
“’M not missing.” You stick your tongue out at him. “’M right here. Stupid.”
You mutter the last word under your breath, and Dean freezes. He blinks slowly, gaze raking over your body. That’s not fair. It makes you feel all warm and puddley. Your core floods with heat, and your knees get weak, and he’s get looking at you.
Dean takes a half-step forward, his voice dropping low and rough. “Are you drunk?”
“No.”
There’s a larger gust of wind. Dean’s eyes gleam in the golden light of the parking lot. He looks a little like an angel. You trip standing up, then giggle when the man pulls you back up. Dean’s jaw drops, his brow knitting tight.
“You’re fuckin’ wasted.” He mutters, shaking his head. “Jesus, sweetheart- C’mon.” He steps forward, reaching out a hand. “Let’s go.”
“Nuh uh.” You pout, shaking you head. “I’m not drunk-“
“You’re standing like we’re on a freakin’ ship. Come on.” He flexes his hand, and you cross your arms over your chest.
He doesn’t get to win. “I’m having fun.”
“We can have fun back at the room-“
“The lady said she’s having fun.” The man next to you pulls you tighter into his side, fingers curling on your hip like a lock. “Screw off, pal. I got here first.”
And Dean recoils, looking at the man like he’s noticing him for the first time. You can’t read his expression in the low light, but it seems angry. Or just annoyed. Or indifferent. His jaw looks sharp and clenched. You want to lick it.
“Listen, bud.” Dean snaps, glaring down at the man. “This ain’t a who got here first thing. My girl’s drunk. I’m takin’ her home, or I’m punching you in the face.”
The man is silent for a moment. He and Dean glower at each other, and you frown between them. There’s something poking at your drink addled brain, but it’s spelling a word you can’t read. All you can really figure out is that they’re being weird.
“You Dean?” The man asks.
Dean’s eyes narrow. His shoulders square, the way they do before he’s about to swing at a demon. “Yeah. And?”
“Nothin’.” The man smirks. “Just… Thought you’d be God, based on how she was talkin’ about you. But,” he chuckles, tipping his chin. “You’re just a little bitch.”
Dean’s jaw ticks. You don’t need the lighting to figure out what he’s thinking now. You can almost feel it, rolling off of him in waves.
He’s pissed.
He looks the man up and down, and if he throws a punch, you know he won’t be the one who goes down. You’re drunk enough not to worry about the violence of it. All your useless thoughts can spin around is the idea of Dean fighting for you. Of his massive arms flexing as he knocks down the other man—who, the longer your Dean stands in front of you, looks less and less appealing—and scoops you into his arms like the princess he mocks you with being. Then he can wrap his arm around your head and fuck you against the hood of his car, until you’re drooling all over his cock.
You giggle at nothing, a unignorable heat pooling between your legs. Dean’s attention snaps back over, and you beam at him.
Something in his gaze shifts. He lets out a slow breath, and stretches out a hand.
“Let’s go, princess.” He beckons with two crooked fingers, and you almost stumble forwards. “We can watch whatever you want, alright? I’ll get you some of that ice cream you like, and- Sammy can watch with you, if you don’t want me around. Just-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “Get over here. Please.”
He sounds so tired. Tired and almost sad. Your feet move without your permission, and you reach to take his hand.
The man yanks you back, and you yelp.
“Remember what you told me, doll.” He drawls in your ear, loud enough for Dean to still hear. “Remember how he treats you.”
Dean scowls. “You stay out of this-“
“He doesn’t care.” The man ignores him. “You told me, he doesn’t love you.”
Dean opens his mouth, something stricken flashing over his features. You feel a little sick.
“C’mon. I got you.” The man rubs your hip, smiling gently. “Show him what he’s missing. He can bitch about it, alone all night while you get fucked real good.”
Dean’s face is a shade of red you’ve never seen before. He has an expression like someone just punched him in the gut.
And it’s not the fucking real good that steels you. It’s the reminder that Dean won’t be alone. He has his secretary. And you’re allowed to have your random bar man, and there’s nothing he can do about it.
Dean rasps your name. “Come here-“
“You come here.” You snap, and it’s meant to be a sharp, killing blow that makes him sigh and give up.
If you were a little less drunk, you would’ve known that was never going to work.
Dean’s throat bobs. He exhales like he’s going through the trials of Hercules, rather than arguing in a parking lot. He rubs his jaw, looks up to the sky like he’s praying, and chuckles. It’s dry and flat, but so deep and rough. You shiver at the sound, and almost fall right into him again.
“Alright.” Dean mutters, shaking out his arm. “Fine.”
He marches forward, clocks the man across the jaw, and throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It happens so fast your body is still catching up with it, by the time he’s halfway back to the car. You realize you should be thrashing and shouting when you hear the Impala door unlock. Your body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate though. Dean’s back is warm, and his hand is resting near your ass, and it’s making you putty for him to play with.
He did it so fast. He didn’t even break a sweat or give the man a chance to fight back, before he grabbed you. When he lowers you into shotgun, he does it so gently. Like even after getting on his nervous, you’re precious cargo. He brushes the hair from your face, hunched over as you settle into the bench.
You blink at him, still drunk and confused. Dean still has that strange look in his eyes, his lips parted as you just stare at each other. His hand lingers on your cheek. You lean into the touch, and his nostrils flare.
Across the parking lot, there’s a roar of his name.
Dean sighs, and stands up. He walks around the hood of the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the car. You watch his fingers move like a starved woman. You want him to put them in your mouth, and you almost tell him when there’s a slam on his window.
The man is shouting at him, veins bulging and eyes bugging. He looks nothing like Dean now.
And Dean doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even look at him. He just puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the lot. If the man gives chase, you don’t see. You’re too busy staring at Dean.
The first half of the drive is silent. Low music plays on the radio, and you watch Dean in the moving light of the road. Long shadows and dim streetlamps make him look like he fell out of a dream. Your arms twitch to wrap around him. Your eyes are heavy, your head intoxicated by the rich, amber and smoke smell of his cologne. If you lay your head in his lap, you wonder if he’d shove you away.
“You weren’t actually gonna go with him.” Dean mutters suddenly, and you blink.
“Huh?”
“That douchebag.” His fingers flex on the wheel. “You weren’t gonna fuck him.”
You frown. Useless, exhausted tears prick at your eyes. You don’t even know where they’re coming from. Just that you feel small, and you’re tired, and Dean’s dragging you back to the motel just so he can fuck another woman with peace of mind.
“He’s not even your type-“
“You don’t know what my type is.” You grumble, sinking into your seat.
Dean huffs a laugh. “I’ve seen what kinda guys you find hot on TV. He was ugly.”
“He wasn’t ugly-“
“Yeah, he was.”
“You’re ugly.” You snap, and Dean laughs. You get why. You didn’t even convince yourself.
“Only on the inside, sweetheart.”
Your lips wobbles. For some reason, that pushes the tears out of your eyes. You sink into the bench, wrapping into a tight little ball that Dean won’t be able to pry apart. You can’t stop the tears, but he doesn’t get to have more leverage.
Dean clears his throat. “Are you crying-“
“Shut up.” You sniff, wiping your nose with your sleeve.
He murmurs your name, voice softer than before, and you lean against the window.
“Shut up-“
“You’re fuckin’ crying-“
“Dean!” You glare at him through the blur of the tears. “Just- Leave me alone!”
Dean’s silent for a second. But only a second.
“Did he hurt you?” He grunts, something hot and angry lining his words. “Before I got there, did that son of a bitch-“
“He barely even touched me, you just- You fucking-“
“I what? What the hell did I do-“
“You hate me!” You shout, and Dean goes horribly still.
“Don’t be insane.” He mutters your name, glaring out at the road. “I don’t hate you.”
You scoff, hugging your knees tight to your chest. “Yes, you do. You hate me, and you- You never let me have any fun-“
“That wasn’t fun, that was a lawsuit.”
You don’t even have a good comeback to that. He’s probably right. It just makes you angrier.
You turn away from him all together, watching the trees blur past in the window. You’re certain you’re going to be sick now. You close your eyes, the tears still flowing, and hide your face behind your hair and in your knees.
Dean sighs. His voice gets softer again.
“Listen, you’re drunk, alright? You’re gonna feel better in the morning-“
“No.” Your words are muffled, but you know he’ll still hear them. “I won’t.”
“Yeah, you will. I get a million of these drunken… feelings.” He says the word in an oddly tight tone. “You just gotta sleep them off.”
You laugh, wet and weak. “Whatever, Dean.”
“I’m trying to help-“
“No, you’re not.” You hug yourself tighter. “You just wanna get back to her.”
He’s silent again. You can hear his fingers drumming on the wheel. Almost hear the frown in his voice when he finally speaks.
“Who the hell are you talking about.”
“Your secretary lady.” You grumble, bitter and tired.
“You mean Katy?”
You grunt. “I hate her.”
“I- Princess, I sent her home like- Two hours ago.” He pauses. The air in the car feels oddly heavy. “Moment Sammy told me you were gone.”
You huff, but don’t respond. You can’t think of anything. You can barely understand what that means.
“You hate her?” Dean’s voice is so quiet you almost miss it.
“Mhm.”
“You barely even talked to her-“
“I don’t care.” You mutter, rubbing away the tears on your cheeks. “I hate her.”
“Why-“
“’M tired.” You pull your face out of your knees, and find Dean staring at you.
He clears his throat, and looks back to the road. You think you’re going to start sobbing again, when he stretches out an arm around your shoulder.
Neither of you say anything, when he slowly pulls you into his side. You haven’t been this close to him in a while. He’s just as warm as you remember. You’re already half-asleep, just from a few seconds of his fingers tracing circles on your shoulder and your face pressed into his neck.
“I didn’t like him that much either.” Dean mutters suddenly. “Your bar guy.”
You hum, nosing at his jaw. He smells good.
“I wish you’d tell me.” He adds. “When you were goin’ out. I’d come with you-“
“I don’t want you to come with me.”
Dean tenses. He doesn’t pull away. “I’m fun at bars, sweetheart..” His voice is too casual. “We’d have a good time-“
“You’d have a good time.” You grumble. “I’d be alone.”
“I wouldn’t- If we went out, I wouldn’t ditch-“
“Yes, you would.” You yawn, and you’re crying again, but it’s softer.
Even now, Dean makes everything easier.
You wish you could hate him more than you love him. You don’t think you’re ever going to manage.
“You hate me.” You whisper, sleep already pulling on the corners of your brain. “’S not fair.”
Dean swallows. His fingers still on your arm. “Why not?”
“’Cause I-“
You cut yourself off with a yawn. Dean mutters your name, and you shake your head, burrowing further into his side. You need to be as close as possible. You need to sink something into him that he can never wipe away, the same way he did with you.
“I love you,” you mumble. “And you hate me. And- It’s not fair, Dean.” You tremble, letting out a soft, pained breath. “Not fair.”
And sleep drags you under. But right before the world fades, you could swear you hear Dean’s low voice, and it floats through your dreams.
“I don’t hate you, baby.” He murmurs. “I couldn’t if I tried.”
Dean hasn’t spoken to you since last night.
You get up in the morning with a migraine and shame burning your face. You remember all of it. Every painful, whiny moment. You acted like the lovesick, annoying girl he accuses you of being. You told him the thing you swore you’d never say aloud. Once Sam tried to make you admit it, and you dumped a glass of iced tea over his head. You’d whimpered Dean’s name into your pillows while you touched yourself, and you’ve told yourself to get it together in the bathroom mirror, but you’ve never said it aloud.
And you just told.
You ruined everything.
He gives you meds and a glass of water to help the hangover, but he doesn’t look you in the eyes. You pack up the rooms and hit the road, but he doesn’t look in the rearview mirror to check on you even once. You bite the inside of your cheek and refuse to cry again. That will just make you seem more pathetic than you already are.
“What’s going on with you two.” Sam mutters when you stop at a gas station, hanging over your shoulder in the candy aisle.
“Nothing-“
“Don’t lie.” He gives you a flat look. “You’re not even fighting, which means you’re fighting.”
You peer up at him with a flat expression, and he sighs.
“You know what I mean. What the hell did he say to you.”
“He didn’t say anything.”
Sam mutters your name, and you grab a candy bar, flipping him off over your shoulder.
“Just drop it, okay?”
“No! I can’t drop it! I live with you guys, and- This is so much worse than when you were acting like you hated each other-“
“Sam-“
“You can’t see his face while he’s driving.” Sam hisses, grabbing a pack of almonds. “He’s either going to punch himself or cry, and that’s gonna be a whole freakin’ thing. Just- Talk to him-“
“He can talk to me.” You grab a pack of jerky. You can’t help it. Dean must be hungry too, and despite all your common sense, you still love him so much the world is slipping out from under your feet.
Sam pleads with your name. You shake your head.
“Please. Drop it.”
He examines you for a moment, then sighs. He agrees to drop it. It doesn’t make anything better at all.
Because Dean’s not even being mean or overbearing or annoying. He’s just silent. And Sam’s right.
It’s so much worse.
Normally by this point in the ride, you’ve been fighting so much that Sam turns up the radio until you can’t hear each other. You’ll poke his neck to annoy him, and he’ll swat you like a fly before cornering you against the car when you stop for food. You’ll shove him and march into the diner. He’ll stomp after you and sit too close in the booth, making you press your thighs together with every mocking word. He’ll flirt with the waitress, and you’ll daydream about throttling her every time she bats her eyes. Dean will keep your knees against each other’s, while he gets her number, and you’ll pour a bunch of salt over his pie when he goes to the bathroom.
You’ll shove at each other, until one of you snaps and stomps away. You’ll cry yourself to sleep that night, because he hates you, he hates you, he hates you.
But you don’t even have any tears left, and Dean doesn’t hate you.
He just can’t stand to look at you, now that he knows you love him.
Sam gives you worried looks, while Dean glares silently at the road. His fingers drum on the wheel, and you hug yourself tight. He might not be looking at you, but you can’t stop looking at him. If he asks you to leave, it will kill you. If he doesn’t ask you, but never speaks to you again, you’ll just wither away into nothing. But you can’t be the one to break the silence. You’ll only make it worse.
You stop at a diner, and the waitress has the biggest boobs you’ve ever seen and the kind of honeyed smile that usually makes Dean smirk.
Today he doesn’t even look at her. You have to order for him, which makes the waitress glare at you, as if you’re responsible for him sulking so much he doesn’t care about boobs—and you are, but she has no way to know that—and you give her a tight smile.
Dean doesn’t thank you for the food, but he looks at you for the first time all day. You blink at him, biting back the pout threatening your lips. You’re not going to break here, in broad daylight, with Sam right there.
Dean lets out a slow exhale through his nose, and looks back to his food. You blink away the useless sting behind your eyes, biting your inner cheek until it’s swollen. Sam gives you a pitying look. You shoot him a glare.
“He still sat next to you.” Sam mutters while Dean checks you into a motel, that night. “Whatever happened, he’s not that mad at you-“
“Sammy!” Dean calls from the desk. “The lady needs our IDs!”
Sam sighs, going through his pockets as he walks over.
Dean’s gaze meets yours, and you flush. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you fucking hate it. You thought you knew all his expression. You thought you knew him. You thought he’d at least have the guts to turn you down like a man.
Instead his tongue flicks over his lips, and he rips his gaze back to the desk attendant. You hate her. You hate him. You love him. Your head hurts, overflowing with too many thoughts that you can’t even pick them apart. You want to scream and cry and run and sink into the floor. It’s not fair of him, to do this to you. You’re going to be sick. You want to drown your sorrows in as many drinks as you can find.
You settle for curling into your bed, hiding your face in the pillows, and crying until your body is limp and your throat is sore. He knows you love him. He hates you. He’s never going to look at you again, and you’re going to turn into a ghost. An evil, angry ghost. One of the ghosts that he has to kill. Then he’s going to kill you, and you’re going to turn into a demon, then you’re going to start the apocalypse again, and everyone ever is going to die because you told Dean you love him.
You cry until you can barely breathe, then a little while after. It was silent. There was no way Sam and Dean would hear it, even through the door joining your rooms.
But there’s a creak, and you sniff, turning your head just enough that Sam will be able to hear you.
“I’m fine, Sam-“
“Not Sam.” Dean mutters, and you freeze.
You don’t move. You don’t dare. Dean clears his throat, and you hear him shifting on his feet. He’s close enough to be fully through the door. You hear it close behind him, and bunch the sheets in your arms.
“I- Uh- I was hopin’ we could talk?”
You still don’t move. Dean coughs. His voice is even rougher than usual. Normally, if you had the brainpower, you’d be worried about him.
“Can you look at me?”
You scowl at the pillow in your face. “No.”
Dean mutters your name, and you cut him off with short words.
“Go away, Dean.”
“No, we need to- I got some shit to say, alright-“
“I don’t care.”
“Trust me, princess, you’re gonna care about this-“
“Stop calling me that!” The words rip from your throat, sudden and broken.
You flip over, moving to your knees, and Dean stumbles back like you punched him. His face is red, and there are bags under his eyes. He’s still handsome.
Asshole.
“I-“
“Shut up.” You hiss, narrowing your eyes at his slack expression. “Stop- Stop calling me princess and sweetheart and- and acting like you fucking care about me! It’s fucking cruel, Dean, it was a dick move before and now- Now you know.” Your voice cracks. You can’t even say it again. “Now you know, alright? You know what I- How I am! And I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have told you, but I was drunk, and I- I was tired, and you were being nice and you’re never nice to me-“
Dean opens his mouth, and you chuck a pillow right at his chest.
“No.” You spit, pushing up higher on your knees. “No, you don’t get to talk now. I don’t want to hear it, I don’t need- You don’t have to tell me! I get it, I know what you’re going to say!” You thought you were out of tears. You were wrong. “I’m just a stupid little girl, and you see me like a fucking sister or whatever, I don’t know what I’m talking about and I don’t know how I feel and you- You’d never-“ You choke on your own words. “You’d never feel-“
He moves quickly. You don’t even get the chance to throw another pillow.
Dean grabs your face between his hands, pulling right up into his. Dean kisses you, and your sharp words dissolve into a surprised sound, then a tiny moan.
His mouth is demanding. Your lips are already parted, and when the moan pushes its way up from your chest, Dean pushes his tongue over yours with a grunt. It’s a messy and desperate, noses bumping and spit mixing. You try and shove back, but Dean just pushes further over you, and you dissolve into his touch.
You’re panting, when he pulls away. He keeps his hands firmly planted, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lips and his shoulders heaving. His fingers are tangled in your hair. You feel small under his gaze, but not in the painful, ignored way like before. It’s like you’re being shielded. Like he’s trying to protect you from your own, spiraling thoughts by sucking them out of your face.
It’s working. You stare at him with an open awe you can feel in your chest, bubbling and light.
He kissed you.
His lips were soft and chapped in the best way, and he was even better at kissing than you imagined. He tasted a little sugary from the pie he had with dinner, and something richer that was just Dean. His touch on your is almost reverent, and you want to suck on his thumb to see if it tastes as good as his lips. You want to suck on every part of him. For science. You want, you want, you want. Dean kissed you, and now all you can feel—thundering through your bloodstream—is want.
He murmurs your name, scanning over your slack features. Your eyes flutter. His throat bobs.
“I’m gonna talk now.” He says, and you nod.
You should be shoving or fighting him, but he’s looking at you like you matter. And you’re far too tired to bother with anything but tears or pleas for more kisses right now.
“I thought-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low, dry laugh. “I thought you hated me.”
“I don’t-“
“Yeah, I got that now.” He gives you an amused, tired look. “But- Sweetheart, you called me a seductive manwhore last week.”
Your face burns a little. He’d been flirting with another waitress, at another diner. You’d wanted to slit her throat.
“Seductive is a compliment.” You mumble weakly, dropping your gaze to his chest. Dean chuckles.
“From where I was sittin’, it felt like you wanted to kill me.”
You shake your head, the movement small between his hands. “You looked like you wanted me to fuck off. You always looked like you wanted me to fuck off-“
“No.” His grip tightens, and your attention shoots back up.
And you think you understand that expression. It’s heavy, and you have seen it before. But it’s always been a dull glint in his eyes, before he looks away.
Longing.
“Dean…” You whisper, and he leans down, pressing his brow to yours.
“I never want you to fuck off.” He mutters. “Never. Please- Don’t.”
His voice breaks. You reach up to grab his wrists, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
“I know I ain’t perfect. I know I’m old, and a dick, and I don’t got much to offer-“
“I like what you have to offer.” You whisper. His brow knits tighter. “I always liked it.”
Dean chuckles. “You shot me down. First time I offered it.”
“You wanted a hookup, I- I can’t do that-“
“I couldn’t either.” He looks at you under hooded eyes. “Not with you.”
You press your lips in a thin line, years of anger and sparring fading into a blur of a dull, bruising ache. He was always a wound you refused to heal. If he cuts you open any wider, you don’t think you’re going to have the option anymore.
“You didn’t seem interested.” Dean rasps. “You started- Lookin’ at me all weird and calling me names and-“
“I loved you.” You say it before you can think. Dean lets out a sharp breath, his weight pressing further down.
“But- I- You too.” He winces, like he hates the words. “I didn’t- It was never- Son of a bitch-“
He looks like it’s paining him to try and say it. And you know. You know he can’t, because he doesn’t even say it to Sam.
But he looks like he’s going to cry. Dean never cries.
He means it. The thing you never let yourself dream of, he means it.
“I- You just- I wanted shit, and you seemed like you wanted nothin’ to do with me, so I-“
You move carefully, tugging that collar of his shirt down into the kiss. Dean goes rigid for a single, horrible second.
Then he almost melts.
His fingers dig into your skin like he can’t bear to let go. His body collapses over yours, his kisses going from the soft ones you started to fast and desperate. He kisses you like he’s trying to leave a mark, and you meet him with every bit off passion.
Dean folds you down, until you’re flat on the mattress. Your legs fly up to wrap around his torso, and he grabs one of your hands, tangling your fingers together. The kisses turn slow. A little more certain and controlled, Dean sucking on your lower lip before kissing the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. You smile into the kiss, and a broken sound rumbles from his chest.
He pins your hands next to your head, squeezing once before he breaks away. He looks wrecked. He stares at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and your head buzzes, nice and clear of what ifs.
All that matters right now is Dean above you, and the electric heat in your body. How his hand fits so perfectly in yours. How your bodies are already molding together, and you’re both still fully clothed.
“You deserve better, baby.” He mutters, and you almost laugh.
There’s nothing better. There’s Dean, glorious and unreachable, and there’s everyone else.
“No.” You whisper, beaming up at him. “I don’t.”
Dean’s throat bobs. He lowers himself down slowly, pressing his lips slowly over yours. Like he’s still not fully sure. You hum happily into the kiss, and he takes the cue easily.
You lose yourself in him quickly. His lazy, passionate kisses and his hands, slowly tracing over your body. He starts with light touches near your hips and waist, every brush of his fingers making you shiver. You arch into it, when his thumb grazes the bare skin of your midriff. Dean groans, testing the waters with another slow graze of his fingers.
“Deeean…” You breathe against his lips, and he grunts.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, slipping his hand under your shirt. “So fuckin’ reactive and soft.”
You whimper, heels digging into his back as he teases his fingers up your spine. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Not teasin’.” He nips at the corner of your mouth. “Just sayin’ things that are true, baby. Not my fault they make you all stupid.”
Your breath hitches, your head tipping back as your legs spread slightly. Dean hums, interest flashing in his gaze. He noticed. Of course he did. He notices everything.
“You like that?” He drawls, kissing over your cheek, then down your neck. “You like bein’ called baby? Or called stupid.”
His hand drifts up your side, until his thumb is grazing under your breast. The sensation, combined with his dirty words, makes your hips roll. A dizzy, pleased sigh escapes your lips. Dean chuckles, rubbing his thumb in a tight circle. His lips graze a sensitive spot on your neck, and your hips roll again.
“I think you like both.” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Dirty girl, bet you’re already wet for me.”
You whimper, the sound turning to a sharp gasp when Dean shoves his knee right between your thighs. You buck off the bed at the sudden pressure, eyes glazing and mouth hanging open.
Dean sucks on that sensitive spot, and your whole body shivers. You can’t stand to not move, not with the heat of him all around you. His thumb drags up, brushing over your nipple right as his tongue flicks against your skin. You start to mindlessly grind against his knee, chasing just a little bit more friction. Dean chuckle, biting softly at your neck before bullying his knee further against your clothed cunt.
“That’s it.” He growls in your ear. “Messy fuckin’ girl, already humping my leg. You need it that bad, sweetheart? Can’t even wait for me?”
“I- I’m sorry-“ You whine, trying to stop your body from moving.
It doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Dean slips his hand from under your shirt and grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze onto his, and his attention just fuels the wildfire under your skin. You need him, and form of him you can get. You need him harsh and all over your body, until there’s are marks you won’t be able to wash away in the morning. You need him to claim you so deeply neither of you can back out.
Dean watches you with a gentle, but sharp awe. Like he’s trying to memorize the scene below him, that you’re sure is quiet a sight. You fucking his leg like a dog in heat, your adoration and love finally allowed to pour all over your face.
“Need you,” you breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “Need you so bad, Dean.”
A low rumble leaves his chest, his eyes getting darker with every tiny moan from your lips. His attention is almost too much. You try and turn your face into the sheets, but he tugs it back with barely a flick of his wrist.
“Dean, please-“
“Look at me.” He taps your cheek with one finger, slamming his knee forward.
Your glossy, tear-stained eyes dart to his, and he smirks. It’s soft, but dangerous. He smiles down at you, and another breath of his name escapes your lips.
“What do you want, sweet girl?” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Use your words.”
It takes you a second to remember how. “You,” you breathe out, and Dean’s jaw ticks. “Want you, Dean, always wanted you-“
“I know, baby,” he coos, leaning slowly down. Your noses bump, and you whimper, closing your eyes. “You want me so bad it hurts, don’t you. Bet your little pussy is fuckin’ calling my name, begging me to stuff her up.”
“Yes,” you nod, bobbleheaded and dizzy. “Oh my god, yes-“
“But how.” His voice turns stern, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “Do you want me? Soft? Or,” he pushes your further down onto his knee, and your eyes roll a little back. “Hard?”
Dean drags his thumb over your lips, squeezing your cheeks into a tiny pout. You try to keep fucking his knee, but he’s got you pinned so hard against it that you can’t move. You’re trapped in a cruel kind of heaven, with everything right on the brink of falling, and Dean holding you over the edge by the nape of your neck.
“Hard,” you whisper, dragging your eyes open to meet his. He needs to see it. How bad you want him. “Wanna- Ohh-“ Your lashes flutter, as Dean starts to slowly grind his knee against your core. “Wanna feel you. All of you. Don’t- Don’t hold back.”
His grip on your jaw tightens. His voice drops a full octave. “Baby, are you-“
“Yes.” You smile at him, already a little drunk on his everything. “I trust you.”
And that seems to be what gets him. Dean blinks at you for a second, the façade of pure control slipping. You know it’s a game, and that when you’re done he’s going to coddle you like a princess. But you’re not sure he knew you knew. Not sure he understood that, even when you thought he hated you, you would’ve placed your life in his hands without even a beat of hesitation.
Dean leans down, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. His hand pulls from yours, and he wraps his arm around your lower back. His fingers tickle your sides a little, teasing the side of your breast, and you giggle. Dean grunts, pushing you further into the mattress. It just makes you giggle more.
“Somethin’ funny?” He mutters, and you can hear it again. He’s back in this. It sends a shivering thrill through your body.
You need more. And you shake your head, trying to test just how much it takes him to snap.
“You’re laughin’ like something’s funny.” Dean leans back up, glaring down at your lovedrunk, giddy expression.
There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.
You’re about to be fucked into next week.
“Look at you.” He mutters, palming at your breast through your shirt. You gasp, arching into the touch, and Dean chuckles. “You’d do anything I told you, huh. Just to make me fuck you.”
You shake your head, and Dean chuckles.
“Don’t lie, princess. Good girls don’t lie to me.”
Your breath catches. Your thighs press around Dean’s knee, the grind of your hips short and uncontrolled. He lets you writhe below him, smirking at the pants that escape your lips.
“Does it hurt?” he coos, smearing some spit over your cheek. “Your pussy aching, baby girl? Already can’t take it?”
“N- No.” You choke out. “I can take it-“
“Doesn’t seem like you can.” He mutters, scanning over your limp body. “I’m not even touchin’ you and you’re about to cum. Can’t believe you’re that fucking easy.”
You whimper, shaking your head. “I- I’m not easy-“
“Yeah?” Dean mocks. “How many other guys you fucked?”
“Two. Just two-“
“They make you feel like this?”
“No- Never-“
“Damn right. They don’t.” Dean grunts. “You’re mine, princess. My fuckin’ girl.”
You whimper, heat rushing through you at the possession in his voice. You are his. He has no idea, how completely and totally his you are.
“Say you’re mine.” Dean orders, and you nod.
“Yours. All yours, Dean, I’m- Fuuuck-“
He pinches your nipple rolling it between two fingers. Your hips try to buck off the bed, but he’s pinned you down too well.
“Fuck- Dean- You can’t just-“
You moan, and he chuckles.
“Oh, baby.” He leans back down, brushing a featherlight kiss over your lips. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
Dean nips on your lower lip, then rises back up, patting your cheek.
“Open.”
You do, without a thought. He chuckles, leans down, and spits right into your swollen lips.
“Swallow.” He grunts, and you obey.
You lick your lips for good measure. Just to see how he’ll react. His mouth falls a little open, a deep, possessive sound rumbling chest.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost fully to himself. “So fuckin’ eager. You ready to listen, princess?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, and add for good measure. “Please.”
Dean’s lips twitch. “Beggin’ and I don’t even have you naked yet. We should fix that.”
“Fix what-“
“Stand up.” Dean drags you upright with steady, but firm hands.
You follow his lead, letting him move you off the mattress and onto shaking legs. He keeps you between his spread knees, smirking up at your confused expression. He’s got one hand, steadily rubbing the back of your thigh.
“Strip.” He orders, and your cheeks burn.
“Dean-“
You cut yourself off, when he just raises his brows. God, if he wasn’t begging you for attention fifteen minutes ago, you’d be putting up more of a fight. Just for the show of it. To prove that you’re perfectly capable of thinking for yourself. That you don’t need him at all.
But you think he knows that. And for once, you don’t want to have to think at all.
You peel off your clothing slowly, burning under Dean’s gaze. He’s tracking every movement, dragging over every bare inch of skin. Your top goes first, and his hands fly right up to palm your breasts. His hand is big and warm, and you bite back a tiny moan.
Dean smirks, leaning slowly forward to trail open, wet kisses over the valley of your breasts. You weave your fingers through his hair, your breath stuttering. You fumble with your bottoms. It’s a little hard to focus, with his tongue swirling around your sensitive, peaked nipple.
“Shit- Dean-“ You take a deep breath, tugging at his soft, short locks. “That’s- Mmmm-“
He sucks lightly, and you lean fully over his chest. He chuckles, flicking his tongue back and forth, and all you can think of is that sinful mouth against your core.
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He kisses your nipple, before switching to the neglected one. “For me.”
You swallow, grabbing at the hem of your bottoms and tugging them down. Dean grabs a handful of your ass, slapping it once before dipping his fingers down between your thighs. You collapse over him with a weak noise, and Dean just laughs. The shame in how quickly he’s unraveling you, how wet you know you are, it just makes you ache for him more. He’s got you, needy and in the palm of his hand. He knows it. And still, he touches you like he’s been waiting to his whole life.
“That’s my girl.” He mutters. “Son of a bitch, you’re so fuckin’ wet. You been walkin’ around like this? Waiting to get bent over and turned into my little cockslut.”
“Ye- Yes.” You press your face into his hair, nails scratching at his neck. “Oh my god, Deean-“
“Yeah. That’s right.” Dean hums as you grind down onto his fingers, teasing between the lips of your pussy. “Barely even fuckin’ touching you, and you’re soaking my hands. Jesus,” he laughs, the sound vibrating against your chest. “You’re getting wetter every time I talk.”
You keen, when the tip of his forefinger grazes your clit. It’s like being struck by lightning, making your whole body rush with pleasure and your pussy clench around nothing. He flicks it, just that once, then pulls away. You hug his head tighter, begging between your every moan.
Dean doesn’t budge. He rubs over your pussy without touching your clit again, muttering dirty words against your skin.
“Look at you,” he kisses your shoulder. “My pretty fuckin’ girl.”
“Dean-“
“Come on.” He slaps your ass again, and your knees give a little. “Like I couldn’t make you cum just from talkin’ to you.”
You flush, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulls you fully into his lap. Dean pauses, at the way you shiver, and pulls back. You try to avoid his gaze, but he isn’t having it. He grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, eyes gleaming and playful.
“Oh, I could, couldn’t I.” He smirks. “You’d cum for me just sittin’ here, letting me call you names.”
“No.” Your protest is short. Weak. Dean looks at you like he’s just pulled the sweetest bunny into his trap, and he wants to eat you alive.
He pulls you down for one of those kisses that’s too slow and sweet. It’s almost mocking, with how his cock is straining against his jeans, pressing into your thigh. You dissolve into it, lowering your guard against your better judgement. Dean squeezes your ass, rubbing where he’d spanked before. Your knees are jelly, your core pressed right against his denim-clad bulge.
Jesus, he must be massive. Just the idea makes you shiver, and Dean smiles against your lips.
“You’re bein’ so patient,” he coos, massaging your hips. “You trust me, don’t you? You know I’m gonna fuck you real good.”
You hum an agreement, smiling from the praise. Dean combs his fingers through your hair, sucking on your lower lips before pulling slightly back.
“You’re ready, aren’t you? I could fuck you right now and you’d take me like I was lubed up.”
You whimper, and Dean pushes you further onto his bulge.
“You gonna let me own you, sweet girl? Let me make you the dirty fuckin’ cumslut you wanna be.”
“Deaan-“ You gasp weakly. “Don’t be mean-“
“Why?” He kisses your cheek. “You like it. You’re the one who said you wanted it, baby. And fuckin’ gush,” he runs his hand between your thighs. “Every fuckin’ time I call you my dirty little girl.”
He’s right. Your pussy clenches, arousal dripping down your thighs. Dean laughs, manhandling you to stay upright as moves fully onto the mattress and lies flat on his back. You stare at him for a second, unable to move with his hold on your hips, but unsure what to do with yourself. You’re straddling him, watching with an open mouth as he pulls off his shirt and settles fully into the pillow. His cock is pushed right against your pussy. You grind down, and he hisses.
“Not yet.” He mutters at your pout. “Need to taste that sweet pussy. C’mere.”
He beckons, and your mouth falls open when you realize what he means.
“Dean, I can’t- You’re going to suffocate-“
“Nobel death.” He grins, and you scowl.
“I don’t want you to die the first time we have sex.”
“First time?” He wiggles his brows. “You’re gonna let me come back for seconds?”
“Dean, I’m serious-“
“So am I, can we do an all you can eat kinda situation-“
“Dean Winchester.” You shove his chest, and the idiot just laughs. “I’m not- I’m not doing that. I don’t want to hurt you, that’s- I’m not-“
“Hey.” Dean grabs your hand, squeezing it gently. You meet his gaze, and it’s a million times softer than before. “It’s okay. This ain’t gonna hurt me, I swear, but if you just don’t wanna, I have a lotta other ways to make us both feel good.”
He drags his thumb over your knuckles, and you take a deep breath. You hadn’t realized it. You were about to cry again.
You peer at Dean through your lashes, and he offers you a boyish, gentle smile.
“Promise it won’t hurt you?” You whisper, and he nods.
“Swear on your life.”
You nod, slowly and carefully. Dean opens his mouth—probably about to ask if you’re sure—but you’re already crawling up his chest.
He smiles, rubbing your thighs as you settle them on either side of his head. You take a deep breath, your hands fidgeting and unsure where to rest. Dean grabs them and guides them into his hair, before kissing the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches, and you almost collapse straight over him.
He laughs, digging his dull nails into your ass. “Sweetheart, point of this is you sitting on my face.”
“I- I am-“
“You’re hovering. That ain’t sittin’.”
“I don’t want to crush you-“
“You won’t.” He sighs, kissing the opposite thigh. “I got you, right?”
You nod. He trails the kisses upwards, close to where you’re sure you’re dripping on his beard. His eyes never leave yours.
“You trust me?” He rasps, warm breath fanning over your pussy.
“Of- Of course I trust you-“
“Good.” Dean kisses your clit, sloppy and using his tongue to flick the little button back and forth.
You almost shriek, the sensation overwhelming. You squirm, unsure if you’re trying to get closer or wiggle away. Dean makes the choice for you.
“Hold on.” He grunts, right before yanking you right down onto his face.
And oh.
Oh god.
You’ve been eaten out before. Even by people who were good at it. Who enjoyed it. You came before, and walked away with no complaints.
Compared to this, they might as well have just spat on it and walked away.
Dean eats you out like he’s on a personal mission for honor between your legs. Like he lost something in your pussy and he’s trying to shake it loose. His jaw works like he’s devouring the finest food of his life, his tongue dragging and pumping in and out of your sensitive opening. His nose is pressed right against your clit, and he moves it with his full face, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing.
“Fuuck- Fuck!” You cry out, yanking on Dean’s hair. “Dean- Oh- Oh my God-“
He moans, and the vibration makes it better and worse all at once. You’re trembling, no way to escape it, no way to feel it less. Dean massages your ass as he works, keeping you pinned to his face, to the pleasure he’s slowly dragging out of your body.
You pull his hair again, and his time he smacks your ass with his moan. Your back arches. You have to grab the bed frame to stop yourself from collapsing.
“Dean- Deeaaan-“
You chant the word like a prayer. It’s all you can remember. The infernal man below you laughs, and you push down harder into his wet, open mouth. He grunts, and doubles his efforts. His tongue traces around your pussy before shoving back into your tight cunt, and you clench around him with a whimper.
He tightens his grip on your hips, dragging them slowly back and forth. Guiding you into fucking his face. You follow his rhythm, and swear you can feel him everywhere in your body. Your nerves light up, with every stroke of his tongue and bump of his nose on your clit. Your mouth hangs open, and you pant as you try to hold off your orgasm, building up and up and up in your core.
One of his hands disappears from your body. You’re too lost in his mouth below you to notice, until you hear it.
The sound of slapping skin, mixed with Dean’s increasing moans below you. You manage to find enough of a mind to look over your shoulder, and the sight shoots straight to your pussy, gushing on Dean’s face.
He’s fisting his cock, thick and long and a little curved. He beats it into his hand, the head angry and red, coated in a thick layer of pre-cum. You twist back around looking down at his face between your thighs, and find him staring back.
He’s been staring the whole time. Eyes dark and wrecked, fixed on you as you writhed and moaned above him. He’s getting off to it. To having you like this.
Dean moans—fully, totally moans—into your pussy, his eyes never leaving yours.
And you can’t hold it off.
“Dean- I- I’m gonna-“
He squeezes your ass, moaning against your pussy again.
Permission.
You cum with a cry of his name, grinding down onto his face through your orgasm. Your vision goes white, your whole body shaking and seizing up as Dean’s tongue strokes you through it. He doesn’t stop when you’re a trembling, dazed mess above him. He slowly shifts you backwards, cradling your body as sits up, forcing your back into the sheets, between his legs.
He kisses your clit gently, eyes shining on your unfocused, glossy ones.
“Taste better than I imagined.” He murmurs, slowly moving you further up the bed. “And trust me, baby. I lost a whole lotta sleep imagining.”
You swallow, eyes darting to his still hard cock. Dean follows your hungry gaze, then laughs, angling it to rub between the lips of your pussy.
“You’re really that needy, huh.” He teases. “Not enough for just my mouth. Gotta have my cock, too.”
You hum, too lost in the feeling to even protest. You’re flat on your back, legs hiked up in the air and over Dean’s shoulder, fully exposing your poor, swollen pussy to him. He slides his cock right between the slick lips, the tip bumping your clit. You pout up at Dean, spreading your legs wider to try and urge him on. He raises his brows, pausing with his cock pressed over your clit.
“Already too fucked out to talk?”
You nod, and pride and worry mix in his eyes.
“Baby, if you need me to take it easy-“
You shake your head frantically. He promised no holding back. You want to be sore from him in the morning.
Dean sighs, lowering your legs so he can lean over your face. You glare at him, grinding your hips up against him. He pins you back to the bed with a single hand sprawled on your abdomen and a stern look.
“There’s gonna be more time for it to be rough.” He murmurs. “I been plenty mean tonight. And I love it, sweetheart, I do, but I’m gonna love anything-“
“Dean.” You push out, your voice wrecked and hoarse. “Hard. Please.”
“Are you-“
You push up on weak elbows, capturing his mouth against yours. Dean leans down, kissing you with every bit of adoration and softness he’s about to rip away for the sake of pleasure. You smile against the kiss, boneless and happy, and Dean grunts.
“Alright.” He mutters, the darkness in his voice sending a chill down your spine. “You get what you ask for, baby girl.”
Yes.
You’d say it, if he hadn’t already stolen most of the words from your body. And you thought that it was bad before.
Dean slowly shoves himself into your dripping cunt, and you can’t remember your own fucking name.
He’s big. So big you’re not sure how you’re fitting him. His hand on your abdomen pushes you deeper into the mattress, forcing you to take every thick, veiny inch of him. You whimper, and the sound gets swallowed by Dean’s lips.
“Feel that?” He hisses, tone harsh in the way that sends a thrill to your core. “Feel my cock, filling up your tight little pussy?”
You nod, mouth hanging open. Dean bottoms out with a grunt, pulling your hips roughly up to let him hit a deeper angle. You mewl, eyes rolling back at the burning, perfect stretch of him.
“That’s right.” He mutters, rutting into your wet, hot channel. “This is what you fuckin’ begged for, princess. To be a brainless little cockslut. You can’t even talk right now, can you? Just gonna lay there and look pretty while I do all the work?”
Tears prick at your eyes. You’re so full you almost don’t think you can handle it.
Dean isn’t going to give you much of a choice.
“Damn right you are.” He mutters to himself, dragging almost fully out of you before slamming back in, knocking the air from your lungs.
You sob with pleasure, reaching up to grab at his face. Dean kisses your wrist, repeating the motion with an even harsher thrust than before.
“That’s it.” He grunts, pushing over your as he finds a brutal pace. “That’s my girl. Fit me like a glove, sweetheart. Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever fucked, so good for me, so fuckin’ good-“
Dean groans, crashing his lips over yours. You wrap your arms around him, holding on for dear life as he fucks stars behind your eyes and lightning through your body. If you weren’t ruined for him before, you are now. There isn’t another man in the world, who could reduce you to such a sobbing, wrecked mess while fucking you like a doll, then kiss all over your face like you’re the most important thing in the world.
He’s handling your body like it only exists for him to fuck. Grabbing your hips and breasts like they’re toys, positioning in the best way for him to hit you deeper. So deep he’s finding burning, pleasurable spots in you that you hadn’t known existed before, that make your whole body light up with pleasure. You can feel him in your throat, though every single inch of you, his muscles flexing and chest heaving and cock drilling into you until your pussy is drooling and he’s just sliding in and out.
But he kisses you like he’s a soldier being sent off to war. Rough and desperate, but loving. With all the fervor of a man who’s trying to something both of you have lost the words for. You return his every kiss, and his thrusts get sharper. Deeper.
You make sounds that are supposed to be his name. The room fills with the obscene sound of his cock, pounding into your cunt. You tip your head back and he starts to bite and suck on your throat, like he really can’t find enough of you to worship.
“Shit, baby-“ He presses his nose against your jaw, voice cracking as the bed creaks beneath you both. “Gonna- Gonna fuckin’- Where’d you want it-“
You grab his shoulders, yanking him fully down. Dean groans, doubling over and pressing his mouth back over yours.
“Come with me, sweetheart, c’mon- Milk my fuckin’ cock-“
His thumb slips between your bodies, rubbing your clit in tight, unforgiving circles. You scream silently, as your orgasm hits you like a train. Dean fucks you through it, moaning your name as he chases his own release. White hot cum paints your inner walls, and Dean fucks it back into you with rough grunts and shorter thrusts.
You think you might be floating. You’ve never been this stuffed up, this warm. All the mocking and harshness from Dean is gone, replaced by worshipful hands that caress your face and gentle kisses over every spot he played with. Neither of you seem ready to know. You know you aren’t at all, and Dean’s curled over you like a very heavy blanket.
You rub his back, smiling up at the ceiling. It’s quiet. You’d like to stay here for a while. Maybe forever.
Dean rises over you, still not pulling out. His eyes are glazed, his expression wrecked. You reach up to cup his cheek, and he leans into the touch.
“My girl.” He mutters, and even if he doesn’t say it like one, you know it’s a question.
“Your girl.” You whisper.
You’ve never seen him smile so wide, than before he leans back down to kiss you again.
And if you make him smile like that for the rest of your life, then you know you’ve done something right.
✦End note: the good thing about writing these fics is that it's fun. the bad thing is that i've set my standards WAY too high. ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦summary: dean kisses you while he's drunk, and then the world keeps spinning. all you want to do is figure out if he remembers, if he meant it, and if he feels what you do in return. but he's not making it easy, until he does.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective dean, older dean, pining, dean being a stupid, lovable dork, some plot to get to the smut (dry humping, dean's dirty talk, car sex, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, fingering, begging, handjobs, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, mating press sex, creampie, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11k✦
✦author's note: every week i overtake myself for 'horniest thing i've ever made'. enjoy!✦
You don’t know what happened. You’re too afraid to ask.
You don’t want to live in a world where it gets taken back.
Dean isn’t acting like anything happened. He’s not draping himself around you or acting like you’re not there at all. There’s no slobbering man at your feet, acting like the ground you walk on turns to gold, but you’re also not curled up on the curb because Dean won’t look at you, and you can’t stand to be in room where he acts like you’re gum under his shoe.
You’ve always understood that as how this would go. How your little infatuation would end.
Either a miracle would hit like lightning, and Dean would return your feelings. Or he’d reject you, and never look you in the eyes again.
The data was leaning in favor of the former. Which is why you’ve been so very careful not to reveal your feelings under any circumstances. Witches have gaped about your sheer willpower. Sam’s made passing comments about never seeing someone who could fight demonic possession so well. Everyone around you seems to think you’re some kind of mind Titan, able to simply focus and drive off any monster or force that tries to take you over.
They don’t know that there’s always on common factor. One thing that they try to force you to reveal, that makes you pry your mind back from their bare hands.
When you got possessed by a demon, Sam and Dean had you tied to a chair. You’d still been able to see through your own eyes. Still been able to think, even if the demon had been using your internal monologue as a broadcast public radio, sharing every thought you had the mistake of thinking.
“Aw.” She’d used your mouth, you voice, and it had sounded twisted in your brain. “She’s worried about you two. Isn’t that adorable.”
Sam had frowned, shooting Dean a weary look. “Is there something we need to be worried about? Or-“ He’d said your name gently. “If you’re worried we can’t take this demon, we can.”
“She batting out of her league.” Dean had muttered, glaring down at the knife in his hands. “We’ve tangoed with the bosses and come out on top, sweetheart. No one needs to be worried but the bitch inside you.”
Whatever parts of your heart were still yours—most of it, as the demon had been able to sink her claws into everything but the organ that only played one, embarrassingly loud song—had fluttered at his words. He hadn’t been looking at you since they realized you were possessed. Sam had been doing all the talking, asking questions and trying to figure out what the demon wanted, how long she’d been in your brain. Dean had just sat on the edge of the mattress, fists curled on his knees, jaw clenched so tight you were worried about his teeth. If you were in control of yourself you would’ve told him to stop doing that. It made his headaches worse, and you bought him gum specifically so he could chew on something when he got pissed.
He would’ve smile to himself, shaking his head, and given you the look that always made your knees wobble. The one that had a silent affection behind it, that came with his hand grazing your lower back and teasing about how bossy you were.
You’d think I was dying, way you talk about my health.
I’m trying to avoid you dying, Dean-
Why? Happens to everyone eventually, and I’m further down the line than I thought I’d be-
You’re not a dinosaur. Stop talking like I’m putting you in a home, I just told you to drink some water.
If I drink some water, are you gonna stop circling me like a freakin’ shark?
I am not circling you like a shark-
Yeah, you are. You wanna take a bite outta me, sweetheart, I can see it.
You’d always blink at him, your heart in your ears and your jaw slack. He’d grin, drink his water slowly and dramatically, then boop the bottle on your nose and walk away. When you’d tell him to do something later, he’d roll his eyes and give you that look again.
That was how they figured out you were possessed. The demon had asked Dean to grab the artifact you’d been investigating, and when he’d whined that he wanted to go get pie, she’d smiled and said that was fine, as long as Dean told her where the artifact was first.
You would’ve told Dean that he could have his pie after he grabbed the artifact. You would’ve stood in front of him with your arms crossed and glared until he got up with a groan and let you drag him exactly where you needed him to be. That’s what you and Dean did. He pretended to be annoyed by it, but you wouldn’t ask anything of him unless you really needed it. You got him the pie after, and he teased you about being wound up and needing to breathe for a second. He’d feed you some of his pie like you were a baby, and you’d pretend to bite his fingers off.
But the demon had just bent for him. Dean had stared at her. And you’d know he’d seen it. Right through you, and to the ugly thing inside your body.
Ugly in a different way that you were. The demon was just cruel, but you were selfish.
Dean had told you not to go out alone, but you loved him and he’d been sitting so close. The love inside you had been threatening to pour out of you like a flood, and you’d needed to be anywhere but near him. The demon had found you while you were at the convenience store, buying Dean jerky. You’d been too slow, and now you were a burden to him and Sam again. Dean had been forced to knock you out to tie up the demon, and Sam had to burn you with holy water. You could feel it, the burn and blistering of you skin. You’d never tell them that, because the guilt would eat them alive.
You’d never tell Dean. He was already angry with you for going out as it was. You’re already more trouble than you’re worth, most of the time. Your worry hadn’t been for you.
It’s for him. That this was going to be too much for him to deal with, having to hurt another person he cared about.
The demon had plucked that thought from your head, and curved your lips into a smirk.
“Oh, she’s not worried about herself, Deanie.” It had drawled. “I know you see her as a woman of steel, but our lovely girl is just so sweet on the insides here. It’s like swimming through marshmallows. She’s just so perfectly worried about how this is going to effect you. It’s all she can think about, the pathetic little slut.”
Dean’s eyes had narrowed. “Don’t fuckin’ talk about her like that-“
“I’ll talk about her however I want.” The demon had purred. “She’s my meat toy. But if you want to share with me, Winchester, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind both of us inside of her. She-“
The demon had cut herself off. Dean had shot to his feet, looking ready to throw a punch. Sam had blocked him with an arm, and your body had started to convulse. The demon sputtering and choking on nothing as Dean shouted your name. Sam had let him get to you when it became clear this wasn’t the demon making a play, but you hadn’t needed the help.
She’d made her mistake already. You’d been able to feel her next words, building on your own tongue. She’d been sneering in your brain about how Dean would hate you after she revealed the truth, and you’d grabbed her by the throat.
You’d pushed her out of your body, no exorcism required. Sam and Dean had stared at you in awe for about a month after. Sam had even pulled you aside and lowly asked how you did it. You’d told him you had no idea.
It would’ve been insane, to say well, Samuel. It was the power of my love for your brother. Don’t tell him, or I’ll fucking kill you.
You would’ve been serious about that threat, too. You never wanted Dean to know. If Sam had ever found out and told him, there would’ve been a double murder suicide.
Which is why you don’t know what to do now.
Because Dean kissed you, and the world didn’t end.
Paradise didn’t come. Hell didn’t split through the Earth, and you didn’t have to go into hiding in Romania—your backup plan if Dean had ever found out and it wasn’t Sam’s fault.
The Earth had just kept spinning. Dean had gotten up the next morning and acted like nothing happened at all. Grumbling about his hangover and running a hand through his mussed hair. The same hand that had held the back of your neck last night, certain and possessive in his grip. Dean licked his lips, and you’d mirrored the motion, only able to think of that same tongue pressing into your mouth. ‘
He’d kissed you like he knew what he wanted. He’d tasted like whiskey and had a glazed expression—as if he was looking at the world through glass—but he’d kissed you. He’d lifted you off the ground with the force of it. He’d looked at you with blown out eyes, and been half-hard in his jeans, and begged you to come back to his room, and-
“You alright?” Dean asks, and you blink at him.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.” His lips twitch. “You look like you spent the night getting run over by a truck.”
You frown, and Dean pauses.
“In a good way.”
“I look like I got run over by a truck in a good way?”
“Uh- Yeah?” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m not sayin’ you look bad. You’re just all spacey and tired, and-“
He waves a hand at you sheepishly, and normally you’d keep pushing him for how exactly you could be run over by a truck in a good way.
But today, you can only look at his dumb, handsome face and think about how his stubble brushed over your skin. How your noses bumped, how he’d help you to his chest like you were a doll and he was a worried child that needed you.
“I didn’t sleep well last night.” You mutter, and Dean chuckles.
“Me neither.”
“You got drunk.” You say, flat and low. “You passed out.”
“Yeah, but I had some dreams, and-“ He cuts himself off, eyes widening and grip on his mug slipping. He catches it with a curse, and looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost.
You raise your brow, not letting any emotion onto your face. Dean clears his throat, eyes dropping for the briefest second to your lips.
“Hey, uh-“ He runs a hand through his hair, shifting nervously on his feet. “If I did anything stupid while I was wasted, you’d tell me. Right?”
And maybe you should tell him. But he looks so worried, and you know, deep down.
He doesn’t really remember.
“Yeah.” You breathe, offering him a tiny smile. “I would.”
Dean’s silent. He studies you for a second, then shakes his head with a laugh. “Good. ‘Cause I get some, uh- Some crazy dreams.”
You pretend to laugh, but it echoes in the hollow of your chest until you feel sick. You have to excuse yourself to take a shower. To help you wake up, is what you tell Dean.
Really, you just sit on the floor and cry, letting your tears wash down the drain with the water. He doesn’t remember. He kissed you, and he’s chalking it up to a crazy dream.
You have to get over him. It’s a punch in your gut, knocking wind and snot out of you, but it’s what you needed. Dean’s never going to see you like that. He’s older, he’s a hero, he could have anyone he wanted and he’s not going to chose the bossy girl who watches cartoons with him and makes him do bar trivia with her, because he’s better than he thinks he is. He’ll find someone cooler and older. Someone who likes cars as much as he does, who can actually help him with the Impala instead of just sitting on the bench in the garage and bothering him. Someone who can cook as well as he does, and doesn’t make him try all the crazy soda flavors she sees.
Someone just as resolved and perfect as he is.
Not you.
You pick yourself up, and try to set a goal. Get over Dean.
The asshole doesn’t make it easy.
He makes it impossible.
“I’m gonna work on Baby this afternoon.” He says, and you hum. You’re curled up on the couch with your laptop, and he’s been leaning over your shoulder for the past hour, watching whatever you put on the screen. You don’t understand why. He’s got his own TV right in front of him, and he has to put his arm around your shoulders to comfortably be so close.
His fingers keep brushing the bare skin of your collarbone. His warmth is wrapped around you like a blanket, and it’s all impossible to deal with.
“I bought those snacks you like.” He adds, and you hum.
“Okay.”
“They’re gonna be with me. In the garage.”
“I’ll come get them later.”
Dean’s face twitches. You look over to find him staring at you, nostrils flaring and nose slightly wrinkled.
“Put it in the freezer.” You manage to whisper, and he shakes his head.
“Too far. Gotta focus on work.”
“I’m going to distract you from work-“
“That’s different.” He shrugs, and suddenly you’re being pulled to your feet.
“Dean-“
“C’mon.” He moves you in front of him, and all but herds you out of the Dean Cave. “I’ll even let you pick the music, alright?”
You can’t argue with him. He’s too cute, and always has a command over your body you’ve never been able to fight off. He doesn’t even know that if he asked you to walk over hot coals, you’d do it to reach his side. If he wanted to get away you’d drop everything and go with him. If he needed you to bring him the moon, you’d learn to grow taller enough to grab it in your hands, and shred yourself back down to stay at his side.
There’s no way you can get over him while being his friend. Being his friend alone is a trial that’s slowly wearing you down. Enough that soon, you think, you’ll just be crawling on your hands to lay at his feet. It’s all you’re going to be able to muster. All you’re going to want to do.
You need to get away from him.
You can’t get away from him. Because if he asks you to do something with him—which he always does—there’s no way you’re going to be able to say no.
Which leaves one solution.
Avoid Dean.
Avoid him like he’s the plague.
You wake up in the morning, and touch your lips. Touch them like you can push the feeling of his kiss further into them. Like it’s a sugar that you could gather on your fingers and taste, a tattoo you’re trying to make sure is permanent. You do it every morning now, because it’s the last thing of Dean you’re allowing yourself to have.
If you’re careful, you don’t see him through the day. You’re up before he is, you find a corner of the bunker to hide in, you go out, you stay on the move like you’re prey and Dean’s on a hunt. When you see Sam, he gives you an odd look. If you’re sloppy, and end up in the same room as Dean, you flee before he can say something. If he says something you’re going to crash right back into him. He’s gravity. And you don’t have the strength to pull away twice.
But it’s not working.
You haven’t been alone with Dean for a week, and you just miss him. You feel like you’re trying to carve out a vital artery from your chest. It just hurts. It just makes your love spill all over you, now that there’s nowhere for it to go. You watch something on your computer and hug yourself, because your body seems to think it’s missing a limb without Dean wrapped around you. You sneak out in the middle of the night to get food, and end up just staring at the pie and jerky and beer until you’re sick. You’ve started to hole up in your room with ice cream as if you’re going through a breakup.
It’s pathetic. You look in the mirror and see a husk, with tear stained cheeks and sunken features. You’re wearing one of his fucking shirts, but your skin burns every time you think about taking it off. You’d think you were cursed, if you didn’t know this was just the feeling of love dying.
Not dying.
You’re not strong enough to kill it.
This is the feeling of love being tortured.
Because you’re stupid and tired, you look up how to get over a crush. The internet says to list out all his faults, and logically you know Dean has those, but you can’t remember any right now. His teasing always makes you flush and giggle, his stupid jokes make everything feel lighter, you know he gets angry because he cares. You even miss the loud, sloppy way he chews. You’d always been able to reach over the table and wipe sauce from his cheek, and he’d smile at you after, and you miss his smile. You’d do anything to see it right now.
You scroll to the next step. Think about it logically. If they’d even be a good match. You skip that one. Dean’s always been the one thing you don’t bother to think about logically. Something about him makes all the common sense in your head go down the drain. Which is the same issue the next step—ask yourself why you have a crush on them—fails as well. Of course you have a crush on Dean. You could list out every reason, but they’d all just circle back to he’s Dean. And everything that he is demands that you love him.
Force yourself to move on, is the final step. Go out with someone else. Even if they’re not your soulmate, it will help you realize there are plenty of other fish in the sea.
There are many other fish. The world is filled with men.
That’s part of the problem.
None of them are Dean Winchester.
But this is the most actionable step. The only one you can try to take, even if it doesn’t work. So you get cleaned up, put on a nice dress, and do your makeup a little bit like a slut. The goal of this is to get laid, through, and it’s not like anyone you know is going to see-
“Where the hell are you going?”
You freeze, squeezing your eyes shut. He’s up. Why the fuck is he up. “Nowhere?”
“You’re going nowhere.” Dean drawls. “At eleven. Dressed like… That.”
“Mhm.” You turn slowly, trying to offer a winning smile.
He doesn’t look amused.
You haven’t seen him in person in a month. He kind of looks… awful.
He’s still handsome. You don’t think he’s capable of being anything else but amazing and desirable. But his hair is longer than he usually lets it grow, and there are heavy bags under his eyes. His shoulders are hunched, there’s a stain on his flannel, and when he rubs his jaw you can see grease stains on his hands.
“Were you in the garage?” You blurt, and he grunts.
“Maybe.”
“But-“ His gaze is lidded, his features pale in a way that only happens when he’s awake for too long. “Have you slept?”
His brow furrows. “Napped.”
“For how long.”
“Long enough.”
“That’s not an answer-“
“Where are you going.” He raises his voice over yours, and you swallow.
“Out.”
“Out where.”
You look down at your heels, fidgeting with the folds of your dress. “To a bar.”
Dean doesn’t respond. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you think you might be leaning forward. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You haven’t even been able to build up a flimsy wall against your feelings, and now they’re all crashing through you like an asteroid, slamming through your world.
He’s right there, and if you took a step forward you’d be able to touch him. Wipe the grease off his hands, pull off the flannel and order him to change into something clean. He needs a haircut, but you kind of like it longer. You could run your fingers through it, like this. Soothe the spots where it’s sticking out, help him wash it if he’d let you.
But you don’t think he will.
Because when you look up under your lashes, he’s staring at you with a pained, exhausted expression that makes you want to cry.
“You goin’ to meet someone?” He finally says, and you shake your head.
“N- No.”
“We got drinks here-“
“I know.”
He grunts. “It’s not safe for you to be out by yourself.”
“I’m bringing pepper spray.” You mumble. “And my gun.”
Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you think he’s going to give up and walk away. Everything will be easier, if he just leaves for you. It will splatter your heart all over the floor, but at least you won’t have the weight of holding onto it anymore. At least it won’t churn like something rotten, when a stranger who isn’t Dean lays his hands all over you.
But Dean doesn’t leave.
He takes a step forward, and suddenly the air is so hot it’s hard to breathe.
“I’m goin’ with you.”
Your head shoots up, eyes wide. “Dean-“
“You said you’re not meetin’ anyone.” He challenges, glaring down at you. “I need a drink. You come with me, or you don’t go at all.”
A scoff slips from your lips. “And how the fuck would you stop me-“
“I’d toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to your room.”
Oh.
He says it so casually. His voice a deep rumble as he stares at you. An ache demands attention between your thighs, and your cheeks burn as you laugh nervously, looking to the side.
Dean doesn’t even crack a grin.
So there’s nothing you can do, but let him walk with you to the car. You try to get in the backseat, but Dean snaps his fingers and points at shotgun with a scowl.
“I’m not a fuckin’ taxi. You sit up here, or we walk.”
You flush, and silently slide into the front bench. Dean drops behind the wheel, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he starts the engine. You forgot how dangerous being close to him is. He’d grabbed his coat on the way out, tossing his dirty flannel to the side. He smells like leather and pine tree, and even across the bench you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He rolls up his sleeves, and you want to nuzzle close to him and have him put you in a headlock. His hand runs over his inner thigh, and you press your own together.
You’re staring at him. You can’t help it.
Dean must feel it, because he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You look away, and hear him let out a heavy breath.
And the game begins. Dean pulls out of the garage, and you’re both perfectly silent, daring the other to break first. You stare out the window, stealing glances whenever you think you can get away with it. Sometimes Dean catches your eye, and you curl further into yourself, twisting away. Once, Dean opens his mouth. He closes it just as fast.
You’ve been driving for thirty minutes, when you realize he’s not taking you to a bar. You’ve passed three bars, and he didn’t even slow down to check them out. You grab all the thin courage you posses, rooted deep in your stomach and sticky with nerves, and drag it to the surface.
“Dean, where are we-“
“You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, blatant and flat. “Past month. Don’t think I haven’t fuckin’ noticed.”
You swallow, pulling your knees to your chest. “I- I don’t-“
“Didn’t even say why.” He mutters, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Thought you were sick at first, but you’ve been talkin’ to Sammy.”
“It’s-“
“And you run outta every room I walk into. Like I got cooties or something.” He’s scowling at the road, and you feel like the smallest thing in the world. “Didn’t even bother to tell me why. Just… Fuckin’ vanished.”
There’s a lump in your throat, and unearned tears stinging at your eyes. He sounds broken, and it’s your fault. You and your stupid, useless love for him. “Dean, it’s not like that-“
“So what’s it like, huh?” His words are harsh. You flinch back. “You start acting like I’m the goddamn devil and I’m supposed to take your word that it’s just not like that? There ain’t anything for it to be like, sweetheart-“
“No, I- I just-“ You lean forward, then curl back. You’d wanted to grab him. You don’t think you’re allowed. “I just needed- I needed-“
“Space?” He spits the word like it’s poison. “Go on. Tell me you just needed space from me.”
“Dean-“
“The hell did I do to you?” He sneers. “I know I ain’t perfect, but I- I thought you- I was so fuckin’ careful, and you promised you’d tell me if I did something stupid.”
You frown, not fully understanding what he means. “Dean, you- You didn’t do anything-“
“Don’t bullshit me!” He shouts, and you don’t think you can breathe anymore. “You promised me, you said you’d tell me, and the goddamn least you coulda done was tell me what the fuck I did-“
“Please- Please stop yelling.” You whisper, not even sure if he’s going to hear you.
But he does.
Dean cuts himself off with that clench of his jaw, and pulls over to the side of the road. You hug yourself tight, trying to shrink back into the seats. This is your fault. He’s angry because of you, and you stupidity. You’re barely a schoolgirl with a crush, and you let it hurt him, and there’s no possible world where he’d ever want you now.
You hide your face in your knees. Tears burn on your cheeks, and when you try to take a deep breath, it’s ragged and aching.
Dean’s silent. The whole car is silent. He’d turned off the radio, and the only sound hanging in the air is your sniffling. You think about climbing out of the car, but he’d just chase after you. It’s started to rain, and you don’t want him to catch a cold.
You wrap your coat tighter around you. Your dress feels too tight on your skin. Feels wrong. You think you’re going to be sick. When you risk a look at Dean, he’s still holding the wheel with white knuckles. Staring at you with a pained expression, eyes even heavier than before.
He leans forward like he’s going to reach for you. Your breath hitches. He pulls back.
For a second, you just watch each other. You wipe your cheeks with your palm, and it feels like a raw, open wound.
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it, and looks back to the road like he’s searching for something.
“I’m- I didn’t mean to yell.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “I just- I’m sorry.”
You nod—you didn’t blame him in the first place—but when he looks to you for a response, you can’t find one. Everything is lodged in your throat, behind a quiet confession you’ve worked far too hard to shove down.
“I’ll fix it.” Dean rasps, and you blink.
“What?”
“Whatever I did.” He’s staring at you, his voice cracking. “Whatever pissed you off or- Or hurt you. I’ll work on it, alright? You don’t have to do anything, I’ll fix me, and then you can stay.”
“I- I can stay?”
He nods, squeezing his eyes shut. As if the words hurt to stay. “If you can’t, I get it. I do. But you gotta give me a chance to set it right, before you give up. Just one chance, and if I screw it up a second time you can run off, but- One shot, it’s all I need. Don’t- Don’t leave.” His voice cracks, eyes shining in the dark. “Please.”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. He looks broken. Lone tears stain his cheeks, and he’s not even wiping them away. When you shake your head—just trying to make sense of what he said—he cowers away like a kicked dog, and you split down the middle.
“I wasn’t going to leave, Dean.” Horror leaks through your voice. You couldn’t leave him if you tried. “I’d never leave you.”
He laughs dryly. “Yeah, like I didn’t just fuckin’ catch you-“
“I was going to the bar.”
“Without telling anyone?”
“No, because I knew you’d try to do this!” You wave around you, and Dean’s throat bobs. “No, I didn’t mean-“
“You didn’t wanna see me.” He mutters, looking back to the wheel. “’S alright. I get it.”
He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. And you can see him trying to drag himself back together, still refusing to wipe his tears and breathing through his nose. He’s just sitting there, hollow and angry, and he doesn’t understand.
“You kissed me.”
You say it without thinking, soft and weak. Dean goes rigid. He looks at you with bloodless, horrified features. You wrap your hand around your own throat, trying to hold yourself in one piece.
He shakes his head. You’re going to throw up.
“No, I- I’d remember that-“
“You were drunk.” You breathe. “I- I picked you up from the bar. And you kissed me.”
Dean looks like someone punched him in the face. He’s pallid, looking around the car like there’s a way out, fisting and unfisting his hands.
“That’s- That’s why you’ve been avoiding me.” He rasps, and you nod, fixing your gaze on his chest.
If you have to watch his face while he rejects you, there’s a chance you’ll just die.
Dean says your name, slow and broken, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Bracing for the knife about to be driven into your chest.
“I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
That makes you look up. And it’s not rejection you find in Dean’s eyes.
It’s guilt.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you, and- Being drunk’s no damn excuse.”
“Dean-“
“If you want nothing to do with me, I- I understand.” He’s too lost in himself to hear you. “Hell, I’ll move out so you can stick with Sammy. You won’t have to deal with me anymore, you’re- It’s not your fault-“
“Dean-“
“I shouldn’t have forced you on that, my own- My own shit is mine to deal with, and you never gave me any kinda go and I damn well knew it- I’m so fuckin’ sorry-“
“Dean!” You shout, and he falls silent. Squeezes his jaw shut, gaze mournful and completely shattered.
You’re not entirety sure what’s happening. You say the only thing you can think.
“Stop grinding your teeth.”
Dean blinks, but his jaw loosens. He mutters your name, and you shake your head. You don’t think you can stand another apology.
“I- I’m not mad about you kissing me.” You whisper, and he snorts, empty and humorless.
“It’s not your job to make me feel better about hurting you, sweetheart-“
“You didn’t hurt me.” You snap, and Dean stills completely.
He opens his mouth, but you’re faster. Flushing furiously and too tired to fight the words.
“I- I liked it.” You whisper. “A lot.”
Dean sits a little taller, words low and cautious. “You didn’t tell me in the morning. Why wouldn’t you tell me, if-“
“You were drunk. I- I thought-“ You take a deep breath, face burning with shame. “I thought you didn’t mean it.”
“Ah.” He’s silent for a moment. “But- Why the hell would you avoid me-“
“I kissed you back.”
“Did you mean it?”
His question feels like the barrel of a gun, loaded and pressed to your temple. You nod weakly. Dean lets out a sharp breath, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
“You thought I didn’t mean it.” He finally echoes, and you nod again. “So you just-“
“That hurt.” Tears are falling again. Everything blurring except for Dean. “That’s the part that hurt, Dean, I just- I had to try and move on. And the internet said that’s how you do it.”
“The internet?”
“Yeah.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low laugh.
“Sweetheart, why the hell would you check the internet for advice-“
“None of my ideas were working.” You hiss. “And I- I didn’t like avoiding you, it felt really bad-“
“You didn’t have to avoid me, you coulda just told me-“
“And you would’ve what, confessed your love and kissed me again-“
“Yeah!” He shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I would’ve, if you’d just fuckin’ told me!”
Your heart stops, for a full second. You don’t think you heard him right. “What?” You whisper, and Dean sighs.
“I meant it, okay?” He mutters, looking up to the sky. As if he was praying. “Everything I do with you, I mean it.”
“And- And the love-“
“I mean that too.” He gives you a sad, tired smile. “I know I shouldn’t. God knows I tried not to, you’re- You’re young and you got a future and I’m just me-“
“I love you.” You blurt, and Dean’s jaw falls. “I love you just like… you. And-“ You bow your head shyly. He won’t stop staring. “If you- If you feel something too-“
Dean moves before you can think.
One second you’re rambling, trying to figure out how to say it. The next his lips are pressed against yours, kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Like you’ll die.
You grab his wrist when he cups your face, he turns you to deepen the kiss, and you’re both moving like you’re trying to breathe the other in. Your nails dig into his skin and he grunts, the sound vibrating against you. You roll onto your knees, moving over him without breaking the kiss, and he grabs you by the waist. Tight enough to bruise. To leave a mark.
It’s just a kiss. A hungry, hot kiss that’s making your head spin. It’s better than anyone else touching you. Better than being fucked, just because it’s Dean.
He picks you up, pulling you into his lap forcing you to straddle. You grab his shoulders for balance, letting out a sharp breath, and Dean chuckles. Sucks your lower lip with a tiny smirk, rubbing your hips as your finger brush the back of his neck. You let out a shuddering breath, sinking fully against his chest. One of his massive hands drags up your spine, callouses and teasing fingers dancing over bare skin and you arch, chasing the fuzzy, addictive sensation of Dean’s hands.
Your core presses against his bulge. He’s hard, twitching inside his jeans. You roll your hips once, unable to stop yourself, and Dean hisses against your lips.
“Careful.”
You don’t want to be careful. You want to be ruined. You grind down again, kissing him while you move, and he groans.
“Hey- Woah-“ He wraps his arm fully around your waist and pins you down. Forcing the outline of his cock against the thin panties you’d worn to go out.
There’s not a single regret in your head. You can feel him better like this. The thick curve, almost pushed between your pussy lips. Your underwear is bunched up, offering extra pressure, but Dean is holding you down so hard there’s not even space to wiggle. You almost whine, pouting at him under wet, fluttering lashes.
He just stares up at you like a man who’s lived underground his whole life, finally seeing the stars. You drag your nails down his chest, trying to spur him into action, but he just keeps staring. He even laughs under his breath, like something’s fucking funny.
You scowl, but don’t even get to provoke him before he’s rising back up.
Dean brushes hair from your face, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. A confusing, sharp contrast to how his erection is angled right against your heat. Your body doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, and just settles for going limp with overwhelmed, happily dizzy confusion. Dean chuckles again. If your body could listen to any whims but his right now, you’d punch him in the face.
“Stop laughing.” You manage to grumble, but that just makes him laugh again. “Dean-“
“Sorry.” He grins against your lips, rubbing your hips in soothing circles. “You’re just- You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re unbelievable-“
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.” He mutters, dragging his hand up your side. As if he’s marveling in just the shape of you. “Never thought I’d get to have you like this, and- Look at you.” He draws back, whistling with a smug smirk. “They should let people touch the art, baby. You get even prettier.”
There’s nothing coherent you have to respond to that. Your brain is mostly a confusing garble of Dean and touch and more.
He kisses just under your jaw, and you gasp. Your eyes flutter as your head lolls to the side, and Dean chuckles.
“You-“ You bite back a moan as he sucks on a pulse point. “You’re pretty too.”
“Hm.” He nips at the sensitive skin, before flicking his tongue against the hurt. “Pretty, huh.”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck until he’s almost in a headlock. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, moving onto another, somehow more sensitive spot. You try to move against his clothed dick, your pussy starting to throb, but he’s holding you too tight. Dean hums against your skin, and you moan, right in his ear. It makes his cock jump, and you almost cry from the fleeting offer of friction.
“Come- Come on-“ You whine, wiggling uselessly in his arms. “You’re being an asshole- Dean-“
He pushes his lips back over yours, right as he grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes. It loosens his grip, letting your hips freely move against him, but you’re so pent up from making out that you can’t even work out what you want to do. You’re grabbing at his shirt and kissing him with spit and teeth, and he’s barely giving you anything in return.
“Dean- Just-“ You claw at his shirt. “Off, get it off-“
“That’s not a very polite way to ask, sweetheart-“
“Fuck you.” You breathe out, moaning when you get the thickest part of him to drag over your clit. “Take your shirt off, Dean, now-“
A strong hand wraps around your throat, pulling you back down into a mind numbing kiss. You’re still fucking down onto his crotch, but their angle offers less pressure. You might’ve burst into tears, if it wasn’t for the magnitude of Dean’s attention. His hands all over your body, one fisted in your hair while the other started to map every inch of you he can reach.
“De- Dean-“
“Not polite.” He mutters, kissing you between every word. “Not patient. What am I gonna do with you?”
Your heart stumbles, still a little bit bare from the fight and confused from the gentle way he’s suddenly touching you. No more grabbing or marking. Just soft, possessive but careful fingers, tracing your curves like he’s trying to memorize every inch.
“Can I tell you what I’ve wanted to do?” He rasps in your ear. “Since I first fuckin’ saw you?”
“Yes.” You breath, trying to just feel him. His strength all around you, his voice rolling through your chest.
Dean’s words are deep and rough in your ear, and you cling to every one like gospel.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since before you even said your name. Wanted to fuck you when you stood in front of me and threatened to shoot if I didn’t back off and leave you be. Decided I’d marry you when you called me a chicken butt ‘cause I told you to stay behind me. Then I thought I was insane, told myself I just needed to get laid. But I got laid. And you wanna know the only thing I could think about, the whole damn time?”
You nod, and Dean pulls back, dropping his brow tight against yours.
“You.” He rasps. “Closed my eyes and saw you under me. Got kicked outta bed for calling your name, felt sick after ‘cause some stupid thing in my head kept telling me I’d betrayed you. Then Sammy came and told me you’d be coming with us, and I knew I was a goner. If it wasn’t such a selfish freakin’ masochist I would’ve told him that I didn’t want you around.”
Your lip wobbles. “You didn’t want me-“
“I wanted you so much.” He grabs the back of your neck, the words a low growl. “Drove me out of my damn mind, how much I wanted you. Thought I’d need to be put down, like one of those dogs that humps every damn thing it sees.”
“You- You never-“
“What? Thought you’d be into something like me?” He laughs, and you frown.
You plant your hands, flat on his chest, and push up a little taller. Demanding he listen to every word you say.
“I’m into you.” You snap, and Dean’s sarcastic smile falters, slipping back into that awe. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”
“No.” He answers without thought. “You’re perfect.”
Dean kisses you, slow and deliberate. Everything is suddenly controlled and delicate, like he’s weaving together a song.
You think you’re supposed to be the instrument. You don’t realize, though, until he’s already playing you as if you’re a toy.
Dean’s mouth trails down, leaving wet, open kisses over your neck and collarbone. The beard scrapes and tickles against you. You decide you like it. He’s not allowed to shave later.
You shiver, moving your hands to rest on his stomach. His abdomen flexes under your fingers, and you start to grind back down onto his crotch. When you press further forward, you can get that perfect friction from before. The one you needed so bad you almost screamed. Dean nips at your throat and you pick up your pace.
He grunts, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. You squirm like animal, even as he handles you well. You’re moved backwards, your knees still knocked apart as Dean’s spreads his own legs. He pushes you back until your elbows are resting on the horn, and heat prickles over your skin when you realize the position he’s put you in.
Your barely clothed pussy, wet and on full display to Dean’s lust-blown expression. He traces over your inner thigh, teasing and teasing until you’re almost thrusting up to meet him.
“Remember what I said about patience?” He drawls, eyes sparkling on yours.
You just pant, making to grab his wrist and move it where you want. But he’s too strong, and you don’t even get a budge.
“I- I’ve been patient-“
“Nah. Not enough. But,” he lifts up your skirt, exposing you further. “Look at her. Just begging for some attention.”
Dean presses a single knuckle against your pussy, running it up until it hits your clit, and your elbow slips. Baby’s horn startles you, making you almost scramble back over Dean, and he just laughs. Kisses you sweetly while you pant in his ear, even nipping under the lobe as you try to control your heartbeat.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Your eyes roll back as you realize what happened.
You’d trapped Dean’s hand between your bodies, and he’s taken full advantage of the situation. For every honeyed and light kiss he presses over your cheeks and lips, he rubs your pussy with light, deft touches. A graze of your clit, then his thumb teasing over your entrance. It’s torture, the touches too light to do anything but make you feel insane, but you’re certain if you move away he’s just going to remove his hand altogether. Leaving you no other choice but to whimper, take it, and plead for mercy.
“More- There-” You bury your face in Dean’s neck, when he rubs your clit back and forth in a frenzy, then simply moves away. “Dean- I- I need to come, please, just, up- No-“
You tremble when he moves away again, humping against his hand. It doesn’t do anything—he’s too good at this—but you don’t think you could stop if you wanted to.
“Please, please, please-”
“You’re real good at begging, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the side of your head, and you nod weakly. “You think I’m not give you what you need?”
“I- I don’t think you’re showing any signs of it.” You breathe, and he laughs.
“Can’t argue with that. But you’re kinda restricting my movements.” He splits his two fingers, placing them around your pussy lips and rubbing slowly up down. “And trust, I’d love to play with your wet little pussy until you were coming all over my hand, but you started something on my pants. Think you should finish it.”
You lean back in slow confusion, and Dean nods between your bodies. You flush when you see it.
The faint dark spot, on his still hard crotch. You can’t look away from it.
Dean pulls your panties forward, then snaps them back against your pussy. Your hips jerk, wild eyes flying up to his, and he grins.
“Keep them on.” He smirks, dragging you back to sit on his crotch. “And take what you want.”
You nod breathlessly, grabbing the bench behind his head and starting to fuck down against Dean’s bulge. You’re more deliberate than before, gaze locked onto Dean’s, knowing exactly where to move to get the best friction. Dean watches you as if you’re sent from Heaven, licking his lips and rubbing your ass. He’s hiked up your skirt, giving him full access to whatever he wants. You expect handprints, maybe more teasing touches to keep you on the edge.
Instead, he grabs the back of your neck, and just watches you move on him. His mouth falls open, and when you lean a little down, he doesn’t hesitate to close the space.
Your speed picks up. The ruined fabric of your panties only adds to the friction, almost completely letting you feel the rough, tantalizing sensation of the denim. When you get your clit, it’s like being rolled between two pinched fingers, and you start to hump that one spot.
Dean groans, and when you catch against something, you realize you’re hitting the head of his cock.
You reach between your bodies, grabbing for something of him to hold onto, and find what has to be his balls. They’re big, heavy even when you’re not really holding them, and when you squeeze softly Dean’s whole body jerks.
“Fuck- Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“ Dean’s words turn into a long moan of your name, when you squeeze again.
You smile to yourself, riding him faster and faster. Dean’s eyes flutter, his fingers weaving into your hair. You throw your head back, and he chases. Starts to bite and suck on your neck again, pushing further and further up until you can no longer get a grip on his balls.
For a second, you try to push back, but Dean’s a solid wall of muscle. You’re using all your energy to keep yourself moving against him, and every thought empties from your head as his lips travel down.
Dean rips the top of your dress open. You hadn’t been wearing a bra. It would’ve ruined the outfit.
He has a clear, direct line to wrap his lips around your peeked nipple, and start to suck.
A loud, uncontrollable sound escapes your lips. You don’t know how he can be so good at that. His tongue flicks and swirls, teeth grazing against the bud, and all you can think of is what he’d do between your legs.
You movements are becoming shorter. More desperate. You press your breasts up, trying to demand more attention. Dean obliges, giving a harshsuckle before a series of kitten licks. He lazily kisses over the valley of your breasts, taking the neglected bud between his lips and sucking even harder than before.
“Oh- Oh my god.” You pull at the short, soft hair on the nape of his neck. He moans, mouth wet and warm wrapped around you. “Yes, Dean- Oh- Oh fuck-“
Your eyes roll back in your head, the pressure in your lower tummy just needing a little more to snap. You’re barely even humping him anymore, just thrashing around and trying to find the right position to get you there.
“I- I can’t-“ You scratch Dean’s back, pressing your cheek to the side of his head as you almost sob. “Dean, I need to cum, need to cum so fucking bad, Deeaan-“
His hand shoves between you, shoving one finger into your dripping pussy. Even with how wet you are there’s a slight stretch, and it’s just the one finger. You slam down onto him, your clit getting plenty of attention against his jeans, and you’re getting lightheaded with the need to find release.
Dean finger crooks inside you. Right against your g-spot. He wiggles it, rubbing fast and firm. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, swirling as he moans, and your shriek with delight.
You cum, shaking and moaning right into Dean’s ear. His finger slowly fucks you through it, but the moment you make a broken sound of his name, his lips are back over yours to swallow it. You don’t think you’ve ever cum that hard before. You can feel it all the way to the tips of your fingers, electric on your tongue as Dean kisses you.
Your pussy is clenching around his finger, and he grunts, angling his head to kiss you deeper. He pulls out slowly, rubbing your cunt until your wetness is smeared all over your thighs.
“The back.” He grunts, words thick and strained. “Get in the back.”
You feel bubbly. You’ve never felt bubbly before. There’s a rough command in Dean’s words that’s probably going to make you melt in a matter of minutes. But right now, you just giggle.
Dean leans back, looking at you like you’re insane.
“Sweetheart.” He wipes the hair stuck to your brow, and you can feel the tension in his voice. He’s trying to be patient. “What’re you laughing at?”
You shake your head, beaming as you press back over him. Dean grunts when you kiss him, but kisses back immediately.
“I just came on your pants.” You breathe.
He hums, leaning back to give you an exasperated look. “And that’s funny?”
“Last week I was crying about how I was never going to hold your hand.”
“Ah.” That makes him smile. He kisses your cheek, squeezing his hold on you. “We can do that later.” He mutters. “After we get in the back.”
You hum, going back in to kiss him again. Dean gives you five seconds, before you’re being picked up like a sack of potatoes and tosses over the bench. You land with a squeal, scrambling up to your palms, and Dean laughs.
“What the fuck-“
“Told you.” He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head. “But don’t worry. Was counting on you not giving a damn what I told you to do.”
You gape at him. “I- I do what you tell me-“
“No, you don’t.”
“What about when you told me to go grocery shopping, I did that-“
“You got everything wrong.” He gives you an amused look, and you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Your list was confusing. And when I tried to call, you didn’t pick up.”
“List works for Sammy.”
“I’m not Sam, I need you to make a list for me-“
“I did make a list for you.” Dean crawls over the bench, grinning down at you. “And you still bought that fuckin’ turkey meat.”
You swallow, unable to stop yourself from drinking him in. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but it’s always been quick glimpses you forced yourself to look away from, or in the context of a wound. But this, here, the car is filled with steam from your fun before, there’s only to golden halo of the streetlamp, and Dean is all yours to stare at, as much as you want.
His chest is broad, softer in some places than he’s probably been in his youth, but perfect. You’re going to be completely smothered in him, you could shove your face between his pecs, feel his thick biceps wrap tight around you as he fucks you like you’ve always dreamed. He’s covered in jagged scars and freckles. You want to touch every single one.
“Sam gave me twenty dollars not to get red meat.” You breathe.
Dean chuckles, pulling at his belt. “And you chose him over me?”
You meet his gaze again, sure you must look like a lost doe under all of him. You’re not sure what to do with yourself at all. “You didn’t give me twenty dollars.”
“And if I gave you twenty bucks?” He grins, pulling down his pants.
That’s your queue to say something smart. You can’t think anything smart.
Dean’s cock stands proud above you, and it’s pretty. Prettier than a porn cock, and those things look like they’re plastic. Dean’s thick and veiny. He’s well groomed, his balls heavier than they felt before—they could fit in your mouth, and you might choke, but would that really be so bad—and the tip of him nice and curved. Just the sight of him makes your pussy clench around nothing. Your legs spread wider.
Dean’s throat bobs, as he follows the movement. He’s slowly stroking himself, and you watch his grip get white knuckled as you spread your legs wider.
You need to touch him. He touched you. It’s only fair.
But you reach for him, and Dean catches your wrist. Pins your arm over your head, forcing him to lower down. He settles between your legs, giving you a stern look that makes your breath hitch.
“No.” He chastises, and you pout.
“I wanna put you in my mouth.”
“You- Jesus, woman.” He lets out a sharp breath, closing his eyes. “You can’t freakin’ say that-“
“Why not-“
“I ain’t as young as I used to be, alright?”
You frown. “I know that.”
He shakes his head. “No, I mean-“ He sighs, dropping his brow against yours.
You pull your hand carefully out of his hold, running your fingers through his hair. He lets out a low rumbling sound, almost like a purr, so you keep going. He makes nice sounds. You’d like to collect all of them, and keep them in little jars on your shelf you can listen to whenever you want.
“I like the hair.” You say, soft and casual. Like his cock isn’t pressed right against your cunt. “And the beard?”
Dean huffs a low laugh. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. Makes you look your age.”
“I am my age-“
“In a sexy way.” You blurt, and he sits up, brows raised.
“A sexy way?”
“Yeah.” You nod, suddenly wanting to hide your face. “I mean, you’re- You’re always sexy- I’ve always wanted to have sex with you, but- But I also think, if it’s- If you’re going to be kissing me all the time- I’d like this-“
Dean shuts you up with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. You hum, thankful for the mercy, and shiver when you feel him peeling away the scraps of your underwear and dress. You don’t think you’re going to haver anything to ride home in.
Something to worry about later. When Dean’s not rubbing his dick against your pussy. The large head of his presses against your clit, Dean’s beard tickling your neck as he kisses everywhere his mouth can find, and you feel the pressure starting to build again.
“Dean…” You mumble. “Oh- Oh-“
He sucks on a hickey from before, and the previous orgasm had already made you more sensitive. Your back arches, forcing your swollen button to rub against his shaft, and your mouth falls open in a loud, lewd moan.
“Easy,” he mutters, dropping his weight. Forcing you back down. “Tryin’ to tell you, sweetheart. I’m barely fuckin’ holding it together, and if I blow before I get inside of you, I’m gonna drive myself off a cliff.”
You giggle despite yourself, letting your body relax into his touch. You trust him, and the idea of him just having you is enough to make your pussy ache. “Aw.” You turn, smiling at him. “You care.”
He snorts. “You always a brat? Or just when I’m fuckin’ you.”
“Do you want the real answer to that?”
“Hm.” Dean tilts his head, gaze raking over your body. Over every mark he’s left, to the point that you’re mostly a map of his hands and lips.
A smirk curve on his lips, and you feel one strong hand grab under your knee, moving it up to your chest. Putting you on full, naked display.
“Nah.” He drawls. “I think I’m good.”
The air is knocked from your lungs, as he presses forward. His cock slides slowly into you, filling the car with the hottest, wettest sound you’ve ever heard. You grab his forearm, just trying to ground yourself, and he goes for your other knee.
Dean bends you in half under him, folding you into a pressed little ball. You can see yourself swallowing his cock. See every inch disappear into your pussy, every vein right before it bumps inside your gooey walls. Dean’s chest is heaving, his features open and slack.
“Fuck.” He grunts. Reverent and as wrecked as you feel. “Son of a bitch, you fit me like a goddamn glove. Takin’ me like a champ, sweetheart, c’mon- Just a little more-“
He spits on where you’re meeting, on your clit, and you try to arch up. He grunts, pushing the last few inches fully in.
You throw your head back, trying to adjust to the feeling of being so full. He feels even bigger than he looked, and you’d forget to breathe if he didn’t wrap his hand around your ribcage, and squeeze gently.
“Good?” Dean’s voice cracks, and you can almost see his chest rippling with the restraint to hold still.
You nod, opening your mouth, then closing it when words fail you. He’s just- He’s so big and everywhere. He’s pushed over your g-spot, and it’s making you feel like you’re being dragged through a pool of pleasure. There’s nothing else to think about.
Dean’s brow furrows. “Baby, I need you to talk to me-“
“Good.” You breathe out. “So- So good, Deaaaan-“
You tug on his wrist, trying to bring him down to your level. He immediately understands, bending over for a kiss. You relax as his lips move against yours, pushing your hips a little up to take in more of him. You might be able to cum just like this. Impaled on Dean’s cock. Usually you’d need something more, but you’re hypersensitive, and it’s like he was made to be inside you.
You smile at him, when he pulls back up. He swallows, slowly reaching up to grab your jaw.
“I’m gonna move, alright?”
You hum, still smiling, and Dean takes in a slow breath.
“Can you keep lookin’ at me?”
You nod, and his lips twitch.
“You really can’t talk right now, huh?”
Head shake. Dean’s eyes glint, and your mouth falls open as he thrusts. Once, harsh and short against your g-spot.
“So fuckin’ cockdrunk you can’t speak.” He drawls, grinding slowly into your pussy. Still too shallow to be anything. Just working your g-spot until tears prick at your eyes. “You think you can at least say my name, baby?”
“Deeean-“ You mewl out, gasping as he finally gives a full, deep thrust. “Dean- Dean-“
“That’s it.” He grunts, pulling almost fully out before slamming back in. “That’s my girl. Nice and dumb on this cock. Just letting it happen, aren’t you sweetheart.”
“Mmmm.” Is all you can manage, but it’s Dean’s fault.
He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Cock slipping in and out of your channel, drilling into your g-spot and cervix. You can see it, see the vein in his brow as he moans your name, see the mess forming around your pussy as you soak his dick.
“Dean.” You babble, a strange, tight heat forming deep inside you. “Deaan, ‘s- ‘s big-“
“I know.” He coos. “I know, baby, but- Shit- You’re takin’ it so well. Best thing I’ve ever fuckin’ felt-“
He grunts, balls slapping against your ass. His body is sticky and shining with sweat, and you can’t stop yourself from staring at how he moves as he fucks you. Each motion is so powerful, and there’s an impossibly good, perverted feeling you get from watching where you meet, and-
“Look.” He grunts, tapping your chin with his thumb. “Look at me, sweetheart, come on-“
You blink up at him, and he groans, bending over as he slams inside.
You don’t think. Your mouth opens, and you take his thumb between your lips, sucking softly. It’s nice to have something to do, when you’re too fucked out to even remember your own name.
And it does something to Dean. His thrusts stutter, and a deep, growling sound comes from his chest. You hum, blinking up at him from glossy eyes. He groans, chest heaving, and something snaps in his expression.
Dean fucks you so hard you could swear the car was shaking. His thumb pushes further between your lips, and you take it happily. You can feel the sensation between your legs building, a little different than your usual orgasm, but it’s good. Tingly and hot, almost like you’re being shot up with direct euphoria. Your lashes flutter, and you moan around Dean’s thumb as he starts to give sharp, abusing thrusts to your g-spot.
He bends like he’s trying to get his mouth on your pussy, only just remembering his body can’t move like that and pulling his hand away from your mouth. You’re about to whine in frustration, but then Dean finds your clit.
He gives it tight, back and forth rubs that make your hips buck up. He uses his cock to bully them back down, rubbing even harder, and the sensation explodes like fireworks.
It’s wet and messy, spilling out of your pussy with Dean still seated deep inside you. He moans, dropping over you as you milk his cock, dragging him into orgasm with you. You’re shaking, cumming and cumming harder than you can keep up with. You can feel the release—yours or Dean’s, doesn’t really matter—sticking inside of you and dribbling down your ass.
Dean kisses you, and you barely manage to kiss him back. You’re boneless and floaty again, your body so washed with pleasure you might be shaking from it. Like he’d struck you with lightning.
“You did so good.” Dean murmurs, pulling slowly out. “That was- Fuck, that was awesome.”
You smile in a dazed agreement, beaming up at him, and everything in Dean seems to soften. He presses a gentle kiss to your brow and pulls you upright, helping you settle in the bench before getting himself to work.
He tries to clean up the seats, but gives up fast and mumbles something about doing it back home. You were right in assuming your clothing was ruined, so Dean just gives you his shirt and wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you against him for the drive home.
When you pull in to the garage, he doesn’t give you a chance to try and walk. You’re hauled into his arms like a princess and marched inside, Dean only pausing to wipe the back bench and stop a smell.
First stop is the bathroom. Then Dean offers to bring you to your bed—the words weighted and reluctant—but you shove your face into his neck and shake you head.
Dean. You need to be near Dean.
He carries you to his bed with a tall pride, and somehow manages to keep a hand on you as he changes into his own sweats. You cuddle into him, smiling when he presses a kiss to your brow.
“If I forget this,” he murmurs. “Remind me in the morning.”
You laugh softly, voice quiet but returned. “If you forget, I’m going to kill you.”
“And I woulda earned that.”
“Mh.” You curl further into his arms, and—unable to help it—whisper. “Don’t forget.”
Dean kisses the top of your head, words a lullaby as you drift off to slip.
“Never. I’m yours now, sweetheart. Like it or not.”
You like it.
You don’t think you could like it more if you tried.
✦End note: deeply unfair that he isn't real. we gotta talk to someone about that.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦summary: everything was fine between you and dean until you moved into the bunker. everything is tolerable until you get hurt on a hunt. dean loses his mind. and when you try to apologize, dean tells you exactly why.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, pining, average dean winchester emotional intelligance, shameless smut (dry humping, knee riding, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, oral f!reciving, pussy slapping, fingering, breif mentions of spanking, dean's dirty talk, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, crying, creampie, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 10.3k✦
✦author's note: old dean you've done nothing wrong ever. murder? what murder? i can't hear you over how fine he is.✦
“She should stay in the car.”
“I’m not staying in the car-“
“It’s a small nest.” Dean doesn’t even acknowledge you, tapping his thumb on the wheel as he addresses Sam. “She’d just be an extra block, you know we can clean that place up blindfolded and ball-gagged-“
Your nose wrinkles. “Why would you be ball gagged-“
“We leave her with a knife.” He keeps ignoring you. “Lock the doors, crack the windows, and we’re in and out like-“
You slam your feet into the back of Dean’s seat, cutting him off with a grunt. He whips around to shoot you a glare, and you stick out your tongue.
“What the hell was that.”
“I’m not a dog, dipshit.” You snap, and he scowls.
“I know you’re not good at listening, sweetheart, but I didn’t call you one-“
“It was implied.”
Dean rolls his eyes, giving Sam a you see what I gotta deal with expression, like he’s not the one making the whole fucking issue.
“I’m not staying in the car.” You repeat, louder than before, and Dean chuckles dryly.
“Yeah. You are.”
“I’m not-“
“You are-“
“You lock me in here, I’ll start screaming-“
He gives you an unimpressed look. “I’ll gag you.”
You grin at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Kinky.”
Dean jaw clenches. You beam. Somewhere in the background, Sam sighs.
“Guys…”
“You’re staying here.” Dean snaps. “That’s that.”
“You’re not the boss of me, Winchester-“
“The hell I’m not-“
“You don’t offer me health insurance-“
“None of us get health insurance, sweetheart, that’s why I’m telling you to stay in the car-“
“Guys.” Sam sighs, looking between you with the same, exhausted expression as usual. “We only have until the sunrise, and it’s already 4am. Can you please do this after?”
You don’t look away from Dean. He doesn’t look away from you. You raise your brows mockingly.
“He’s talking to you, Dean. Can you do this after?”
Dean narrows his eyes, and he opens his mouth to bark something at you that you probably would’ve deflected now—using taunting words and matching his harsh tone—then cried about later. In the safety of your bedroom, where Dean can’t see you. The only place that you can go to let everything out. It’s safe in your room. Dean never even knocks on your door, always sending Sam in his stead. But you don’t go to his room either. It’s an unspoken rule that you’ve never had steady enough feet on the ground to bother breaking. You’re pretty sure that if Sam doesn’t kill you both over this, he’s going to strangle you later for making him a messenger pigeon.
But you need that solace. That quiet, where Dean can’t shake your world with sneers and glowers. It hits something raw in you, a wound that you’ve never bothered to stich up or cauterize because you love the bleeding too much. It pours all over your hands when you hug your stomach, out of your mouth like bile when you try to defend yourself—to make him stop just seeing you as some stupid, naive civilian girl he needs to heard around—and out of your eyes when you cry over all of it.
The things that do make you that naïve civilian girl. The things that make you barely any better than a teenager with a crush, wandering around after the boy you like and pulling at his sleeve for just an ounce of attention.
No one can blame you for falling for the hero who saved your life and swept you off your feet. Offered you a new life, taught you how to shoot a gun with his arms around your body—you can still feel him sometimes, when you rub your shoulders—and told you that he’ d always keep you safe.
Dean had been straight out of a romance book. You’d let yourself get starry eyed, you’d daydreamed that he lingered around you out of affection rather than obligation. You’d been an idiot, and you’d gotten comfortable, and when Sam said you had a knack for the lore and were more than welcome to stay, you’d said yes without a thought.
You’d thought Dean would’ve been happy.
But you’d told him, and he’d looked like he was going to put his fist through a wall.
Everything had shifted, like a picture into the negative. Dean stopped seeking you out for anything, stopped training you, almost stopped looking at you all together. In the first months, he’d walked out of a room the moment you entered. At one point, you’d overheard him having a very loud fight with Sam about letting you stick around.
He hadn’t been speaking to Sam either. They’d gotten over it, because they always seemed to. Your second foolish fantasy was that Dean would get over whatever you’d done to him—you’re still not all that sure—and decide that he actually did like you. That he’d remember how good things had been at the start, and if you proved yourself to him, everything would go back to normal.
But it’s been a year.
And normal is this now.
Dean hates you. He must hate you. There’s no other reason he’d argue with Sam about bringing you on hunts, even when they need the extra hands or your research. And even when Sam wins the fight—which is always, you think he might have a cheat code that makes Dean always agree with him, and you’d very much like access to it please—Dean still acts like you don’t exist. Or worse, like you do, and it’s the bane of his entire life. For the whole fifteen hour drive, and you get handed snacks without eye contact and checked on like you’re a dog he’s making sure didn’t piss all over his precious car.
For the entire hunt, you’ve been able to feel his attention burning through you. Whenever you’d look over, he would’ve already looked away, but you could feel it. And you’re the one who tracked the nest and identified the mutation in these vamps that made them daywalkers, but when you’d looked to Dean with a hopeful smile for approval, he’d looked away again.
You might’ve sat in the bathtub with the water burning yours shoulders and useless tears sliding down your cheeks after. Clawing at your face like you could remove the pain, remove all the love you felt for him with all the brutal precision of a hungry animal. But if you did, it’s none of his fucking business.
And you might not want to join in on the actual hunt—that sounds gross, and bloody, and kind of scary—but Dean doesn’t get to win. You can handle it, and if you can’t he’s there.
It makes you feel safer than it should. Dean always makes you feel safer, and you hate him for it.
The thing about loving him is that it’s not so much a choice as something that slammed into you like a comet. Dean left a massive depression in something so vital you think it might be your soul, and now it blooms all the time. Alone and in the dark, finding sunshine in every piece of him that’s worthy of such a feral, unyielding devotion.
It’s most of him. He’s still that hero who saved you, and your body knows it better than your head sometimes. He opens doors for you even when he keeps his gaze fixed firmly over your head. He makes you coffee in the mornings before stalking out of the room like you make the whole place reek.
He’s going to keep you safe, even if he bitches about it and shouts at you the whole time.
And it’s so easy to love him for all of that. In the end, most of your desperation isn’t really to stop loving him.
It’s to scream loud enough that he stops pretending he can’t hear it. That he saves you again, even if it’s from yourself.
You win the argument about going into the house. For all his postering and deep, commanding grunts and threats, Dean’s not actually that good at telling you know. You’ve told Sam it’s because you have the numbers against him. Sam always gives you a strange look and says uh huh, like you’re supposed to know what that means.
“You stick with me.” Dean snaps, pulling out his dainty little baby gun and passing it into your hands. “You wanna speak, think five times, then don’t say it. These things are noise-sensitive, they hear you breathe, they rip you up.”
“I know.” You grumble. “I discovered them.”
Dean sighs heavily, just loud enough for you to know he heard you. “I don’t want you out of my sight.” He mutters, and you give him a flat look.
“So you’re planning to look at me today?”
He shoots you a glare, saying your name in a low warning, and you roll your eyes.
“Never mind.” You mutter under your breath, like a petulant child. “Guess it’s easier to look at ugly things when they’re in the dark.”
That makes him flinch back, like you punched him in the gut. He’s going to say something again, and you really don’t want to hear it.
You stalk over to Sam, leaving Dean gaping and rigid at Baby’s truck. Sam looks between you, but doesn’t bother to ask what you’re fighting about. He rarely does, and it’s always followed by an annoyed now, like it’s somehow your fault Dean thinks everything you do is a sin. What are you two doing now. Why are you mad at him now. Why is Dean being an idiot now.
He’s always an idiot. A handsome, insufferable idiot you want to sucker punch, then make out with until you can’t breathe. If you tried to hit him, maybe he’d catch your wrist and pin you to something. His massive body crowded over yours, his face inches away, lips brushing as he shouted at you, then gave up when you moaned—he’d be too close, his crotch pressing you down, you’d probably moan—and started touching and kissing you until your legs gave out and you were putty in his hands and he worshipped you with the same soft attention he used to offer-
“Stop flirting and fall in.” Dean snaps at you and Sam, standing in complete silence.
Sam rolls his eyes, and hisses something to Dean when they walk past each other that makes Dean look murderous. You flush—thankfully hidden in the dark—and grip your baby-gun tight as you follow.
“Stay with me-“
“I know.” You snap, not looking him in the eyes. “I’m not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, and you can’t tell if it’s an agreement or dismissal. You’re not sure which would be worse.
The moment you’re in the nest, you remember why you don’t usually do this. Why you actually prefer waiting at the motel for them to come back, or just staying in the car with an anxiously bouncing knee. You always ask to go with them because you hate the dread. Hate watching them—both of them, because you might not be in love with Sam but he’s sort of your only friend anymore—walk out the door for what always might be the last time. They never think it will be.
You do. Every time, Dean pulls out of the parking lot with your heart in his dumb, big hands, and you know it could stop beating any second. That you won’t even know until you get a phone call, and a part of you withers that’s never going to be reborn.
So you ask to go with them. To help. Do first aide, be extra hands, anything so you don’t just have to wonder if they’re okay.
But then you actually get here, and you hate it.
It’s scary. Scary and quiet and loud all at once. You have to physically yank yourself back from grabbing Dean’s forearm and clinging to him. He radiates heat, and this barn is so fucking cold, and you’d like to go back to the car now, thank you very much-
Everything happens so fast. It always does, on a hunt.
You find the vamps. Sam offs one, Dean gets another two, and your fingers tremble but you manage to kick a third back into Dean’s machete. He gives you an approving look, and you feel like you’ve grown wings.
Then another on comes out of nowhere. Slams into Dean and starts driving him backwards.
You scream, and shoot. It won’t kill them, but it’ll distract.
And it does.
The vamp stumbles when you hit his calf, dropping Dean to the floor. It turns on you with glinting eyes, and lunges.
You’re thrown to the ground with teeth gnashing near your throat. There’s a roar in the background, and you feel a rush of pain through your stomach as the vamp hits you. Heat burns over your neck, and your arms are starting to get weak, and-
All the noise stops. The body over you slumps.
You open your eyes to find Dean standing over you, just like that first time he saved you.
Only now, he looks like he wants to cut off your head next.
He’s staring at you a strangely furious and pallid expression all at once. There’s something glinting in his eyes that you can’t place. His breath is heavy through his nose, and he’s not even blinking as he scans over you.
His eyes widen, when he sees the blood blooming through your shirt. He drops his machete, bends down, and scoops you up into his arms.
The rest of the night is a little hazy.
Dean carries you to the Impala. He smells good, like leather and pine trees and something a little spicy. He looks really good, too. Covered in blood and grease and so angry he’s almost feral. His hands are warm, and make you feel fuzzy when they brush over your stomach, checking the wound.
The whole thing feels like a dream. Especially after he coaxed some painkillers down your throat, and the world all becomes just color and Dean’s undivided attention, pressing over you.
He doesn’t speak to you the whole time. He’s humming something, fingers brushing over your bare skin, and the feel oddly light. Almost shaky.
You breathe out his name. You don’t know why. Through the drugs, it’s sort of the only word you know.
His hands still for a heartbeat, then grab you a little tighter.
Before you pass out, your vision swimming and thoughts covered in a fog, you could swear you see him bow his head against your chest. He holds your hips tight, lips brushing against your exposed stomach.
Your weak fingers reach up, brushing through his hair. A deep sound rumbles from his chest, and it’s soothing.
The world goes peacefully dark, and Dean stays wrapped around you all the way into your dreams.
He hasn’t spoken to you.
It’s been three weeks, and Dean hasn’t said a single word.
It’s worse than before. Worse than it’s even been. Even those first months after you moved in permanently, he’d at least acknowledge your existence. It had been via avoiding you like the plague and snipping and glaring, but at least you’d known he could still see you. That he still thought of you.
Now, he’s treating you like a ghost.
The first week you’d expected. The drive back from the hunt had been tense, everyone dead silent. Rest stops happened when Dean decided they would. Sam never once asked him to turn down the music. You turned your face into the window and hid behind your jacket, hoping to hide the shame burning through you.
Dean had been right. You couldn’t handle that hunt.
But he hadn’t even rubbed it in your face. Hadn’t done an I told you so.
When you got back to the bunker, he’d shoved the door open and marched inside without looking back. Sam had rubbed a hand over his face, given you an apologetic look in the mirror, and you’d just shaken your head.
“He’ll get over it-“
“It’s fine, Sam.” You’d muttered. “I’m fine.”
You were not fine.
You hadn’t even been able to sit up without Sam’s help. He’d half carried you out of the car, a hiss of pain escaping your with every movement, and when you’d finally gotten on your feet you’d looked up to find Dean standing in the doorway.
His hands had been fisted at his sides. He’d been staring at you like he wanted to say something, jaw clenched so tight you could see a vein.
You hadn’t quipped. Hadn’t pushed. You’d just watched him, praying he’d do anything but just stand there. Part of you had wanted him to yell. To let out all the anger you could see simmering behind his gaze, so you could all move on.
But Dean had turned, and stalked back into the bunker.
The ignoring had begun. And you didn’t think you could last a day of it, let alone almost a month.
When you’re in the same room, he pretends you’re not even there. If you’re talking to Sam, he cuts you off like he didn’t hear. If you pass each other in the hall, he looks firmly ahead and bumps your shoulder. If you’re blocking him from getting something in the kitchen, he just reaches over you like you’re part of the room.
His chest presses against your back, and your breath hitches. You bow your head, fighting the instinct to moan and push back into him. He’s so warm, a secure and unwavering pillar of resolve that you want to worship at the feet of forever. He’s sturdy, he’s safe, his muscles flex around you and his breath is warm on your neck and he’s acting like you don’t even exist.
It’s cold when he pulls away.
You retreat to your room, and lie on the floor until you’re out of tears.
Part of you wonders if Dean even knows what he’s doing to you. He can’t. He thinks you hate him with all the fever and loathing he hates you. There’s no possible way for him to understand that every second he ignores you, something in you cowers and whines. That you’ve been passing the door to his room just to try and run into him, even though that breaks the unspoken rule of never invading such a sacred space. That this is killing you more than the injury did, because at least that was allowed to heal.
Dean fixed you, there.
Here, he’s just clawing you wider and wider, until there’s a gaping pit in the cavity of your chest, and you’re about to fall through.
He’d been going out drinking every night. He comes back reeking of liquor and perfume, but he comes back. Every single night, he’s back around 1am.
You know, because you stay up waiting.
Dean always walks past your room, when he gets home. His shadow lingers under your doorway, and sometimes you swear you hear a thud against your door. As if he’s knocking, or just leaning there.
Breaking the rule himself.
It’s the only way you still know you’re not a ghost. That he still knows you exist.
But that’s it.
Otherwise, you’re nothing to him at all.
You can’t take it anymore. Sam says you haven’t been eating as much, but you barely even noticed. You’re too tired, from losing sleep. And everything tastes like ash, anyway.
Sam also says that Dean’s being a dick, but he’ll get over it. They went on a hunt a few days ago—they’re talking again, although from what you’ve seen it’s clipped, and they’re both still pretty pissed—and Sam told you he’d try to talk some sense into Dean and his silent treatment. You have no faith it will work. Sometimes living in the bunker feels like a pissing contest of who can be the most stubborn, if every contestant had an infinite bladder and thought they’d die if they lost.
You’ve been checking your phone for updates every ten minutes. You’re getting itchy and restless, and you can hardly breathe. What if this is it, and foul voice reminds you. What if he dies, and he dies angry at you, and you can’t even remember the last thing he said to you because it was a month ago.
The seams in you are coming apart. Sam sends you a brief text, saying the hunt is over and they’ll be back tonight. You don’t bother to ask how the talk went. If Sam even went through with it, you already know the answer.
But you can’t. You can’t keep living like this. That voice is only going to get louder, and you’re only going to waste away, and Dean won’t even notice with how determined he is to make you nothing at all.
You’ve been crying too much. Your eyes are red when you look in the mirror, and your lips are swollen.
Maybe you shouldn’t stay here. Maybe Dean’s right, and you never belonged here at all.
He once acted like you did. And you still don’t know what made him change his mind.
And you don’t want to leave. This is home. Dean is home, because despite everything you still think of him, and you feel safe.
You know that’s why it hurts so much. You’re not weak. You can stand to be ignored, and you’ve certainly had louder and more violent and cruel fights with people you’d actually been dating. But Dean being so mad feels like your heart is trying to eat itself. And you can’t take it.
It takes all night, but that’s the perfect amount of time. You go out to the grocery store and get everything you need, then haul up in the kitchen and bake like your life depends on it. A fairly big fraction of it does.
You think about writing I’m sorry or You were right on the pie with whipped cream. That feels like a little too much. Hopefully, that part will speak for itself.
When they get home, it’s with a slam of a door. There’s no shouting, but you have a feeling it’s because the fight already passed. You watch Sam give you a tight smile before slumping off to his room, and you know he tried. You appreciate it. But only you can fix this now.
“Dean.” You force your voice to be steady. It doesn’t work that well. “Dean.”
He looks up at you with a heavy, tired glare. He doesn’t speak, but he looks at you, and it makes you sit a little taller. You can do this.
“I’m sorry.” You push the pie forward, and he blinks.
“You’re sorry.” He echoes, like he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’re sorry?”
You nod, chewing your lip nervously. “Yeah. For- For the hunt. And anything else I did to you.”
“Anything else you did.”
“Um- mhm.”
Dean stares at you, and you push the pie again. Look down to it, then back to him, swallowing the nerves in your throat.
“I- I made you pie.”
“Yeah. I can see that.”
“Oh- Okay.”
The silence is suffocating. Your face is starting to burn, and you’ve never cried in front of him before, but the tears are insistent. The ache of loneliness, of just missing him, it’s insistent. Like a hurricane, devastating and impossible to ignore. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold them back, and that usually works.
It’s useless now. The first tears burn on your cheeks, and you wipe them away with trembling, frantic hands.
Dean rasps your name, taking a lurching step forward. As if someone shoved him, his hand reaching out before he yanks it back.
You swallow, and find a painful, barbed lump in your throat. You shake your head, and look to the side.
Dean repeats your name, his voice thick and strained.
You realize this is the first time he’s said it in a month.
A damn breaks in your chest. Something snaps near your ribs, and a pathetic, choked sob rips from your throat. You can’t stay here.
“I- I’m sorry.” You shoot to your feet, pushing the pie roughly forward. “It’s- It’s cherry.”
“Sweetheart-“
“The pie.” You clarify, staring at Dean’s knees.
“Yeah, I know-“
He takes a step forward. You take a step back, and he freezes.
When you look up, he’s watching you like you’d just smacked him in the face. You swallow, lip wobbling as you keep losing the battle against your own tears.
“I- I’m sorry.” You choke out, wrapping your arms around your stomach.
Dean works his jaw, shaking his head. “You said that already-“
“I- I know. I’m sorry-“
“Stop saying sorry!”
He takes a larger, firmer step forward. His voice echoes off the walls, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it stings.
Dean rubs his face, lowering back down to rough, low words as he says your name. “Just- Fuck- I don’t want a sorry.”
“I-“ You cut yourself off, shrinking further into your body.
He doesn’t want an apology. He doesn’t want you.
“I’ll go.” You whisper, looking down to his shoes.
Dean makes a choked sound. “You’ll- What-“
“I’m going to go.” You can’t be here right now. Can’t break down when you’re really not sure if he’ll pick you back up. “I- I’m-“
You swallow another apology, and duck past him. Dean shouts after you, so you walk faster. Almost running to the safety of your room, to the one place he won’t follow. Where you can fall apart alone, and wrap yourself in blankets you pretend are his arms, because you’re the exact, pathetic, stupid girl he thinks you are. You’re crying so hard you can’t breathe, and you hate him, and you hate yourself more for knowing you’ll still love him once the tears dry out.
There’s a knock on the door. The fight must have been that loud.
“Go away, Sam.” Your voice is muffled through the sheets.
Dean’s is muffled through the door. “Not Sam, sweetheart.”
You sit up, still holding your blanket to your face. As if he might somehow see you. There’s a long silence—he’s not supposed to be here, why is he here—and Dean coughs.
“It’s, uh- It’s Dean-“
“I know.”
“Oh. Okay.” He pauses, then, “Are you gonna open the door?”
You shake your head, then remember he can’t see you. “No.”
Dean grunts your name, and you raise your voice a little.
“Leave me alone-“
“No. We gotta- There’s stuff I have to- Fuck.” There’s a thump on the door. You think he’s leaning against it. “You’re crying, alright? Just let me in so I can fix it-“
“I’m fine.” You snip, and he laughs dryly.
“I can hear you. I know you’re still upset, and-“
“Why do you care?”
Dean goes silent, and you glare at where you think he’s standing.
“Why do you care, Dean. You never cared before-“
“That’s not true.” He snaps, and you roll your eyes.
“Don’t lie-“
“I’m not lyin’, I just-“ He cuts himself off. “Just open the door, alright-“
“Not until you tell me why you give a shit-“
“I just do, alright?”
“No, you don’t-“
“Stop- Stop saying that.” He’s not shouting, but you can hear him fighting against the urge. “Stop telling me what I care about, you don’t get to decide that-“
“I’m not deciding.” You push the words out, even as they burn on your tongue. “You just don’t get to act like you care about me when you wish I didn’t exist.”
The silence falls again. It’s thicker than before. So heavy it pulls your heart down to your stomach. You’re so sure he’s going to walk away, just leave you there to finally, fully break.
Instead, when he speaks, his voice is rough.
“Don’t say that.” He grunts. “I’ve never wished that. Not once.”
Your heart flutters. You want to smack it, remind it that it’s only hurting because of him. “Whatever.”
The door shakes again, as Dean’s shadow shifts.
Despite yourself, you lean closer.
“Open the door.” He says your name again, the tone a command.
You raise your chin. “No.”
“Come on, just open it-“
“Go away, Dean-“
“No.” It’s shockingly firm. You sit up in surprise. “No, I’m not- I’m not just gonna leave and let you go, no. That’s not fuckin’ happening, sweetheart, just- Open the door-“
His voice is getting louder, every word sounding more and more strangled. You shift to your knees, saying his name softly through your tears, but he doesn’t seem to hear.
“You can’t leave me, alright? You win, you fuckin’ win, I’m the idiot. You can stay and run me into shape, whatever the hell you want, just- just open the door, please-“
You’ve never heard him like this before. Rambling like a broken record. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was crying.
“I’m sorry for being a dumbass.” He’s not pushing the door anymore, but his voice is muffled and loud all at once. He’s leaning against it. “Sorry for being a dick, sorry for- For whatever the hell you’re cursing my name with, I know I deserve it, I was a douchebag and if you wanna hate me you got every right, but-“ His voice breaks. “Don’t leave me. Fuck- Please don’t leave me, please-“
You slide off the bed, gliding across the room like you’re in a trance, and open the door.
Dean stumbles forward, catching himself against the doorframe. He’s only inches away, and you can read it all over his face. How much he means every strangled word.
His hair is disheveled, his eyes red as he scans over your open, sad features, his jaw clenched so tight you think he might break his teeth. His arm flexes over your head, hand fisting and unfisting at his side. There’s a stain of a tear on his cheek, gleaming in his stubble like he’d half wiped it away.
He watches you like he’s a dog, bracing to be kicked.
You hold his gaze, letting your voice stay small. You have a feeling he’d cling to every word if you only breathed it out.
“You’re sorry.”
He nods. You swallow.
“Why-“
“All of it.” Dean mutters. His eyes are locked onto yours. It’s almost too much, making you feel molten when you need to be unmovable.
You look down to your fingers. “What you said?”
“And did. And-“
“Being a douchebag.”
He chuckles, but it’s more of a rasp. “Yeah.”
“For how long?” You look at him under your lashes, and maybe it’s a bit of a test, but you need to be sure he understands. The sheer magnitude of how this—all of this—has hurt you.
“The whole year.” He says immediately. “From when Sammy told me you were staying to- Shit, five freakin’ seconds ago. I’m sorry.”
You hear it again, even if he doesn’t say it.
Don’t go.
“You didn’t want me to stay here.” You say lightly.
Dean shakes his head. “That’s not true-“
“You told Sam he never should’ve asked me.” With all the bravery in your body, you meet his gaze. “You said you wanted me far away from here.”
Shame almost pours from Dean’s expression. He bows his head, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller. “I- Uh- I didn’t know you heard that-“
“You’re both very loud.”
“Ah.” He pauses, shifting on his feet. His handsome features twist into a tight frown. “But- That’s not what I said.”
“Yes, it is-“
“I said you should be far away from here.” He mutters. “Not that I wanted you there.”
“That’s the same thing-“
“No, it’s not.” Dean gives you a firm look, his voice dropping impossibly lower. “What I want and what’s right?” He chuckles dryly. “Ain’t ever really the same thing.”
For a long moment, you just watch each other. And he means it. Every inch of you knows that, right into your bones. But you’re still fragile from a year of him acting like you were nothing. And you want that to be enough, you want that so desperately. To just give Dean all of you to freely break, and trust that he won’t. But-
“What about me.”
Dean blinks. “What?”
“Am I right?” You raise your chin, crossing your arms over your chest. Dean’s frown deepens.
“Are you-“
“You’re sorry. You said you don’t me to leave.”
“I don’t.”
“So I was right.” You challenge. “I was right to stay.”
Dean swallows. You don’t waver.
“Do you care, Dean. If you don’t want me to leave then you have to tell me why you’d even fucking care-“
“I care.” He grunts, pressing further over you. “I care more than you can imagine.”
You snort. “I don’t know about that-“
“I can’t imagine it, sweetheart.” Dean reaches down slowly, cupping your jaw. You freeze. “Sometimes I- I can’t even work it out in my head. Can’t measure it, can’t justify it, can barely even understand how it’s possible.” His thumb drags over your cheek. “How much I fuckin’ love you.”
Oh.
Oh.
“Love is different than care.” You whisper, and Dean’s lips twitch.
“Yeah. But not by that much.”
You stare at him. He stares back, and when you don’t move away he drops his brow. Presses it against yours, his voice lowering gently.
“You don’t gotta forgive me. Just-“
“I love you, too.” You blurt, and Dean’s eyes shoot open. “And I’m not leaving.”
Dean swallows. Searches your gaze, like he’s trying to find the a tell that you’re lying. “You don’t have to-“
“Shut up.”
You grab his neck, and drag him down. You’re tired of talking. Of fighting and crying and being so far away. Even an inch feels like too much right now.
Dean must feel the same way.
When you pull him into a kiss, he’s rigid for a second. The brief, electric brush of your lips. Your noses bump, and your nails dig into his neck. He grunts, his hand on your doorway sliding down. You flush and try to pull away, but he’s not having it.
Dean melts over you so fast your brain can’t keep up.
He grabs your hip, blunt nails digging into your shirt, and tugs your head gently back as his lips work over yours. It’s so sudden you don’t immediately kiss him back, just grabbing the collar of his shirt for balance. Dean grunts, the hand on your hip sliding around your lower back. Grounding you against him as he almost bends you backwards, never once breaking the kiss.
His lips are softer than you dreamt of. Plush and a little chapped, but still so soft. He moves them slowly but insistently over yours, tasting and letting his tongue brush slightly. When you shiver and try to rise up a little higher, he meets you immediately. He kisses like he already somehow knows exactly how you like it. Easy but a little messy. Close, so close he’s almost eating your face while you try and claw closer. He tastes like salt from the tears, but under that is a little bit of cherry.
“You-“ You speak between kisses, dizzy from desire. “You ate the pie-“
“Tasted it.” He grunts, walking you back into your room. “Checkin’ it wasn’t poison.”
You lean back, glaring up at him. “I would not poison you-“
“I know.” He grins, kissing your pouted lips. “But I woulda deserved it if you did.”
You want to argue with that, too, but Dean’s faster. He kicks the door closed behind him, grabs your waist, and picks you up with barely a grunt. Your arms fly around his neck as you yelp in surprise, but the sound quickly falls into a loud, long moan when he pins you against the door.
His kisses are turning more frantic. Hungry and bruising, but still restrained. His hands stay politely on your clothing, his lips pressed over yours with only small grazes of his tongue.
You open your mouth in a long, shaky moan. Dean takes the permission, grabbing your jaw and tipping it a little further back. His tongue brushes over your teeth, and you wrap an arm around his neck. His chest is pressed right against yours, and it’s secure and sweet and hot. You’ve never been this hot just from a few kisses.
Passionate, messy kisses. With Dean. His broad fingers on your soft skin, and his solid body right against yours. You comb your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and he groans. The noise vibrates through you, and you shudder with that burning, needy heat.
Dean notices. Of course he does. He’s Dean.
“Do you want-“
“Yes.” You moan against his lip, trying to spread your legs. “God, Dean- Fuck-“
He sucks on your lower lip before releasing it with a wet pop. Licks over the hurt before travelling down. Over your cheeks, then your jaw, repeating the same motion. Your arms wrap tight around him, your hips bucking mindlessly up.
“Oh- Dean-“ Your nails scratch his neck, and he hums. “You- You can’t just- Holy shit-“
He shoves his knee right between your thighs, the sudden pressure a curse and a relief. Your hips roll like they have a mind of their own, and head dropping against Dean’s shoulder as you cry his name. He moans, his hand on your waist tugging at your shirt.
You grab it and move it under the fabric, moaning at the feeling of his rough callouses, his warm palms, how possessive just a light touch can be. His fingers splay, the tips pressing into your skin, and you’re fully humping him now. He hisses when your knee bumps into his hard crotch, and you giggle, dragging a hand down his spine.
Dean pulls back, watching you ride his thigh with hooded eyes and a lazy grin. “Something funny, pretty girl?”
You giggle again, pressing purposefully against the bulge in his jeans. He groans, pressing his brow to the top of your chest.
“Shit- You’re tryin’ to fucking kill me-“
“Nuh uh.” You breathe out, not caring how convincing it is. You can feel the pressure building in your core, but it’s not quite enough. You need him to give you more. “De- Dean-“
You grab his wrist again, trying to pull it to your ass, but he resists. He yanks his hand from your grip, sliding it up your ribs slowly. His thumb brushes under your breast, and you bow into the touch with another loud moan.
“Jesus.” He mutters. “You look fuckin’ gorgeous like this, sweetheart. Think putting you on my cock might turn me into a religious man.”
You grab his shirt, yanking desperately, and he clicks his tongue. His voice is deep and taunting, and he leans forward so his lips brush yours with every word.
“Easy, baby girl.” He coos, his thumb grazing over the curve of your breast. “Thought about this for so long. Wanna take my time with you, show you that I mean what I’m saying. Love these pretty tits,” he palms it as he speaks, grinning as you moan like a shameless whore. “And this smart fucking mouth.” He nips your lower lip. “And your whole, sexy fuckin’ body. Love it almost as much as that impossible, pretty head you got. And I’m not wasting my shot on making you mine.”
You shake your head, the wet heat becoming almost unbearable. “Al- Oh-“
Dean’s mouth attacks your neck and shoulders, and you have to take a deep breath to remember how to speak.
“Already yours, Dean, always been yours, always- Fuuuuck-“
He grabs you hips and moves them so your clit is always dragging against him, the friction from his jeans and your panties making your head spin.
“I know.” He mutters, breath warm against your ear. “You think I didn’t know, princess? That I didn’t see every time you’d give me those Bambi eyes and beat my cock in the shower that night, thinkin’ about what you’d let me do to you?”
You moan as shock and surprise burns on your cheeks, but it also floods south. Right to your core, making you squirm in his arms. Dean chuckles, watching you with a dangerous smirk.
“Thought it was just a crush, at first. Thought you’d get over it, move onto someone better-“
“No- No one better.” You breathe out despite yourself, and Dean’s eyes flash. “No one better, Dean, just you, just you-”
He grabs your jaw, kissing you long and rough. You whimper, pressing your tongue into his mouth. He pushes you further back against the door, kissing you with teeth and spit. You give in immediately, just trying to chase anything, anything he can give you at all.
“De- Dean-“
“Always someone better for you.” He growls against your lips, grabbing under your knee. He squeezes it tight before hiking it up, offering even more friction.
You moan, dropping your head back against the door. He’s almost fucking you through your clothing, his bugle pressed right against your throbbing pussy. Dean’s mostly just letting you grind down onto him, but every few moments he gives a shallow thrust of his hips, grinning when the pleasure shakes through your whole body.
“Look at you.” He coos, reaching up to smear some of his spit on your cheek. “You deserve the fuckin’ world, sweetheart. Deserve a guy with his shit all in order, someone half as sweet as you are-“
“You- You’re sweet-“ You gasp when he shoves his hips up, slamming right against your clit. “Holy shit- Dean-“
“I’m sweet.” He mocks, and it shouldn’t make you feel as needy and light as it does. “I treated you like shit, baby. Thought it would help you get over it, but look at you. You like this. Like bein’ my pretty fuckin’ slut.”
You let out a guttural, strangled noise of desire, and Dean taps his thumb against your lips. When you open them, he slides his thumb inside. You suck obediently, watching him under dazed eyes. His throat bobs, eyes blown out with lust.
“Good girl.” He mutters, lips twitching when you hum happily around him. “Oh, you like that, too. My good girl.”
He leans forward, whispering into your ear, and your eyes flutter hopelessly.
“You’re such a fuckin’ brat, sweetheart. You’d sass me and I’d think about kissing you nice and stupid, then giving you the whole fuckin’ world.”
You whine, and Dean pulls his thumb out to let you speak.
“Don’t- Don’t want the world.” You gasp. “Just want you, Dean, please-“
He hauls you off the bed, and your legs wrap around his middle. This time when he kisses you, he’s holding you over his body like you’re something for him to worship. He’s slow and sweet, just like you know he is. He tosses you down onto your bed before pulling off his shirt and prowling over your body. He pulls your pants down, kissing back up your ankle, your knee, your hipbone. He sucks your clit lightly through the fabric of your ruined panties, pinning your pelvis to the bed when your hips slam up.
You fist a hand in the sheets. “De- Dean-“
He hums, pressing you down harder. His tongue flicking, and you pant, desperately trying to wiggle out of his grip, to chase release.
Dean stops suddenly, chuckling when you whine like a spited child. Two fingers hook around the center of your panties, and he yanks away the ruins fabric like it was made of paper.
“So wet.” He mutters, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips. “You’re like a fuckin’ dream, baby, son of a bitch.”
He slaps your clit once, grinning when the reaction shakes through your whole body. You can almost see him making the metal note, before moving on. Dean grabs the hem of your shirt and tugs it over your head, kissing your tummy, your sides, the valley of your breasts and a tiny mark he’d left on your neck.
His lips meet yours, lazy and gentle. He palms at your exposed breasts, slowly kneeing your legs apart.
When he settles between them, he slows down even more, his breathing ragged and voice low and almost desperate.
“Say it again.” He mutters, and you hum.
“I want you.”
Dean kisses the corner of your mouth. “And- The other thing.”
“I love you.” You say, easy as breathing. “Love you, Dean.”
He grunts, planting a kiss on your nose. “Thank you, my love.”
You smile, letting your hands wander over the broad planes of his back. You’re still so close to the edge, tingly and aching, and maybe he’s just going to fuck you stupid like he promised right now-
Dean pulls away.
He sits up on his knees, one hand pressing you into the mattress. His thumb lingers just above your clit, capable of reaching it if he reaches. But instead he just watches you, shuffling out of his own pants and tossing them off to a corner of the room.
You swallow, salivating at the sight. He’s thick. Long and thick in every way you’d imagined. Broad and angry at the top, leaking with pre-cum that he swipes with his thumb. You’ve only see cocks like that made of silicone with a vibrator built in. You bought one once, feeling pretty brave. You’d given up very fast.
“De- Dean-“
“Yeah, baby?”
He squeezes your thigh, and you look up to him with wide eyes. “I- I can’t take that.”
“Yeah, you can.”
“No, I-“
“Shh.” He coos, thumb grazing over your clit. You shudder, grabbing his wrist.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna help, princess.” He says. “You’re gonna take it.”
He says it so certainly, you fucking believe him. He’s got a goddamn monster-porn cock, but his rich, deep tone has you convinced you can somehow fit it easy.
“Guess that’s why you’re so confident all the time, right?” You giggle nervously, and Dean raises his brows.
“Excuse me?”
“Just if- If I had- That-“
“You mean a big dick?” He drawls, and you flush.
“Um. Yeah.” You turn your face into the pillow, trying to hide. “Shut up.”
He laughs, guiding your face back up as he leans down. Dean kisses you slowly, and you hum dazedly into his lips. He starts to drag his thickness up and down your soaked cunt, and your mouth falls open in a loud moan.
“You’re so fuckin’ cute.” He mutters. “My girl.”
“Yours.” You echo, and he grins.
“Can we try something, baby? You trust me?”
“Mmmm,” you mumble, mostly thinking about the friction he’s giving, the pleasurable shock every time his dick bumps your clit.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You breathe, and Dean smirks.
“Good girl.”
Then he’s gone again. Your fluttering eyes shoot open, and you try to reach up but he slams you right back down. Pinning you to the mattress as he sits on his knees, watching you drink him in a slowly stroking his cock.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do.” He drawls, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “You’re gonna tell me exactly what you want me to do to you, then I’m gonna make you cum until you can’t even talk.”
You gape at him. “Wha- What-“
“You’re so smart, princess.” He taps your clit, and your breath hitches. “Talk.”
“Dean, don’t tease-“
“Not teasing. I’m dead fuckin’ serious.” He gives you a stern look. “You don’t tell me what you want, you don’t cum.”
You glare at him, and he just shrugs. He’s still pumping himself with thick, long strokes, and you’d kill him if you didn’t feel like a firework only he could set off.
“Touch me.” You grumble, and he gives you a flat, amused look.
“How.”
“I- I don’t know- With your hands- Oh-“
Dean’s thumb starts to rub around your clit, and your let out a shaky breath. The gleam in his eyes tells you all you need to know. You listen, you get a reward.
“Touch me there.” You breathe, nervous and breathy. “Keep- Keep doing that, Dean- Ooh-“
He snorts as you hug yourself, pressing his thumb directly down and making you squeak.
“Fuck-“
“You’re bad at this.” He observes, and you reach up to whack his forearm.
“I’ve never done it before, dick-“
“So I’m givin’ you a new skill-“
“You’re making me insane.” You whine. “Just- Just fuck me, Dean, it shouldn’t be that hard!”
“Yeah?” He grins down at you, letting go of his dick to rub your thigh. “Big words from the girl who’s not gonna do any of the work.”
You stick out your tongue, and he laughs.
“I knew you liked being a little cockslut, dripping just thinkin’ about taking me, probably gonna call me daddy and beg-“
“Shut up-“ Face burning, you kick his chest, and Dean catches your ankle, kissing it before moving it back to the bed.
“Well if it’s so easy, I should be guessing right-“
“I just want you to fuck me stupid, Dean!” You shout, the words desperately pouring out of you. “Just- Just take your hands and toss me around, use me and- and kiss me and touch me- Fuck-“
He’s rubbing your clit again, eyes almost black with desire. You push on, grabbing his arm to keep focus.
“Use- Use your fingers and make me cum on your hand.” You breathe out. “Then- Then flip me over and fuck me- Fuck me until I can’t talk, fuck me stupid, Dean, please-“
Your words fall off in a moan as Dean rubs faster, leaning down over your body.
“You want me to talk?” He rumbles, and you nod.
“Talk- Talk the whole time- Oh my god-“
“Tell you how good you’re doing for me?” He mutters, a finger teasing over your entrance. “How good your pussy feels, how crazy you make me, what a perfect fuckin’ girl you’re being when you take my cock-“
“Yes.” You whine, pussy squeezing as he presses that finger slowly inside of you. “Yes, fuck, yes-“
“You want it rough?” He pumps slowly in and out, his thumb still working your clit. “Wanna feel me? Be fucked like you deserve?”
You nod, babbling agreements. He drags lightly against your g-spot and you let out a shuddering gasp, scratching at his shoulders. Dean groans, adding a second one, pushing them knuckle deep and scissoring the thick digits inside you.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ He’s kneading that gooey spot, and you’d already been wound so tight. “Dean, oh my god- Yes-“
“And where am I gonna cum, princess?” He coos in your ear, setting a shallow, deep pace with his fingers. They open you up and massage your pussy until it’s fluttering, until there’s a fuse burning your tummy that needs to be lit, that needs Dean to light it-
“Inside.” You breathe. You need more of him. All of him. “Want you to cum inside Dean, God, please-“
He moans—fully moans—and rubs your clit in furious, tight circles as he kisses you.
“Knew you could do it.” His thumb flicks as he presses your g-spot, and you whine. “Cum for me, baby girl, show me what you’ve got-“
Your release hits you with a scream of Dean’s name, making your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. Dean groans, twisting his hand so his palm is flat against your clit, rubbing and pressing down until you’re trembling and trying to shove him away.
“Look at you.” He says under his breath, like he’s admiring some sort of art. “Look at you, so goddamn sexy, making such a mess on my hand. Bet you’re gonna look even better, getting wrecked on my dick.”
“De- Dean-“
“I know.” He mutters, pulling his fingers fully out. “Soon. I’ll fill you up nice and pretty, fuck you ‘till you can’t think. It’s gonna feel so good, sweetheart. This tight fuckin’ pussy, strangling me while you beg.”
He lands a sharp hit on your pussy, and you barely get out a broken plea before he’s grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your stomach. You squeal, scrambling for a grip on the sheets as Dean drags your ass into the air.
“Such a mess.” He hits your pussy again, and you press your cheek into the mattress, panting as heat floods your body. “Greedy little pussy, don’t even gotta do much to get you ready for me. No,” he pushes his fingers back inside of you, the angle letting his knuckles massage your g-spot. “Basically fuckin’ begging for it, trying to fuck yourself on my fingers. Dirty girl.”
You hadn’t even realized you were doing that. Fucking back onto Dean’s hand, ass wiggling in the air as his free hand soothes down your spine. You’re shaking, but already ready for more, the sensitivity from the first orgasm building you back up.
“Deeean-“ You whine, spreading your knees wider. “More, need more, please-“
“Ah. Just feel this.” He yanks his fingers out, spanking your clit three sharp times before shoving his fingers back in. “You asked me to touch you, I’m touchin’. Touching you real good.”
He starts to knead your g-spot again, kissing slowly up and down your spine.
“Want you to come for me again, baby girl.” He mutters, lips wandering over the curve of your ass, then your thighs. “You’re gonna cum until you can’t stay up, then I’m gonna fuck you. Alright.”
You nod, but there isn’t something he could ask you that you’d say no to right now. “Oh- Okay.”
“Awesome.” Dean sucks on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, pushing you higher in the air. “Hold onto something.”
Your hands fist in the sheets, right before his sinful mouth latches onto your clit.
You almost scream. Dean starts to make out with the bundle of nerves like it can kiss him back, shifting below you until you’re almost sitting on his face. His fingers keep grinding down onto your g-spot as his tongue flicks back and forth, your button sucked between his soft lips, and you push your hands into the sheets, almost unable to take the pleasure.
“Dean- Dean- I- I’m gonna- Fuck-“
A sharp spank lands on your ass before grabbing a handful of the fat and shoving you fully down. You cum with a scream of Dean’s name, the pleasure rolling through your body like a wave.
But he doesn’t stop.
Dean keeps you trapped against his face, working you so hard you see starts, then other universe. His stubble burns against you and it’s perfect, his tongue moving so relentlessly—in tight little kitten licks, working you into a blind frenzy—and the feeling to overwhelming you can’t even remember how to close your mouth. Dean drags you on his face when you try to pull away, chuckling against your pussy, and the vibration is too much.
This time when you cum, you’re shaking and boneless. You think you might be about to cry, but maybe that’s just how hot this is.
He still isn’t stopping, and you might be in heaven. Blissful and dumb from pleasure, just a fuck doll in Dean’s big, careful hands.
You’re about to cum again, and you didn’t know you could do twice, let alone four times.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “Can’t- Can’t do it again-“
Dean grunts, lifting you over his head. “Yes, you can.”
He yanks his fingers out, rubbing your clit quickly before flipping you back over. You blink up at him, the coil in your stomach burning to snap. You’re so cockdrunk and dazed you almost don’t feel it at first.
Dean’s cock, slowly pushing into you.
When it hits you, he’s already got the thick head inside. You mewl, trying to cover your chest as he presses in deeper, but Dean grabs your wrists and pins them next to your head.
“Let me see you.” He mutters, sounding just as wrecked as you are. “Wanna watch you. So pretty, fucking crying for me.” He leans down, kissing your cheek, and you sob with delight. “Feels good, doesn’t it. So- Shit-“ You clench around him, and he hisses. “So fuckin’ good.”
“Good.” You repeat, just trying to stay conscious as Dean drags through your oversensitive, abused pussy. “So, so good, Dean, so fucking- Ooooh-“
He bottoms out, and you could swear you feel him up your spine and in your mouth. You’ve never been so full before, never had someone hit so many sensitive spots inside of you, and it lights you up like a summer sky.
Your eyes cross, as the almost peaceful orgasm blooms from your womb to your lips. You smile up at Dean, twisting to tangle your fingers together, and he swallows.
There’s a soft shine in his eyes. Pure, utter affection as he watches you come undone around him. It even moves into his voice, all the teasing and dominant command coated in devotion.
“You’re so beautiful.” He murmurs, bowing over you until there’s no telling where you stop, and he ends. “Feel that, baby?” He gives a long, lazy roll of his hips, and you gasp. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s you, takin’ my cock. Just like I said you could.” He kisses you, repeating the motion. “Good girl.”
You pant, grabbing his bicep as he fucks slowly into you. He mutters low praise in your ear, bullying your pussy open with every thrust. You’d asked for it rush, but this is better. You feel priceless. You feel like Dean’s.
“Breathe.” He reminds you, and you take a stuttered gasp. “Good job, princess. Don’t want you passing out on me. Need to see those pretty eyes when I cum inside of you,”
You moan, body moving in a mindless rhythm with his, and Dean grins.
“Yeah, I’m gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Make this pussy mine, let it drip out, show everyone who fucks you so good.”
“You.” You whimper out. “You, Dean, ‘s you- Fuck-“
“Damn right it is.” He grunts, dropping his hips so he hits your g-spot even better. “You’re my girl, never gonna let you think anything else again.”
You nod, your breathing getting short and desperate. The room is filled with the wet sound of his dick sliding in and out of you. Your body is slick with heat and Dean’s kissing every inch of it he can reach. Grabbing and squeezing soft skin until you’re sure you’ll be covered in handprints and finger-shaped bruises in the morning, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
Not as his cock drives deep into your with every, precise thrust.
Dean kisses you, dragging his tongue over your upper lip, and your pussy flutters.
Oh. God. “Dean, I- I think-“
“I know.” He grunts, like he’s just attuned to that. “You can do it, baby girl.”
“No- No-“
“Yes.” Dean kisses the tears, streaming down your cheeks from overstimulation. “Do it for me, come on. Just feel it, let it happen. Bet it’s good, isn’t it. Nice and sweet, right here.”
He presses down on your pelvis, right over where the fire is building. You sob with pleasure, and Dean grins.
“That’s right, there it is, come on-“
You cum like you were struck by lighting. Every muscle in your body seizes, the pressure where Dean’s pressing breaking like a damn. You gush and squeeze around his cock, arching off the bed like you’re trying to take flight, and Dean drops over you with a shameless moan.
“Fuck- Fuck yeah-“ He presses his face into your neck as you milk his dick. “Holy- Christ-“
Thick spurts of Dean’s release fill you up. They’re hot, and you hug Dean’s head, whimpering in his ear as you take them. He’s kissing your shoulder, but it’s unmeasured and desperate, and you’re sure you’re having the same control issue right now.
The feeling is so consuming you can’t think of anything but Dean. You’re saying his name like a prayer, as he ruts into you, sloppy and desperate. Neither of you really come back to earth, as your orgasms fade. Dean just slumps over you, cradling your body in his arms, and you smile at the ceiling, completely fucked out.
“Shit.” Dean rasps, and you giggle.
“Yeah.”
“You know you could squirt?”
You shake your head, and he grins against your neck.
“Awesome.”
His cock twitches inside of you, and you hit his shoulders.
“Dean, oh my god-“
“Not now.” He groans, rolling onto his back and hauling you with him. “But later, right?” He gives you a hopeful, almost boyish look.
Like you might reject him while he’s still fucking inside of you.
“Cause I meant it.” He adds quickly. “Everything before, uh- This. Meant every word, promise, and- You can hit me or something, if that makes you feel better-“
You lean down, taking his sweet, dumb face between your hands and kissing him. Dean hums in surprise, but kisses you back immediately. One hand slides through your hair, the other up your spine, but he lets you lead. Looks up at you with a drunken smile when you pull away, like you’re some kind of god.
“I don’t want to hit you.” You say, tracing his tattoo.
He nods quickly. “Good. I mean- for me-“
“But you have to ask me out for real.” You give him a firm look. “And take me on a nice date.”
“I can do that.” He grins. “And then… You’re my…”
He trails off. Lets you fill in the space.
You think he got it right, just like that.
“Yeah,” you smile. “But you’re mine, too.”
And there’s nothing on Dean’s face that tells you he’s going to argue with that.
✦End note: im drooling. i know most of you prob dont read my main dean series, but every day i dream about getting to the end and just making him old and happy. very normal about how i want this old ass man.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦
✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
previous chapter | series masterlist I next chapter
artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: matt is hiding something.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, canon-typical violence, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
word count: 2.5k
The week afterward felt strangely domestic. Somewhere along the line, you and Matt had begun to slip into routines without noticing.
You woke up in his bed more often than your own now. Your shampoo sat permanently in his shower. One of your sweaters lived draped over the couch. Most evenings found you curled up somewhere in the penthouse with your laptop meanwhile Matt worked.
One night you fell asleep editing photos in bed and listening to music only to wake briefly sometime later when Matt carefully removed your laptop from your lap. You made a sleepy sound immediately. He laughed softly under his breath. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”
You blindly reached for him anyway. And Matt immediately climbed into bed, just because you wanted him there. Hopeless man.
But sometime around midweek he started acting weird.
At first it was subtle. A phone call he took in another room. A package delivery he intercepted suspiciously fast before you could investigate. Then later that evening, Matt disappeared for nearly two hours claiming he had an errand.
You noticed because Matt usually wasn’t secretive with you anymore. Not really. He told you about his day. About cases, or as much as he was allowed to anyways. About the new junior associate who was driving him and Foggy insane.
The sudden weirdness stood out immediately. Especially because he was bad at hiding things from you now. Which was deeply funny considering he’d once seemed so emotionally unreadable to you.
Thursday night you came just in time to catch Matt hanging up from a call and tossing his phone on the kitchen counter the second you walked in.
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “…Matt.” Matt smiled at you. “Yes, sweetheart?”
“What was that?” You started toward him, and Matt sidestepped around the island as your eyes narrowed.
“I’m working.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
He crossed the kitchen, pressed a distracted kiss to your forehead, and headed back toward his office. As if that settled things. You watched him disappear down the hallway suspiciously.
Hmmm. Maybe it really was work-related? A case. Something serious. Matt did get strange and withdrawn sometimes when work overwhelmed him. The last time he’d been buried in a case he’d spent three days pacing the apartment at odd hours and taking calls in a hushed but strained tone. So you stopped pushing.
Mostly.
Still… Every once in a while you caught him 'looking' at you oddly that week. Thoughtful. Distracted. As if he was turning something over in his head, and then the expression would disappear before you could ask about it.
Your shift had run late again.
By the time you finally made it back to Matt’s penthouse, your feet hurt and your hair smelled faintly like smoke and citrus from the bar. All you wanted was a shower, Matt, and sleep. Preferably in that order.
You stepped out of the elevator already talking. “If one more person asks me to make a smoked manhattan five minutes before close, I’m throwing hands.” Silence. You frowned immediately. Usually Matt answered right away, especially when he knew you were coming home.
You slipped your shoes off near the entryway and glanced farther into the penthouse. The lights were low. Soft music drifted quietly from the vinyl console. And Matt... Matt stood near the living room looking composed in a way that meant he was absolutely anything but. Arms crossed. Trying to act casual and failing miserably.
Your eyebrows furrowed instantly. "Matt?"
“Hi sweetheart.”
“Why do you look nervous?”
“I don’t look nervous.” Liar. You took another step into the apartment slowly. Then, somewhere nearby, you heard a tiny little “mrrp?”
You froze, face scrunching up in confusion. Then another tiny meow echoed from the living room. Your head whipped toward the sound so fast you almost got dizzy.
And emerging from beside the couch- Oh. Tiny. Fluffy. White. The smallest Persian kitten you had ever seen toddled unsteadily across the hardwood floors toward you, enormous round eyes blinking sleepily beneath a cloud of impossibly thick fur.
And around her neck was a velvet bow. Your hand flew over your mouth instantly. Oh my god. The kitten let out another tiny chirping meow and stumbled directly toward you like she already knew you. You made the most embarrassing sound of your entire life. The kitten reached your feet and looked up at you with huge eyes. Then sneezed. You actually started tearing up. “Oh my god, Matt.”
Matt was trying SO HARD to play this cool. You could hear it in the careful way he answered, “Surprise?”
You dropped to the floor instantly. The kitten climbed clumsily into your lap like she belonged there. Like she’d chosen you immediately. You gathered the tiny fluffy thing carefully against your chest while staring at her in complete disbelief. “She’s so little,” you whispered. The kitten immediately tucked herself beneath your chin and you nearly died on the spot.
Matt’s entire posture softened listening to you. “You said once you always wanted a cat,” he said quietly. You looked up at him with watery eyes. Then, because the universe clearly wanted to finish you off completely, you noticed the rest of the apartment. Suddenly you were seeing it everywhere. The cat tree near the massive windows. Not some ugly carpeted thing either. No. Of course not. This was Matthew Murdock. The cat tree was absurdly beautiful, sculptural pale wood and cloud-shaped platforms. It looked like modern art.
There was a plush cat bed near the couch that looked softer than your actual mattress. Tiny ceramic bowls sat near the kitchen. Handmade. Obviously expensive. And next to them? A neatly stacked delivery box labeled with some artisanal fresh pet food service. Your jaw dropped slowly. “…You got her a subscription?” Matt looked defensive immediately. “She needs balanced nutrition.” You stared at him and he cleared his throat. “She also has insurance.”
“MATTHEW.”
Matt finally cracked and laughed softly beneath his breath. And yeah... This wasn’t impulsive. This man had planned this, for weeks if his behavior lately was any indication.
You looked back down at the tiny white kitten purring weakly against your chest, velvet bow slightly crooked now. Then back at Matt. “You went completely overboard.” He walked over slowly before crouching beside you on the floor. His hand brushed gently through the kitten’s fur once. “She deserves nice things.” Your chest squeezed painfully. Because he wasn’t just talking about the cat. You knew that. The kitten immediately climbed from your lap directly onto Matt’s knee. Traitor.
Matt looked unbearably pleased about it.
You stayed on the floor for almost twenty minutes. Maybe longer. Time stopped mattering the second the kitten curled up against your chest and started purring.
You sat cross-legged on the rug while the kitten explored your lap and the sleeves of your sweater with tiny clumsy paws. Matt stayed beside you the entire time. Soft eyed in that dangerous way he only got with you. Eventually the kitten attempted to climb your shoulder and immediately got distracted by your hair instead.
You laughed softly. “Oh my god, she’s insane.” Matt’s hand brushed absently along your back. “She takes after somebody.” He smirked faintly.
Before you could feign offense the kitten let out another tiny chirping sound, before curling herself into the center of your lap again like she’d decided she lived there now. “She’s so beautiful,” you whispered. Matt hummed softly beside you. “I'm sure she is.” Then quieter, “Thought you’d like her.”
You looked over at him immediately. That careful tone. Like despite the luxury cat furniture and the apparently preplanned vet appointment and the tiny velvet bow, part of him had still been nervous you wouldn’t love it. Oh. Your expression softened instantly.
“Matt,” you said quietly, “I love her.”
Matt’s shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly. The kitten suddenly flopped dramatically onto her side in your lap. Tiny pink paws in the air. You nearly cried again. “She’s a princess.”
Matt snorted softly. “Yeah, I noticed.”
You glanced around the penthouse again slowly. At the cat tower. The bowls. The bed. “She has a better apartment setup than I do.” Matt looked entirely unashamed. Then the realization finally hit. Your smile faded slightly as you looked back down at the kitten. "Matt, my apartment doesn’t allow cats.” The words came out quieter than you intended. Matt answered instantly. “She can stay here.” You both froze slightly afterward. Matt realized it about half a second too late. You looked up slowly, and he suddenly seemed very interested in petting the kitten. “Matt…”
His hand paused briefly against the kitten’s tiny back. Then he exhaled softly. “You’re here most of the time anyway.” Your chest tightened immediately. Matt still wouldn’t look directly at you. And somehow that made this feel even more vulnerable. “I just…” he started quietly. Then stopped and tried again. “It feels empty when you’re not here.”
Oh. Your entire heart melted. Matt finally looked at you then and there was something almost uncertain in his expression now beneath all the usual confidence. Not fear exactly. Just honesty. Raw honesty. And Matt only ever gave that to a handful of people in the world.
You reached for him immediately. Matt came closer just as fast. Your free hand slid along his jaw while the kitten remained tucked in your lap between you both in a tiny family portrait. “You know,” you whispered softly, “normal people usually ease into the moving in conversation.”
Matt huffed out a quiet laugh. “Technically the cat moved in first.” You burst out laughing immediately. The kitten startled slightly at the sound before climbing directly into Matt’s lap again. Then shecurled up against his stomach like she belonged there too.
Matt looked down at the tiny fluffy thing resting against him and something in his entire expression changed. Softened. Warm. You stared at him helplessly. “That’s your daughter now technically.” Matt looked back up immediately while a grin spread slowly across your face. “Yeah. You’re definitely attached already," you added.
Matt rubbed one careful finger beneath the kitten’s chin while pretending he wasn’t emotional about this at all. “She’s growing on me.”
The kitten let out another tiny sleepy chirp and you melted instantly. "We have to name her.” Matt nodded once. “You got ideas?” You looked down thoughtfully at the tiny white fluffball sprawled across both of your laps. You smiled softly, "Daffodil." The corner of Matt’s mouth lifted immediately.
“And Dilly for short,” you added quietly.
Matt repeated it once under his breath, testing how it felt. “Dilly.”
Sleep was a rare privilege for Matt. One he'd seldom had for most of his life. Not deeply.
Not the way you did beside him now, curled beneath his arm with your face half-hidden against his chest while snow drifted softly against the penthouse windows. The apartment was quiet. Warm. Peaceful in a way his life had almost never been.
And somewhere near the windows, Dilly slept curled in the ridiculous luxury cat tower Matt absolutely had not overspent on. The tiny bell on her collar gave the faintest little jingle every time she shifted in her sleep.
Matt could hear all of it. Your breathing. Your heartbeat. The kitten purring softly even while asleep. Home. The realization hit him suddenly and hard enough to ache. Home. Not the penthouse. You. You asleep against him with one hand still loosely tangled in his shirt. Your things scattered throughout the apartment. The tiny kitten currently living a life of luxury just because he wanted to make you smile.
Matt’s mouth curved faintly in the dark. You stirred slightly beside him with a sleepy little sound, pressing closer unconsciously. He immediately tightened his arm around you.
Then, far below the apartment, glass shattered. Three blocks east. Male voices. Raised and panicked. Someone yelling. Another crash.
For years, this would’ve been automatic. Out of bed. Suit. Mask. Gone. No hesitation. Matt went perfectly still. Beside him, you shifted in your sleep. A soft little sigh escaped you as you burrowed closer, pressing your face into his chest. His hand moved automatically into your hair. Slowly. Carefully. The strands slid between his fingers. Another crash echoed faintly through Hell’s Kitchen as Matt listened.
Three men. Maybe four. Young. Panicked. Smashing their way through a storefront. The old familiar pull tightened inside his chest.
Go.
Move.
Do something.
His fingers continued moving through your hair. You made another sleepy sound. Not even awake, just seeking him. Matt closed his eyes. Something in his chest twisted painfully. He could leave. He could be back before morning. Before you noticed. It wouldn't be the first time.
But another thought came just as fast now. He was exhausted, and he knew he wasn't focused enough tonight. What if something happened? What if he didn’t come back? You’d wake up alone in this bed. For maybe the first time in his life, Matt realized that the suit still only belonged to him, but the consequences did not.
His jaw tightened, and he reached for the phone in his nightstand instead. Three rings. A groggy voice answered. “Matt."
“You’re awake.”
“I wasn’t. What’ve you got?”
Matt listened. “Four guys. East Forty-Eighth. Hitting storefronts.”
Luke didn’t ask for more details. Didn’t ask why Matt was calling. When he finally spoke, his voice was different. Careful. “You calling me means you’re not already halfway out the window.” Matt tilted his head down toward you. Your heartbeat remained slow and steady. “No.”
Silence. A long one. Then, “Huh.” Luke sounded genuinely surprised. Matt huffed quietly. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything.”
“You are.”
“I spent the last five years telling your stubborn ass to call somebody else once in a while.”
Despite himself, Matt smiled. Another pause. Then his voice softened on the other end of the line. “Good.” Luke understood exactly what this call was. A choice.
Matt swallowed. “Can you handle it?”
He barked a laugh. “Handle it?”
“Luke.”
“I got it, Murdock.”
Relief loosened something in Matt’s chest. “Thanks.”
“You can thank me by staying where you are.” The line went dead.
Matt lowered the phone as the city continued moving outside. Sirens in the distance. Traffic. Life. But here, inside the apartment, everything was quiet again. His hand never left your hair. Your heartbeat and the tiny purrs from the cat tower the only sounds remaining.
And for a long moment he just lay there in the dark trying to understand the feeling in his chest. Something stranger than guilt. Like setting down a heavy weight after carrying it for far too long.
Beside him, you stirred lightly. Your eyes barely even opened. Sleepy. Warm. “Matt?” you mumbled. Matt immediately pulled you closer. “I’m here.”
You hummed softly at the sound of his voice before your hand slid lazily across his chest. Satisfied immediately. Then, “Love you.”
Half asleep. Barely conscious. You were already drifting away again before you’d fully finished saying them. But the words hit Matt like a physical blow.
Matt stared down at you in stunned silence as your breathing evened back out almost immediately. Oh. Matt looked away briefly as a smile pulled at his mouth.
Then finally, very carefully, he leaned down and pressed a kiss against your forehead. And in the dark, quiet enough that he wouldn't wake you, Matt whispered, “Yeah, sweetheart."
"I love you too.”
notes: i was so excited for you guys to finally meet Daffodil, aka Dilly.
looks like Matt is also finally listening to his vigilante buddies and delegating more
previous chapter | series masterlist I next chapter
artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: you visit matt on a busy day at work.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, canon-typical violence, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
word count: 2.6k
You’d learned quickly that lunch only happened for Matt under three conditions:
1. Foggy physically handed him food.
2. Karen threatened him.
3. You personally intervened.
Otherwise the man survived exclusively on coffee and spite.
Which was why you found yourself balancing Tupperware containers in a reusable bag on your shoulder while making your way through the familiar offices of Nelson & Murdock on a snowy Thursday afternoon.
Karen spotted you first and her entire face lit up. “Oh thank God.” You laughed immediately. “That bad?” Karen pointed toward Matt’s partly closed office door. “He’s been in lawyer mode since eight this morning.”
Uh oh. Foggy looked up from his desk with the exhausted expression of a man who’d spent hours arguing with Matt professionally and spiritually. “Please save him from himself.”
You grinned while lifting the bag slightly. “I brought lunch.” Foggy clutched his chest dramatically. “An angel among us.”
From behind Matt’s office door, his voice carried clearly. “I can hear all of you.”
You laughed helplessly while pushing the office door open. Matt sat behind his desk surrounded by open files and a braille reader, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, dark tie loosened slightly from what had clearly been a long day.
And unfortunately, he looked distractingly attractive. Your stomach flipped instantly. Matt’s attention shifted toward the sound of the door opening. Then softened the second he realized it was you. “There’s my sweet girl.”
Every single time. Every. Single. Time.
You smiled despite yourself while removing your coat after setting the food down on the corner of his desk. “Your coworkers told on you.”
Matt sighed. “Traitors.”
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I had coffee.”
You stared. Matt tilted his head slightly at your silence. “…That was apparently the wrong answer.”
You moved around the desk toward him slowly. Light flurries of snow floated softly past the office windows while the warm smell of food slowly filled the room. Matt leaned back slightly in his chair as you approached. Relaxing already. Like your presence alone eased something in him.
“I made lunch,” you informed him. Matt’s brows lifted slightly. “You cooked?” You shrugged, suddenly shy. “A little.”
Matt felt for your wrist gently the second you got close enough. Then tugged you carefully between his knees. Your breath caught softly. Even exhausted and distracted, he always reached for you.
His hands settled warm against your hips while he tipped his head back slightly toward you. “You’re spoiling me.”
“You spoil me constantly.”
“Correct.”
You laughed softly. Matt smiled faintly at the sound before leaning forward just enough to press a lingering kiss against your stomach through your shirt.
Your entire body warmed instantly. “Hi,” you whispered.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
You smiled helplessly before eventually escaping his grip long enough to unpack lunch across his desk. And Matt, to his credit, actually tried to focus on eating. For approximately six minutes. Then work swallowed him again. Calls. Emails. Case files.
You stayed sprawled comfortably on the office couch nearby while he worked, occasionally stealing glances at him while you quietly scrolled on your phone. Somewhere along the way this became a problem. Because Matt in lawyer mode was deeply sexy.
The kind of composed confidence that made grown men visibly nervous around him. Watched him loosen his tie farther absently while rereading notes. His voice. His hands. The rolled sleeves. The occasional muttered curse beneath his breath. You were in trouble. Or maybe he was.
Matt finally ended a particularly tense phone call with a tired sigh before rubbing a hand across his jaw. He seemed so tense.
Matt seemed to realize how quiet you'd been over the last few minutes. “…Sweetheart?”
Fuck it. You stood before you could think better of it, and crossed the office slowly while he listened to you move with growing confusion. “Are... Are you leaving?”
You didn’t answer. Instead you moved past him entirely toward the office door. Matt frowned slightly. Then listened as you calmly closed the door and locked it. The sharp click echoed loudly through the quiet office. Behind you, Matt inhaled once slowly. You turned back toward him.
“Oh,” he said quietly.
Your heart was absolutely pounding. Matt leaned back slowly in his chair while you approached. Like he already knew exactly where this was headed and was trying very hard not to encourage it.
Which would’ve been more convincing if his legs hadn't widened slightly to give you room. You stopped directly in front of him and his hands settled automatically against the arms of his chair. Restrained. Careful.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured again, lower this time, “what’re you doing?”
You reached for his tie slowly. Loosened it farther. Matt’s breathing changed instantly. “I spent the last hour watching you be all… lawyer-y,” you admitted softly.
Matt huffed out the faintest laugh. “Lawyer-y."
“It’s very attractive.” His grip tightened audibly against the chair arms. You leaned down slowly. Kissed him once, and then again. Slower.
Matt kissed you back immediately this time. Deep enough to make your pulse race. When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours. “You are trouble,” he murmured.
You smiled slightly. “And you’re really hot when you’re lawyering.” You licked your lips, a flush spreading across your cheeks. "I just wanna help you relax, baby." Matt actually closed his eyes for a second. Then your hands slid down his chest.
The second you sank slowly to your knees between Matt’s legs, you caught the sharp inhale he tried to hide. “Sweetheart,” he said carefully. Which was funny, considering he sounded anything but careful now.
You looked up at him through your lashes innocently while your hands slid slowly up his thighs. “Hmm?" You saw his throat move once and the office suddenly felt very small.
You leaned forward slowly, fingers brushing the buckle of his belt. Matt’s jaw flexed immediately, his head tipping back briefly against the chair. Like he was already praying for patience. Poor man.
You took your time undoing his belt deliberately slowly while Matt listened to every movement with growing intensity.
Then your fingers curled into the waistband of his unbuttoned slacks. You eased his pants down enough to free him slowly from his boxers. Matt was already hard, tip flushed and the smallest bead of precum gathering. Already breathing heavier than before.
And the look on his face when you wrapped your hand around him, Jesus Christ. Matt’s head tipped back with a quiet groan that went straight through you. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath.
Heat spiraled violently low in your stomach. You smiled a little. Then decided to be evil about it. So instead of taking him into your mouth immediately, you offered only slow strokes of your hand. Your thumb brushing slowly along him. Above you he was beginning to pant.
The sudden soft drag of your tongue along his length made Matt’s entire body tense visibly beneath you. “Sweetheart,” he whined quietly.
You looked up innocently again. “What?”
Matt stared down at you in disbelief. "You know exactly what.”
Maybe you did. A little. You let your tongue drag along him again slowly just to hear the shaky exhale Matt made in response. His hands were gripping the arms of the chair beside him hard enough that the plastic creaked faintly.
You smiled sweetly before finally taking him into your mouth. The groan that escaped him was low and wrecked and immediately rewarding. “There you go,” he breathed.
Your entire body warmed at the praise automatically. Matt’s hand found your hair carefully a second later. Not pushing. Just holding, like he needed the contact somewhere.
You took your time at first. Slow bobs of your head, tongue cradling his length gently. And Matt tried so hard to keep control. He really did. You could feel it in the way he restrained himself, the forced measured breathing and the tension in his thighs every time you swallowed around him.
But unfortunately for Matt you knew him too well now. Knew exactly what affected him. The gentle laps of your tongue. The soft sounds you made just to feel him react.
And every time he lost composure a little more, you felt warmer. Prouder. Wanted.
You hollowed your cheeks slightly just to hear what sound he’d make. Matt cursed immediately. "Ohh fuu-"
His hand tightened slightly in your hair with a subtle shift of his hips when you took him deeper.
You looked up at him again. Big mistake. Because Matt's head was already tilted down towards you. The sight of those broad shoulders, handsome face covered by the dark lenses, and slightly flushed cheeks made you moan around his cock.
Yeah. That did it. Matt’s control snapped visibly. His hand tightened carefully but firmly in your hair while his head tipped back with a rough groan.
Heat flooded your stomach instantly. And then before you could prepare, he thrust shallowly into your mouth once more. Testing. Your hands tightened on his thighs, a quiet whine in your throat.
His breathing turned ragged immediately afterward. Like even that tiny loss of control satisfied him. "You- You like this, don't you, princess?" You let out a pleased hum around him intentionally. Matt swore again.
After that he was almost mean about it. The rhythm turned rougher. Needier. Every few seconds another broken sound escaped him. Your name, a curse, a rough “such a good girl” that made your entire body ache.
Every shallow thrust into your mouth pulled another rough grunt from him, his breathing fully uneven now while his hand stayed tangled carefully in your hair.
You loved it. Loved seeing him like this. Loved watching polished, terrifyingly competent Matthew Murdock unravel in his office because of you.
You whined softly around him, only half intentional, and Matt’s entire body tensed. His head tipped back against the chair while he thrust deeper again, much harder this time, like he was losing the ability to think clearly.
“That mouth,” he muttered roughly. “Fuck, sweetheart…” His grip flexed in your hair. Desperate.
Heat rushed through you instantly. You moaned quietly again despite yourself. Matt’s eyes closed briefly. “There it is,” he rasped. “Pretty girl likes making me lose my mind?”
Your thighs pressed together automatically. Oh my god.
Matt was absolutely fucking your face at this point, half thrusting into your mouth and half pulling you down his length. “You have any idea what you do to me?” he grunted. You whimpered softly along his length in response and he groaned quietly. “Walk into my office so sweet-" a rough thrust. "Bring me lunch like a damn wife, then- then get on your knees-” He thrusts again, your nose pressing into his abdomen this time. You gagged around him and Matt nearly lost it entirely. “Fuck-"
His other hand slid from the arm of the chair briefly just to grip your throat gently instead, thumb raising to brush your bottom lip that was parted around him. “So pretty for me,” he said roughly. Your heart nearly stopped.
Then he thrust deeper again and his sudden choked whimper was strained enough to make heat flood low in your stomach. And then suddenly, he stopped. Completely.
You blinked up at him in confusion, lips parted slightly while Matt stared down at you breathing hard. Matt’s eyes closed briefly like he was physically forcing himself to think. Then, “C’mere.”
Before you could even react, Matt was already standing, large warm hands guiding you gently but firmly upright. He goes completely still when you complain softly about wanting him to finish in your mouth.
His hands tightened at your hips immediately, breath rough against your cheek while he stared at you like you’ve just said the most vulgar thing imaginable. And before you could laugh properly at that, he turned you toward the desk in one smooth motion.
Papers scattered. His braille reader slid off the desk.
You barely had time to brace yourself against the polished wood before Matt crowded in behind you, broad chest against your back, one hand flattening beside yours on the desk.
The other slid slowly up your thigh beneath your skirt, and stopped. A beat of silence. “...Sweetheart.” You bite back a grin immediately.
Matt exhales sharply through his nose, forehead briefly dropping against your shoulder like he’s physically suffering now. “You came to my office,” he says slowly, voice dangerously calm, “without panties on.”
You’re laughing a little now, flushed and breathless and absolutely unable to help yourself.
The polished lawyer facade finally disappears for good beneath pure need, his hands suddenly bunching your skirt around your waist. And when you make the mistake of whining his name softly, Matt’s hand comes up immediately, covering your mouth gently but firmly. Just enough to remind you: office.
You turn your face just enough to kiss the center of his palm instinctively. Matt goes still again behind you. Then laughs once under his breath. “Don’t start acting cute now,” he warned. “You lost that privilege when you showed up here to tempt me.”
Heat rushed through you instantly. There was no patience left in him at all. He slid home in one thrust, and the choked out cry you let out was muffled by his hand. The pace he set was immediate and needy, every movement pulling another muffled sound from you while the desk shifted faintly against the floor.
Matt swore softly beneath his breath. “Christ,” he muttered. “You feel-” A rough inhale. “Sweetheart-”
Your hands scrambled for purchase against the desk while Matt held you close with one arm wrapped tightly around your waist now, like he physically couldn’t stand even an inch of distance between you. His mouth found your neck immediately, desperately mouthing and nipping along the length of it.
The office felt too small now. Too warm. “So tight, fuck- my sweet girl,” he grunted.
Your entire body reacted to that. You clenched around him and white began to dance across your closed eyelids. Matt noticed instantly. “Oh, there it is,” he murmured softly. “That’s what got you?”
You whined against his palm and Matt nearly lost it again. “Fuck.” A rough thrust. “You like hearing you’re mine that much?”
The sound you made afterward was embarrassingly whiny. Matt buried his face briefly against your shoulder with a quiet groan that sounded almost tortured.
Eventually the pressure finally became too much for you. Your hands tightened hard against the desk as you came apart with a muffled cry against his palm. Matt swore immediately at the feeling of you shaking beneath him.
Then his head dropped to your neck again as he filled you with a muffled, drawn out groan against your skin.
For a long moment afterward, the only sound in the office was the shallow breaths and pants from both of you trying to breathe normally again. Matt stayed folded over you slightly, forehead against the back of your shoulder while his arms held you tight against him. Like he physically couldn’t let go yet.
Your entire body felt warm and heavy and pleasantly useless. Boneless. You made the tiniest weak sound while attempting to push yourself upright.
Matt reacted instantly. “Easy,” he murmured softly. There he was. The shift happened so fast every time. Desperate Matt disappearing, protective Matt rushing back in.
His hands slid carefully along your waist as he helped steady you, movements suddenly gentle again despite the complete loss of control he’d been displaying only seconds earlier.
You leaned back against his chest with another weak little hum. Matt froze. That sound apparently did something catastrophic to him. Because suddenly his hands were everywhere, checking your hips, your thighs, brushing your hair back carefully.
“You okay, princess?” he asked quietly.
You nodded immediately. Another soft hum as you smiled tiredly. “I’m okay.” Matt kissed the side of your head instantly anyway. Your cheek. Then your shoulder, needing to reassure himself physically.
The desk in front of you was an absolute disaster now. Papers everywhere. His phone somehow on the floor across the room. Matt’s braille reader was hanging halfway off the edge by the cord.
You stared at it weakly.
“…Oops.”
Matt tilted his head toward the office door. Then faintly from outside, “I’m just saying,” Foggy’s voice carried through the wall, “there is NO WAY they’re discussing case law in there.”
OH MY GOD.
You slapped a hand over your face instantly. Matt actually looked amused.
“Foggy.”
“Karen, come on. We all heard that desk move.”
notes: (slightly) mean silver fox matt has entered the building and he's sexy.
