✧･ﾟ:when he loves you—and he does—after care becomes just as intimate as the sex itself. He’ll spend a few minutes after you’re done laying over you, his face pressed between your breasts as he collects himself, and then he’s moving. Starting a warm bath and heating a towel to clean up the mess he left between your thighs, then carrying you into the steaming water and sitting on the lip of the tub as long as you let him. He gets water and sits you on the toilet after you rinse off, then carries you back to bed. You don’t protest—you couldn’t if you wanted, your thighs made of jelly and your head still a little dazed from the pleasure he wrung from your body—and press you face into his neck and letting him coax a little more food into your before you knock out in his arms.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
✧･ﾟ:if you ask Dean, he’ll say he loves all of you, but both of you know the truth. There’s nothing he loves more than your breasts. Big and bouncing when you ride him, or small and able to fit in the palm of his hand, it doesn’t matter. They’re soft and pretty, almost a toy for him to play with when he has you beneath him. He’ll mouth at them and roll your nipples between his fingers, watching almost obsessively the way your back arches into his touch. It make it easy for him say that his favorite body part is his hands. Anywhere else they’re weapons, coated in blood and dirt and grime, but on your body they’re tools, and he never apricates himself more.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
✧･ﾟ:dean loves to mark you up in any way he can. It’s possessive and dirty, but he’s past the point of caring about such things. If he can paint it over your stomach and tits, it’s a good day. A better one when he can smear it on your face, his sore cock twitching when you lick the excess off your lips. But nothing is better than spilling inside of your warm, wet heat. Watching the proof of your effect on him dribbling out of your little hole, down your ass and thighs, it makes him want to bury his face back against you, pushing himself into your with his tongue. If he’s lucky you’ll let him fuck you with slow lazy thrusts after you’ve both finished, making sure he’s driven it properly inside of you. His messy girl.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
You pretend you don’t know, but he’s not that good at hiding it. Your underwear doesn’t just grow legs and walk off by itself. Before you were dating, Dean used to steal it used, clenching your panties in one fist and beating his cock with the other. He’d smell that little wet spot and moan your name against the fabric, the arousal and need in his chest just managing to outweigh the shame. Once you’re together, you start just passing them into his hands without a word. The day you let him eat you out through your panties, then keep them after? One of the best of his life.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Dean’s the first to call himself a whore, as if it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. And it didn’t used to. Sex was for fun, to feel good, to forget about the pain and—for once in his damn life—do something useful for someone else. But after you, it’s different. The experience was just practice, just building up to this. To knowing exactly what women like, exactly what makes them feel good, and using his mastery to turn you into a pretty little puddle beneath him. He’s a champion, and you’re quickly the only game he wants to play.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
There isn’t really a position Dean doesn’t like—he can make anything feel good, and he takes pride in it—but his favorite position soars above the rest of the already high standard. When he’s got you in his lap, brows pressed together, mouth slack and easy to kiss, it’s close to heaven. Your boobs bounce and push against his chest, your ass wiggles in his massive palms, and your cunt hugs his cock just right at the angle. You can ride him until you get whiny, and he can pin you down and fuck up like an animal, watching your face go slack with pleasure, your eyes glazing over and tiny moans of his name falling from swollen lips. You cling to him, and he holds on back, keeping you just as close as you’ll allow.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Dean lets you set the tone, every time. He’s just happy to be there, and he can make anything work. If you need to be treated like lace, he’s serious and gentle, murmuring low praise and worshiping every inch of your body. If you fall into bed after a date or climb on top of him in the middle of a movie, he’ll tease and joke until you’re whining and glaring at him under lidded, glossy eyes. His shit eating grin won’t fall until you’re screaming his name, and it turns smug and proud. He knows you love it, when it’s easy. He loves it too.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
He tries to stay groomed, but life on the road makes it hard. Even when he gets to settle in the bunker for a week or two, shaving isn’t very high on the list of priorities. He does his face because a beard is hard to maintain, and basic maintenance around his cock to keep it clean, but not much else. The look of the tool doesn’t matter much. He knows how to use it right either way.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
When it was just hookups, he sometimes wouldn’t even bother to learn the right name to moan. It wasn’t about being vulnerable or romantic, it was about being a fleeting, passing ship that lent another some warmth. A shadow of intimacy, to stead over the gap in his chest from sinking too deep. But then he had you, and even when you’re play fighting before sex or giggling while he fingers you stupid, there’s a thin layer of adoration under every single kiss and touch. It’s rawer and sharper in the dead of night, when he cradles you in his lap and presses his face against your neck, or folds himself over your body and drives in with slow, torturous thrusts. He’ll never say it allowed, but that’s how he loves you. With a real good show and undying attention, whether the sex is rough or slow or quick in the bathroom, it’s all just to be close to you.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Sam used to joke about him taking long showers, but he had no idea. Dean tries to ignore his cock when it gets demanding—when you’d bend over in a skirt or brush past him in the hall—but he started feeling like a teenager with no damn control, and he’d storm into the bathroom to care of himself, quickly and brutally. It gets better after you start dating, but sometimes you have to be apart. Then old habits return, and he finds himself kicking Sammy out of the motel room just so he can pull out a picture of you and jerk himself off.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
There are more of them than he cares to count, but three stand out above the rest. There the only three that can still make Dean, of all men, blush.
Cockwarming until the sun comes up. Holding you around him until you’re dripping and wiggling and whining his name, until he’s so hard it hurts and ends up just rutting into you like a dog. It’s not the filthiness of the act that gets him, but the intimacy of it. You’re so close he can’t tell where he stops and you end, and it makes him so dizzy he almost loses control. He’d trade a life to keep you like that all the time. Soft and completely, totally his.
The first time you call him sir, he almost feels something in him shift. He’d always said he didn’t get that kind of shit—sex was supposed to be give and take, not just a girl doing everything for him—but then he had you below him, babbling the word by sheer accident, and his cock twitched like it had been jumpstarted. He liked it. He liked it too much. He’d follow you like a dog to the end of the earth, but right here, when he was making you feel good, he was the one in charge. He had a handle over the situation, you trusted him to be in charge of you like this, and that tiny whimper of sir made him lose his goddamn mind.
And the breeding kink he tries to hide. He’s not trying to baby trap you, or reduce you to just a body for him to knock up, but the idea of it makes his mouth water. Fucking you so good a little bit of him sticks. Forcing his cum into you until you’re stuffed up, your eyes rolling back in your head from the pleasure. Making you round and glowing with his baby, letting the whole world know just how well he treated you. You notice it, because you always do, and son of a bitch, you encourage him. You let him press his hand flat on your stomach so he can feel his cum spurting into your heat, you cling to his shoulders and moan when he asks if you like it, and he can’t help it. He wants you good and bred. He wants you to be his.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
He wouldn’t call himself an exhibitionist, but there aren’t many places he won’t do it. As long as it’s not a crime and you’re comfortable, the bathroom in a police station is as good to go as the kitchen in the bunker. However, there’s nothing he loves more than his bed. A good mattress, the sheets sticking to your skin, the smell of you all around him, it’s almost enough to get him hard all on it’s own.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
The list is so long, he stopped trying to understand it a long time ago. There are the simple things—your mouth around a banana, the curve of your ass, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, when you get mouthy and bratty and he wants to drag you over his knee or pin your to the wall—but then there’s… other stuff. The time you shoved him and spat in his face after a fight, and he was seconds from splaying you out on the table, squeezing your jaw with one hand and fingering you with the other, all while rutting against your leg like an animal, kissing away the drool when dribbled down your chin. The other time you drove baby for five seconds, and he made you pull over so he could eat you out in the backseat. He’s starting to think it might just be you. He doesn’t really care, either way.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
When he was younger, Dean would try anything once. The benefit of that is that now he knows what he really doesn’t love. He doesn’t get piss stuff or age play, but he doesn’t count himself one to judge. The one time he let a girl tie him up, he ripped his hands out of the bonds and had a knot in the top of his chest for a week after. Life is hard enough as it is, and as fun as a lot of that kind of stuff looks, there can be too many deep, serrated scars in him for it to feel good.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
While he’ll never say no to getting some head, the only sight better than you on your knees with his cock in your mouth is you flat on your back, grabbing at anything you can reach as he tongue fucks you into oblivion. He thinks he could live and die between your legs, your pussy gushing on his face and his name falling from your lips. And he’s good at it. He knows he’s good at it. He’ll shoot you a wink before he kisses his way down your body, because he knows you’re never even try to resist him. Once he convinced you to sit on his face, and he’d never known anything closer to heaven.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
He can read and match the tone well, depending on what you want. When he’s rough, he bullies his cock into your like a drill, making the bed creak and tears spring into your eyes from the almost overwhelming pleasure of being fucked over and over and over like some sweet little doll. When he’s slow, he’s slow, taking his time to make your feel every thrust, every kiss, every brush of his fingers over your clit. But even when he’s slow, he drives into you with the force of a man falling into a black hole. He can’t help himself. The way your gummy walls squeeze him just feels too good, to not make them clench and flutter around him.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
If you’d let him, Dean would just fill the whole day with quickies. Wake up and fuck you between the sheets, get breakfast then have a second meal between your thighs, interview a few vics and cradle your head while he drive, pulling off to the side when you suck his cock a little too well, and his vision starts to go blurry. Sometimes he’ll spend a whole day teasing you, just to try and get you to start it. It’s a great victory, if you drag him into a supply closet to bang one out. It’s all he’s ever wanted in the world.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Anything once really did teach him to know what he liked, so at this point it’s more indulging any risks you’d want to take. He knows his lines, and he’s more than willing to help you find yours. If you shyly ask him to tie you up or wrap a hand around your throat or fist you, he’d have to be a madman to tell you no.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Even at his age, Dean counts himself impressive. He might not be pulling the day long marathons he did in his twenties, but he can go the whole night if he keeps the focus on your pleasure, which he finds easy to do. If you make him cum in your mouth or hands, he’ll dedicate as long as he needs to teaching you a few lessons and opening you up, before he’s hard and ready to go again. Once he’s in you, though, he’s no chump. He can hold himself off for over an hour on the best of nights. Sure, there were the few cases when you were just too soft and pretty and he couldn’t stop himself, but you found it hot anyway. The loss of control, just from looking at you, you’d never felt more beautiful. And it wasn’t like he didn’t make it worth your time.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
He’s tried a few toys on himself, but they’re all complicated, and he lives with his damn brother. Knowing each other’s porn habits is bad enough, the idea of sex toys getting exposed makes him feel a little sex. He’s got a perfectly good hand, and a hot girlfriend, and that’s all he’s never going to need. If you want him to pull out that vibrator you keep in your nightstand, though, he’s never going to protest. Watching you come apart—your thighs rolling against the head of the toy and your mouth hanging open—is always too good an opportunity to pass up. The toy might be the one giving you the pleasure, but Dean’s the one holding it. He’s the person you’re crying for when you cum, and he usually gets to fuck your already swollen pussy after. Doesn’t get much better than that.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Some might call him a monster. And the some is you. You didn’t know how much you could get worked up, until Dean came around and showed you. Through the day he’ll make you flush with little comments, then trace his fingers over your inner thigh in the car, making you flush and pant before he just kisses your cheek and walks away. And you thought that was bad, until he actually got his hands on you, and you learned how much the asshole loves edging. Getting you so wet and flustered your almost sobbing for him, whispering dirty praise until your face is burning, somehow keeping you on the edge with teasing touches, even as his cock drives right into that gummy spot inside of you. He says you’re too adorable not to tease. You roll your eyes, but never ask him to stop. It’s always, just a little, too good.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
The mouth on him should be worthy of a lawsuit. Between the moaning and grunting, the strangled, rumbling sound he makes when he pushes himself inside of you, and the deep, filthy dirty talk, you think you might just be able to cum from his voice. It’s not fair, but Dean doesn’t play fair, and you don’t want him to. One day, when you’re brave, you’ll ask him to test the theory. He’ll oblige, and you’ll certainly end up right.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Dean’s never in it for himself. If his partner wants him to hand over control, he’ll do it, but it’s never going to be what he prefers. He spends every day of his life begging for the people he loves to listen to him, for once in their damn lives. He’s got a grip over his own world, even if his hands shake on the worst of nights. It’s not liberating for him to be degraded in sex when all he’s known is bruises and spit from the people who were supposed to love him. He wants to be trusted more than he’s ever going to be able to say, to be the only person you turn to for pleasure, to take his hands and mouth and body and have them feel safe for just one, one fucking person. He might be in control during sex, but it’s still all about you, and that’s exactly how he likes it.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
He doesn’t get his confidence from nowhere. For a while—before you—it was sort of the only kind of confidence he had. Dean didn’t count himself for much, but no one could deny their own eyes. The size of him is one thing—long enough to hit spots you didn’t know you had, veiny and uncut and almost pretty—but the girth- It makes your mouth fall open, the first time you see it. You’re not sure you can stretch that wide, and when Dean tells you that you will, sweetheart, you almost roll your eyes. But, damn him, he’s right. You mold around that thick, big cock like a glove, and feel him in every inch of your body.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
If anything, he only gets worse with age. In his younger days, fucking was something he could work himself up to almost any day of the week, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to an hour ago. A pretty girl and a good drink, the engine could get itself going. Then you came along and made him feel things, and then he let you get close and start making him eat well and drink water and go for stupid walks, and suddenly there isn’t a second that’s enough. If life didn’t get in the way, he’d never let you leave the bed.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
He’ll push through the exhaustion for some proper aftercare, but the moment he’s sure you’re good, Dean’s out like a stone. He doesn’t sleep well under any other circumstance, but you work him hard, then let him use you like a human body pillow, and he finds the closest thing he knows to peace, right there, with you in his arms.
✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦
✦Author's Note: i think about him. all the time <3✦
Oh my🤯🤯🤯…Exact HCs i need in my guy..like not gonna edit even a bit..This was so good..my poor heart almost combusted and i had to drink a full glass of iced water coz of the 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
Ps-i miss you more Thea…🩷🩷..keep writing all this amazing stuff..sooner or later i will devour the pending reads and your page will be spammed🤭
Fandom: Dhurandhar. Word count: 2635. Ship: Hamza Ali Mazari / Jaskirat Singh Rangi + Reader (F). Rating: Mature. Status: Complete PERIOD CARE One-Shot. Some things might not be accurate as this is my personal interpretation.
P — Planning & Protocol [The Mental Approach]
Hamza:
HE TAKES IT very seriously and obsessively tracks your cycles. Not in a weird way, but to check your mood and health, and you'll log each week on a shared application. If your periods are irregular, he takes care of it and asks questions too, "Iss mahine nahi aaya? It's okay, wait karte hain." [Did your period not come this month?]
Or if your dates are near, he would pull you close against his chest and ask, "Kaisa mehsus ho raha hai?" just to ensure you're feeling well during PMS. [How are you feeling?]
I also think he would stack period essentials in the bathroom like a fresh stack of panties and pads, or tampons, or cups—whatever you use. Painkillers and vitamins are neatly organized if you're lacking in them. Otherwise, the house is always filled with high-protein and calcium meals, fresh fruits, and fibers and of course, how can he forget sweets.
Jaskirat:
Maybe not as obsessive as Hamza, but he does ask if the dates are near so he'd start preparing. Not so different than Hamza, he'd stack fresh pads and essentials as well, as he knows exactly what his sisters go through.
Before your periods even hit, he'd wrap his solid arms completely around you, holding your frame tight against him for weeks, and say things like:
"Main yahi rahunga aapke saath."
[I'll be here with you.]
Since he lives in a village-like area, buying stuff could be a little harder, but since he's in the military, he does buy everything you need ahead of time. Whether it's the right cleaning stuff or heavy-duty medications to combat the worst of your cramps, he makes sure his territory is fully stocked for his queen.
E — Evaluation & Detection [How They Notice]
Hamza:
The very first time he noticed would be entirely quiet for him. Maybe you are wrapped tight in a blanket, or sitting in the bathroom with blood pooling between your legs, completely overwhelmed. He would just walk up to you, your small frame casting a delicate shadow, and lift your face gently in his massive hands.
His eyes would scan your pouty expression, and he'd kiss your forehead softly, whispering:
"Aap theek ho, meri jaan. Aapko kuch nahi hoga."
[You're fine, my love. Nothing will happen to you.]
Because what else could he say? It is not like he can magically fix your biology or fight the cramps with raw force, so he does the next best thing: he holds you tightly in his arms. That very first time, he would ask you absolutely everything about how you feel, how severe your cramps get, and how often you bleed, logging every detail into his brain so he can track it perfectly for the future.
He would look deep into your eyes and promise:
"Hum saath hain. We'll go through this together."
He says it so you never have to feel alone or broken in his presence. After that first instance, on a regular basis, he notices it effortlessly. Between his tracking and the subtle shifts in your behavior around him, he doesn't need you to say a word. He'll just smile slightly; that rare, soft expression reserved only for you, knowing his jaan needs his care and protection.
Jaskirat:
Okay, hear me out—I think the first time him noticing you would be shy. Not because he is weird or anything; he has sisters and he has taken care of them before, so the biology of it brings a sense of familiarity. But seeing his love go through this: noticing you changing pads, or spotting a sudden red stain on your salwar or pants; makes his heart do a sudden, heavy flip.
He would instantly think it’s a level of vulnerability that is almost too intimate, a private boundary where he isn't quite allowed to be that close to you just yet.
But again, that fleeting shyness wouldn't ever override his roaring protective instincts. He would slowly but carefully step in to help you, his frame guiding you gently at the bathroom door, or standing right beside you to help you carefully wash the stain out of your fabric.
He’d look down at you, his hand coming up to gently rub the back of your neck while you bury a shy, flustered smile against his chest, his voice softening:
"Bata diya karna aisa hone wala hai. Tere siva kon hai mere naal?"
[Tell me, this is how it's going to be. Who else do I have except you?]
After that first hurdle is crossed, the shyness completely evaporates. From then on, you would either tell him directly or his mind would mentally anchor your dates. He’d constantly check in, peppering you with protective questions about whether you’re feeling well or if the cramps are starting, so he can immediately kick his preparation into overdrive for his girl.
R — Reaction & Reassurance [Their Immediate Response]
Hamza:
That man doesn't care. He has been bathed in his own and his enemies' blood for years; it is just a liquid to him at this point. Though, he still feels bad because period blood isn't born of violence—in fact, his mind thinks it is the only form of blood that is truly pure in his dark world. Because of that, he would never be squeamish about it, and he would never make you feel awkward or uncomfortable.
But when he does physically see the dark blood stains or clots left behind in the bathroom, a deep, silent ache twists in his chest. He hates that something inside you is causing you pain that his raw physical power cannot fight. Pulling your frame back against his massive chest, he’ll wrap his large arms completely around you, resting his chin on your shoulder as a low, heavy sigh rumbles from his throat:
"Kaash main kuch kar pata... Lekin main aise hi tumhe sambhale rahunga. Itna toh kar hi sakta hoon."
[I wish I could do something... but I'll just keep taking care of you. That's all I can do.]
Jaskirat:
He is in absolute awe. Yes, he has grown up seeing his sisters and mother suffering through this, and he has always harbored a deep, quiet reverence for how women can bleed so intensely every single month, yet remain so incredibly alive and strong. He could never in his wildest dreams imagine bleeding from between his own legs and surviving it.
Though, again, he deeply dislikes seeing you in pain. Because he knows he cannot physically fight the cramps for you, his protective radar goes into overdrive. He will regularly check on you, asking with a furrowed brow if you are experiencing heavy bleeding or if your pain levels mean he should immediately carry you to the doctor.
He really isn't disgusted by any of it, though true to his respectful nature, he offers you much more privacy during your clean-up than Hamza does. Holding your delicate face in his large hands, his voice thickens with an intense devotion:
"Iss lahu ki kimat main iss janam mein toh kya, kisi aur janam mein nahi chuka sakta.”
[I cannot repay the price of this blood not only in this life but also in any other life.]
I — Internal Thoughts [What They Honestly Think About Periods]
Hamza:
He thinks it's... okay. Not too bad, but not too good either. It is not too bad because, to his mind, this blood is pure—untainted by the violence of his world. But it is not too good because blood is still blood, and it physically hurts you.
Generally, his analytical brain recognizes that having a uterus simply brings so many structural problems, vulnerabilities, and hormonal tolls to a woman's body.
When it comes to you specifically, he thinks it is deeply beautiful and courageous of you to go through this cycle every single month. Yet, it cuts right through his iron-clad composure; it actively hurts him to see you in pain when his brute physical strength cannot intercept it.
He hates the rare feeling of helplessness, leaving him with no solution besides quietly offering you medications, keeping your fluids up, and wrapping you in his heavy, protective comfort.
Jaskirat:
He thinks it is straight-up brutal. To his young, passionate heart, it feels like an entirely unnecessary, unfair evolutionary design against women in general. He harbors an immense respect for you and his sisters for handling such intense physical distress so consistently and so well, but he also deeply recognizes the medical and physical complications that come with it.
Because of this grounded understanding, he refuses to romanticize the struggle or treat it like a poetic sacrifice. At the same time, his protective nature means he absolutely loathes baseless assumptions, outdated taboos, or cultural stereotypes surrounding periods.
If anyone in his village or circle tries to push backward logic or make you feel alienated during your week, he will shut it down with a terrifying anger. To him, your cycle deserves total dignity, accommodation, and care.
O — Operation: Pain Relief [How They Cure the Pain]
Hamza:
He is much more practical than emotional when the pain peaks. He’ll prepare warm baths infused with epsom salts or ready a hot pad for your stomach if your cramps are running high. With heavy, deliberate care, those hands will gently massage your lower stomach to relieve the seizing muscles, his long fingers trailing down to massage your aching thighs and hips to alleviate the deep pressure.
In the kitchen; he’ll prepare warm, nutrient-dense soups or rich curries if you want them, or whip up a thick cup of dark hot chocolate knowing how much you love it and how effectively it helps your body relax.
However, he has zero tolerance for stubbornness when it comes to your health. He would be deeply annoyed and quietly angry if you refuse to take your prescribed pain pills, leveling you with a sharp glare that brooks absolutely no argument—one that makes you ultimately swallow the medicine without another word.
After everything is taken care of, he’ll tightly hug your frame to sleep at night. If he stays awake in the quiet hours, his eyes will subtly check the sheets for any accidental leaks or spotting, handling it silently so you can rest undisturbed.
Jaskirat:
He would go completely all in, turning a routine cycle into a comfort operation. If you so much as ask for a simple pack of pads, he will take it as a green light to bring absolutely everything in one massive go—heating patches, snacks, and multiple options: simply because his protective mind convinces him you might need it all.
He acts as your personal, doting luxury therapist for the week. You’ll find him constantly sitting at the edge of the mattress, massaging your feet with steady strokes or gently warming your stomach with his wide palms. He refuses to let the atmosphere turn entirely grim, continuously whispering sweet nothings into your ear like "meri sohnni jaan," or "itni pyaari kyun ho?" between soft kisses, or cracking ridiculous jokes just to pull your laugh out through the pain.
[My beautiful love, why are you so cute?]
Unlike Hamza, he won't openly fight you if you stubbornly refuse to take your pain pills; instead, he’ll just nod smoothly, accepting your answer to keep you calm. He'd disappear for ten minutes. Come back with your favourite chai. Sits beside you.
Hold the painkiller in one hand.
"Mainu pata hai tussi mana karoge... par meri khaatir?"
["I know you'll say no... but for my sake?"]
D — Domestic Devotion [The Aftercare & Mood Management]
Hamza:
He is mostly silent throughout the shifts in your mood, but he is always right behind you like an unbreakable shadow. Even after the week of menstruation finally ends, his eye stays locked onto you, quietly tracking your steps around the house and asking if you are feeling completely fine now that the storm has passed.
During the worst days of your cycle, when the hormonal crashes hit and you get irritated, snappy, or outright scold him for some minor detail, his composure doesn't crack for a second. He takes your sharp words silently, absorbing your frustration without an ounce of ego or pushback.
It’s that very stoic silence that inevitably makes you feel terrible for snapping at him a few minutes later; you'll find yourself crawling onto his lap, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck, and crying into his shoulder out of sheer guilt. Hamza will just tighten his arms around you, his heavy fingers running gently through your hair as he reassures you in a grounding whisper:
"Koi baat nahi... main hoon na yahan."
[It's okay... I am here.]
He truly doesn't mind a single scratch of your temper; to him, being your safe space to unravel is part of his mission.
Jaskirat:
When your period finally ends, he treats it like a monumental achievement. He will basically celebrate the conclusion of the week like a massive, chaotic victory, throwing his hands in the air with a bright grin and cheering, "Hum jeet gaye!" as if the two of you just successfully survived a military deployment.
[We won!]
During the week, if the cramps make you highly irritable, he handles your mood swings with a playful, high-energy charm rather than quiet submission. Instead of walking on eggshells, he’ll playfully bump his heavy shoulder against yours, teasing you or deliberately baiting you with a cheeky comment just so you'll low-key yell at him.
The moment you snap, a massive laugh will rip from his chest, entertained by your fiery energy. But the second the frustration boils over into actual exhaustion, he’ll immediately soften, pulling you flush against his solid chest to cuddle you tightly. He’ll press a warm kiss to your cheek.
"Gusse mein achchi lagti ho.”
[You look good when you're angry.]
BONUS:
S — Sex
Hamza:
He doesn't mind oral sex during periods at all. Your pleasure is a direct form of therapy. He will simply clean you up gently with a warm towel, part your thighs with his hands, and then eat you out if he knows the uterine contractions from an orgasm will help you relieve the worst of your cramps.
Once you’ve completely unraveled and come apart against his mouth, he will calmly help you clean up again and gently guide you back into your clothes and fresh pads, as if it’s the most natural routine in the world.
However, he is deeply hesitant about actual penetration during this week; because it is internal, his brain isn't sure of the friction levels and refuses to risk doing anything that could potentially hurt your already aching body.
Jaskirat:
Faints.
He is a baby, okay?!
If you even casually mention the concept of doing anything down there while you are actively bleeding, his 21-year-old brain will completely short-circuit. He has spent the entire week treating you like a delicate, holy deity who shouldn't be touched roughly.
He’d look at you with wide, totally panicked eyes, his hands flying up to rub the back of his neck as he stammers:
"Oye... oye ni chal! K-Kujh vi bolde ho tusi? Jaan, dimag te nahi chadh gayi garmi?! Look at you, you’re hurting so much, and your mind is going there? S-Sharam kar lo thodi... chup karke so jao hun!"
[Oye... oh come on! H-how bold are you? Honey, haven't you gotten too hot?! H-have some shame... shut up and go to sleep!]
He would be so incredibly flustered that he’d literally pull the heavy blanket all the way up over your face just to hide his own burning blush, before climbing into bed and wrapping his arms tightly around you from behind; muttering to himself about how his queen is secretly a little menace even when she’s DOWN WITH CRAMPS.
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Note: this is a work of fiction. It is in no way connected with the real world. The characters are based on Aditya Dhar's portrayal of them. It's not to promote the real actions of the people. All the characters belong to Aditya Dhar except my oc. Plagiarism is strictly prohibited.
In the whole 43 years of her life, Harleen had only loved her family. But if she had to be asked someone who she loved the most-it would always be her brother, her Jassi.
Jaskirat had always been her baby. She had sworn with her life to protect him. Even that day, the darkest one of her life, she had been glad that Jaskirat wasn't home. Who knows she might have lost her brother too with her father?
In 2002, Harleen had finally woken up from her coma. The damages from the sexual assault she had faced at that horrific day resulted in many injuries and the final stab on her abdomen caused a near death experience, the doctors managed to save her but could not guarantee if she would ever wake up again.
She remembered the sound of machines around her and her mother's warm hand holding her cold one. Jasleen was sitting on the other side of her bed, asleep in the chair.
Harleen had panicked- Where was her Jaskirat? Did they get to him too?
No one had given her a straight answer that day. Her mother had only pressed her lips together and said, "Rest now, putt. We'll talk when you're stronger." It had taken Harleen three more hours to understand what that silence meant, and by then the silence had become its own kind of truth: her brother was gone, one way or another, and no one in her family had the courage to say the word.
She had grieved him without a body, without a funeral, without even the mercy of certainty. Every year on his birthday her mother visited a gurudwara with Pinda, Jasleen locked herself in her room and Harleen would sit on the front porch, looking out on their fields, the same fields over which her life changed forever, her family broke.
Now in 2019, she sat in the headquarters of RAW staring at her brother-whom she had thought was dead for 17 years.
Dr. Harleen Kaur Rangi was a senior doctor at Pathankot Government Hospital. She had thought that morning to be a regular one, taking her regular rounds, a few surgeries she had scheduled and than taking Jasleen's kids for shopping.
She had not expected a call from Delhi urgently calling her to the capital, Harleen had initially expected it to be a scam and cut the call. Later that day, two IB agents barged into her cabin, showing her an official letter.
Harleen had been nervous the whole flight, the agents had not given her any answer and just told her that they were following protocol.
Upon reaching delhi, she had immediately been taken to the RAW office.
She now sat in front of her brother-he was severely injured, a sling in his left arm.
"jassi?" Harleen whispered, her voice cracking at the end. Jaskirat crossed the room and cupped her cheek, silently wiping a tear that had managed to escape her eye.
"Sat Sri Akal didi" Jaskirat greeted and just as he bent down to touch her feet, Harleen pulled him into a hug. Her sobs getting louder and louder while Jaskirat buried his head in her hair, sobbing silently.
---
They gave them an hour in that windowless room before protocol reasserted itself -forms to sign, briefings Harleen barely absorbed, and an officer named Sushant Bansal explaining in careful, clinical language that Jaskirat's cover was finally, formally closed, that he was cleared to come home. None of it mattered to her half as much as the fact that his hand had not once let go of hers through all of it.
On the train to Pathankot, Harleen finally took time to observe her brother's appearance and let out a breathless chuckle. Jaskirat looked at her confused but she just shook her head and turned her head away "Bilkul papaji varga lag reha ae"
("You look exactly like papaji")
That made Jaskirat shed a few more tears- his memories of his father resurfacing, but he quickly wiped them away before his sister could see them.
Harleen tightened her hold on his hand as she admired a mother and son playing together, Jaskirat noticed the line of her sight and rubbed his thumb in comforting motion on her hand "mein kithe nahi jaa reha, kadi vi ni"
("I am not going anywhere, never")
Harleen gave him a sarcastic smile "You did once," she said. "For seventeen years. Forgive me if I want proof, every few minutes, that this isn't a dream I'll wake up from in that hospital bed."
He didn't argue. He only turned his hand so their fingers laced together, the way they used to on long train rides as children, and let her hold on for as long as she needed.
They took an auto home and Jaskirat's heart was beating so loud, he swore Harleen could hear it. When the auto stopped in front of their house, Harleen turned to pay the driver, Jaskirat took a brother step forward.
His eyes met his mother's and he gulped the bile that had threatened to rise. Prabhneet dropped the broom she was holding.
"Jassi?" The word left her like it had been waiting seventeen years to be spoken, small and disbelieving, her hand already reaching out though her feet hadn't fully decided to move yet. "Jassi, mera puttar?"
(Jassi, my son?)
He didn't trust his own voice. He simply closed the distance and folded to his knees in front of her the way he had as a boy, forehead bowed to touch her feet, and Prabhneet's hands were on his head before he could finish the gesture, pulling him up, pulling him into her, her fingers moving frantically over his face, his shoulders, his sling-bound arm, as though she needed to catalogue every inch of him to believe he was flesh and not the grief-shaped ghost she had built out of seventeen years of missing him.
"Jassi.......mera putt......mera jassi" his mother sobbed her face against Jaskirat's chest.
Jasleen who was on the terrace came down running, the clothes long forgotten. She stopped behind her mother, clutching her dupatta to her face burying her sobs.
Jaskirat extended his fine arm towards her and pulled Jasleen into a hug as well.
Harleen watched her family and smiled at the sky "I hope your happy" she whispers her fingers absent mindedly running over the pendant her father once gifted her.
---
A year later
The Rangi Household had slowly reshaped itself- an extra plate of dinner, a new pair of shoes in the porch, random urdu gazals playing in the background.
Jaskirat had not expected to receive the call from Ajay Sanyal, it was a random morning, he had gone to the fields (the family fabricated a story for the villagers), went on with his day when the phone went off.
"Sir?" he answered straightening his back as if the man could see him through the phone.
"Jaskirat" Sanyal greeted, his voice carrying an unreadable emotion "Rizwan-Dhruv is coming back to the country, we have decided to pull him back, he was close to you aur ISI ka shak ab seedha uspe jayega" Sanyal explains
Jaskirat exhales loudly as Sanyal continues "would you take him in?"
"I am not ordering, but this is a personal request." Sanyal explains. Jaskirat bites his lower lip as if considering and than says "Bhej dijiye usko"
Dhruv arrived on a Tuesday evening, thinner than Jaskirat remembered, with eyes that flinched at sudden movement and a silence that sat on him like a second skin. He stood at the gate for a full minute before he could make himself walk through it, like the house itself might reject him.
Jaskirat had hugged him for a long minute both of them relishing the time they had spent together.
Prabhneet was the one who broke the moment. She came out wiping her hands on her dupatta, took one look at the gaunt young man standing hesitant at her gate, and said simply, "Ajj kujh khadha si?""
Have you eaten anything today?
Dhruv blinked, caught entirely off guard by the ordinariness of the question. "J-ji nahi, aunty."
(No, aunty.)
"Andar aa phir. Pehla kujh kha lai" She was already turning back toward the kitchen. "Gallan baad vich vi ho jaan giyan—pehla pet bharna zaroori aa."
(Come inside then, eat first. Talk can happen later — the stomach should be full first.)
The children took to him almost instantly. Arjun, seven years old and endlessly curious, decided within a day that Dhruv Uncle was the single most interesting adult in the house, mostly because Dhruv, unlike everyone else, was willing to sit on the floor and lose spectacularly at carrom for an hour without complaint.
Sirat, barely four, simply climbed into his lap during evening TV time and refused to be moved, and Dhruv let her, going very still each time, as though frightened that a wrong breath might break something.
With Prabhneet, he found a different kind of ease, chopping vegetables in the kitchen while she talked at him about nothing in particular, fixing the wobbling ceiling fan in the veranda, carrying the heavy grocery bags without being asked.
She never pushed him to talk about where he'd been. She only kept feeding him, kept including him, kept saying his name-his real name until it stopped sounding foreign in his own ears.
With Jasleen, it was easier still-an easy, sibling-like friendship built over the children, over shared exasperation at Arjun's stubbornness, over the particular companionship of two people who had both, in their own ways, lost a great deal and were learning to want small ordinary things again.
But it was with Harleen that something else entirely began to take root
Harleen didn't sleep. Not properly, not in years. The doctors called it chronic insomnia; Harleen privately called it the price of having survived.
Some nights she lay staring at the ceiling fan going around and around until the sky outside her window began to lighten. Other nights she simply gave up and climbed to the rooftop with a cup of untouched chai, watching Pathankot's stars the way she used to as a girl, before everything.
It was on one such night, three weeks after Dhruv's arrival, that she found him already up there.
He startled at the sound of the door, half-rising, before recognizing her and sitting back down against the low wall, knees drawn up.
"Sorry," Harleen said, hovering. "I didn't know anyone else was awake."
"Neend nahi aa rahi," Dhruv admitted quietly, not quite meeting her eyes.
(Sleep isn't coming.)
Harleen huffed a small, tired laugh and settled down beside him, leaving a respectful distance. "Mainu vi nahi."
(Me neither. )
She wrapped her hands around her cooling cup. "Mainu insomnia aa."
(I've insomnia)
"I get it" Dhruv nodded "For years I didn't even know who I was. Living as Rizwan for so long- sometimes even now, when I look in the mirror, for a second it feels like the wrong face is looking back."
Harleen turned to study him properly then- not the cautious houseguest, not her brother's fragile colleague, but a man carrying a grief that had no name because it had happened to someone else's name.
"Fer tu ki karda hai?" she asked softly.
(So what do you do?)
He allowed himself a small, tired smile, the corner of his mouth lifting like something rusty being coaxed to move.
I" talk. With someone who understands."
Something in Harleen's chest, something that had been clenched tight for seventeen years, eased by a fraction.
"Te hun tu mere naal gallan kar reha aa." she said, and there was warmth in it, an offer.
(And now you're talking with me.)
"Haan," he said, and for the first time since he'd arrived, he sounded almost peaceful. "Hun main tere naal gall karda haan."
(Yes. Now I talk with you.)
After that night, it became a quiet ritual. Nearly every night, when the house had gone dark and silent, the two insomniacs found their way to the rooftop-sometimes with chai, sometimes with nothing but the sky between them.
They talked about everything and nothing: Harleen's patients, the strange dignity of grief, Dhruv's fractured memories of a childhood before Pakistani, the particular loneliness of surviving something no one else could fully understand.
Weeks folded into a month, then two. Harleen found herself, without quite deciding to, looking forward to those hours after midnight more than she looked forward to anything in daylight.
Dhruv found himself, without quite deciding to, watching the way moonlight settled on her face when she laughed- a rare, unguarded sound he had started, quietly, to live for.
Neither of them said anything. Neither of them was entirely sure there was anything to say. And so it might have continued, unspoken, if not for the rain.
Harleen had already climbed to the roof when the first fat drops hit, and rather than run for cover, she simply tipped her head back and let it soak her, laughing at the sheer relief of it after weeks of suffocating heat.
Dhruv came up moments later, drawn by the sound of her laughter, and stopped in the doorway, transfixed.
He smiled to himself and leaned against the doorway watching her laugh and enjoy.
Just as the terrace got slippery and Harleen's footing slipped, as if on instinct Dhruv stepped in the heavy downpour and held her by the waist. Harleen's arms slung around his neck and her lips crashed against his neck.
She raised her head to look at him, rainwater clung to his lashes, just like his kurta clung to his broad body turning transparent and giving her a view of his muscles underneath. His expression had gone still, searching, the kind of look a man gives when he has run out of reasons to keep something hidden.
"Harleen," he said, and her name in his mouth sounded like something he had been rehearsing for a long time and had finally decided to say aloud. "Main tainu kuch dassna chahunda haan. Te je tu naraz ho jaave, main kadi vi eh gal dubara nahi kahanga."
(I want to tell you something. And if you get upset, I will never say this again.)
Harleen's heart was suddenly loud in her own ears, louder than the thunder. "Dass," she said, barely a whisper.
(Tell me.)
"Main tere naal pyaar kar baitha haan. Mainu nahi pata eh kadon shuru hoya—shayad uss pehli raat jadon tu mere kol baith ke gallan kitiyan si. Par hun eh sach aa, te main eh hor lukauna nahi chaunda."
(I have fallen in love with you. I don't know when it started- maybe that very first night you sat and talked with me- but it's the truth now, and I don't want to hide it anymore.)
For a moment, Harleen said nothing at all, and Dhruv's face began, slowly, to fall- bracing for the rejection he had clearly already convinced himself was coming.
"I am sorry, meinu ae sab keh-" just as Dhruv starts rambling, Harleen rises on her tip toes and presses her lips against his. The action lasted only one second before Harleen pulled back. Dhruv looked at her, her hair strands stuck to her face and her cheeks were flushed.
He didn't wait for anything more. His hand came up, cradling her rain-wet cheek with a gentleness that seemed impossible for hands that had known so much violence, and Harleen closed the last of the distance herself, rising on her toes to meet him again.
When they finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, both soaked to the bone and laughing softly at the absurdity and the rightness of it all, Dhruv murmured against her skin, "I love you"
"I love you too" Harleen whispered back, her hand curled into the wet fabric of his kurta as though she still needed proof he was real.
Below them, the house slept on, unaware that under the same rain that had once washed a broken family's tears from a Pathankot rooftop, two survivors had just found their way, quietly, home to each other.
--
Jaskirat was quick to notice the shift in the air between Harleen and Dhruv. His observational skills made him realise that they had been sharing more glances, disappearing together a lot and holding longer eye contacts over dinner.
So one day, when Harleen was at the hospital, Jasleen at the kids parents teachers meeting and prabhneet sleeping, he approached Dhruv who was sitting in the verandah fixing Arjun's bat.
"Dhruv bahar aa" jaskirat gruffed walking out of the house. Dhruv cautiously kept the bat aside and followed him.
(Dhruv come outside)
"Ki hoya?" Dhruv asked, having picked punjabi from Harleen
(What happened?)
"Kya chal raha hai tera aur harleen ka?" Jaskirat asked not beating around the bush.
("What is going on between you and Harleen?")
Dhruv froze at the question making Jaskirat squint at him.
"Jassi mein pyaar karta hu Harleen se"
(Jassi I love her)
For several seconds neither moved or said anything as Jaskirat slowly processed the news.
"If you hurt her accidentally..." Jaskirat threatened talking a step towards Dhruv
Dhruv smiled sadly "I'll spend the rest of my life making it right."
"If you hurt her deliberately..."
Dhruv interrupted before he could finish "You won't have to find me. I'll walk to you myself."
Jaskirat stared at him and then shook his head at Dhruv. He patted his back and pulled him in a hug.
Dhruv released a breathless laugh and hugged Jaskirat back.
✦summary: you ask dean to sleep with you, he turns you down, and you believe him. you tell him you don't care, and he believes you. eventually, one of you is going to have to tell the truth, won't they. ✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), virgin!reader, angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, shameless smut (loss of virginity, praise kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, pussy slapping, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 8.6k✦
✦author's note: i love writing idiots in love it's my favorite kind of idiot it's for love✦
“Have sex with me.”
Dean spits his coffee out. You sigh, bracing your hands on your hips, and wait for him to collect himself. You’re patient. He’s scrambling and slamming a fist on his chest, and you pass him a napkin with a sweet smile. You don’t think it’s going to win you a spot in his bed, but it might help.
“Better?” You ask, when he no longer sputtering and choking. He grunts, holding a hand up for a few more seconds. You roll your eyes—it wasn’t that crazy a thing to say—but bounce on your toes and wait.
Dean clears his throat, ears red, and looks up at you like you’ve grown a second head.
“What?”
“Have sex with me-“
“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“
“It’s eight fifteen.”
That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.
“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“
“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“
Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”
“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”
“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”
Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”
“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.
“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”
You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”
“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“
“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.
A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.
It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.
Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about.
You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.
“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.
He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.
If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.
You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.
So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on
You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.
So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.
Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.
But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.
“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”
You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”
“You were serious?”
He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.
“Sweetheart-“
“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.
You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.
“Wait, just- Hold on-“
You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.
“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.
It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.
“Why?”
“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”
“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”
You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”
Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”
“I don’t think you are.”
He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.
Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.
“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”
You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.
“Sweetheart-“
“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”
“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“
“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”
Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.
“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.
Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.
“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.
You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.
Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.
At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.
If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.
You’re learning something about yourself.
You are not good at flirting.
The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.
“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.
“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.
“Why, you forget something?”
“No.”
“Then what-“
Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.
Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.
Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.
You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.
He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.
“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“
“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.
“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“
“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”
“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“
“I do now.”
“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“
You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.
Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.
“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.
You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.
You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work.
But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.
No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.
So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.
“Sam.”
Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.
“Sam.”
“I’m listening, what’s-“
“Have sex with me.”
Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.
“Just- Listen-“
“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“
“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“
“It’s already weird-“
“You’d be doing me a favor-“
“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”
You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”
“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”
“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”
Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”
“Sam Winchester-“
“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“
“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“
“That’s not healthy-“
“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“
“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”
You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”
“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”
You nod, and Sam blinks.
“Are you a virgin?”
“Maybe.”
“You- You’re-“
“Don’t be an asshole-“
“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”
That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”
Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.
“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”
“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.
“Does Dean-“
“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.
“I think you should-“
“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”
“I- Okay.”
You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”
Sam blinks. “What?”
“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”
Sam snorts, and you scowl.
“I’m serious-“
“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”
You stand a little taller. “Really?”
“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”
“I do not annoy you-“
“You’re annoying me right now.”
You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.
“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”
You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”
“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”
“You need to sleep with her.”
Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.
“Sammy, what the fuck-“
Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.
Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.
He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.
Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.
And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.
So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.
He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good. He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.
Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.
But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.
“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.
“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“
“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“
“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“
“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.
Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”
Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“
“To take her virginity.”
He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”
Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”
“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”
“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”
Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.
But you’d asked him.
You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-
Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.
“How the fuck do you know that.”
Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”
“Sam-“
“She might’ve… Asked me.”
“She what-“
“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”
Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.
“No.”
“Dean, just-“
“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“
“It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”
“She doesn’t want it-“
Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”
Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.
“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”
Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”
Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“
“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”
Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.
He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.
“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.
Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.
“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.
“Uh- Hey.”
“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.
Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”
You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.
“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”
“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”
Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”
“What-“
“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”
Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“
“You didn’t?”
“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“
“Hey- It’s- Woah-“
Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.
“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.
You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”
He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.
Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.
Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.
“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.
“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.
“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”
Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“
“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”
You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now.
Dean says your name, and you shake your head.
“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“
“What if it’s not.”
Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.
“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.
“What if I wanted to. Help you.”
“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”
Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“
“You said you didn’t-“
“I lied.”
You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.
“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”
You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.
Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.
“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“
He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.
High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.
Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.
You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.
“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”
You whine again. “Dean-“
“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”
He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.
“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.
This might be real.
“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.
“Yes.”
“I’m old, sweetheart-“
“I like it.”
Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.
“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“
Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his you can’t shy away.
“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“
He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.
“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”
You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”
Dean grins back. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”
You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”
Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“
“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”
Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”
You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.
“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”
“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.
“Demanding, aren’t we?”
You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.
“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”
You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.
“You like that, huh.”
“Dean-“
“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”
You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.
“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"
You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.
“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”
He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.
“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.
It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.
“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt. “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”
You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.
“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”
Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.
“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“
Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.
Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.
“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”
You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.
“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.
“Dean-“
“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”
“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”
“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”
His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.
“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.
Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.
“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.
“Everything?”
“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”
You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-
“Hey,” Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”
“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes.
Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.
Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”
“Shut up-“
“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”
Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.
“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”
It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.
“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”
He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.
“You want a little more?”
You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.
“Say please-“
“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“
Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.
He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.
When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.
“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"
He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.
Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.
“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”
“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”
Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”
“Mh- Mhm.”
You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.
“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”
“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“
You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.
“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”
His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.
Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.
You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.
He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.
Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.
“Dean-“
You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.
“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.
“You’re cute.”
“I- I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”
“Deeeean-“
“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”
You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.
“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”
You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.
“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.
Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.
“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.
You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.
“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”
Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.
“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”
Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”
“No, I mean like- It can’t-“
“It can.”
“Dean, I’m serious-“
He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.
“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”
You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.
Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.
“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”
You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.
“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”
You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.
“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“
His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.
“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“
“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“
Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.
“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“
Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.
“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“
Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.
His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.
You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.
“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.
“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”
You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.
He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.
Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.
He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.
“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.
“I like you too-“
“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“
He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.
“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“
You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”
Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”
“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”
Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.
“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.
“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.
“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”
✦End note: drooling for him ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
A/N: Written for the June Jukebox Scribbles. Prompt: Rude - MAGIC! / “I hate to do this, you leave no choice”
Warnings: Cheating spouse, Kinda dark Andy. Please let me know if I missed any!
Word Count: 298
"Did he say why he wants the divorce?" he asks through gritted teeth.
You sniffle, "he never gave me a straight answer. Just 'I hate do this, you leave no choice, that sort of thing."
"I'll make sure you take him for every penny," Andy vows.
"I can't afford your rates, Mr. Barber. If he hadn't had the papers brought to my desk---"
"It's free," Andy interrupts. "I know you've been working here for a long while, but you should review the employee handbook from time to time. You work at a law firm, no crimes were committed, we'll represent you."
"Thank you, Mr. Barber. I just wish I knew why this was happening."
"Because he doesn't deserve you," Andy mutters under his breath, too quietly for you to hear. "Let's get some of the details ironed out. Do you have a place where you can stay?"
"Um...my mom?"
"You should probably call her. I'll go ahead and cancel some appointments while you do that."
"Mr. Barber, I can't---"
"Andy, please. Just call me Andy."
"I'm sorry, I'm just all out of sorts."
"Understandable. Now go call your mother to make sure you've got a place to stay."
After you've left his office, Andy makes a phone call to a secure number.
"He's followed through on his end of the deal. Send the photos to the usual location."
He hangs up without waiting for a response.
When he'd found out your husband was cheating on you, Andy could've shown you the proof. But with this route, he can be your hero. And when the photos show up in court evidence, he can claim he'd just gotten them, that he'd had no idea. Best of all, you'll get everything in the divorce with that.
Note: this is a work of fiction. It is in no way connected with the real world. The characters are based on Aditya Dhar's portrayal of them. It's not to promote the real actions of the people. All the characters belong to Aditya Dhar except my oc. Plagiarism is strictly prohibited. Plot by my bbg @avasif
Somewhere around 4k words
Pairing: Pairing: Jaskirat Singh Rangi x Sunaina Arora
Delhi, 2019
Jaskirat watched from the railing above as trainees joke around and laugh with each other. It had been 3 months since he had come back from Pakistan. 3 months since he shed the disguise of Hamza and became Jaskirat again. Though he did not feel like Jaskirat. It's funny how he neither feels like Hamza, it's just something in between.
Some morning, he woke up thinking he was still in Lyari. Nightmares had become a constant, they would be haunted by the same faces-Rehman, Uzair, Ulfat, Faisal, sometimes even naieem. They would be cursing him, blaming him for ruining their family. But the worst was when they were happy, when they would be a family and when he would be a part of that family.
Jaskirat had changed his appearance again. Gone were his long hair and beard. He had trimmed his beard to a light stubble now and his hair, though no long as before were still left extra on the back, just to be made into a small ponytail.
"Jaskirat Sir!" he was snapped out of his depressing thoughts by a young recruit.
"Kya hua?" Jaskirat asked, his voice firm. He was quick to adapt the firm persona around the recruits.
The boy pointed to the sparring ring "Sir can we have a sparring match with you?" The boy had asked with stars in his eyes and too much excitement that Jaskirat could not say no.
Jaskirat internally groaned at the request. The boys were young and inexperienced. They would learn a few tricks and try them on him, only to be defeated every time.
"Sure" he sighed and got in the ring. Every recruit immediately straightened up. Even after 3 months they all looked at him with the same admiration and fear. It made him uncomfortable. He wasn't a hero. Heroes got happy endings.
"kaun aa raha hai?" One of the trainees stepped forward, trying to hide his grin and failing miserably.
"Ready?" jaskirat asked earning an immediate nod.
The recruits had circled around the ring. A few already placing bets, mostly on Jaskirat.
Jaskirat stood patiently as the young boy attacked first. The first punch was quickly blocked easily by Jaskirat. The second was dodged. Before he could deliver the third, he was already on the ground.
A few cheered while some groaned, Jaskirat only smirked offering a hand to the fallen boy.
"Confidence hona acha hai, overconfidence will lead to your death. Nazar aur Sabr barkarar rakho" Jaskirat instructs.
The boy took his hand and tried to get up, but lost his footing. Instinctively, Jaskirat moved to stop him from falling awkwardly. Unfortunately, Karan's elbow came flying straight into his ribs. Right where an old injury from 3 months ago had never healed. Pain exploded through his side. For a second the world went white.
The recruits immediately froze as Jaskirat lost his balance and fell down on his knees, clutching his side.
"Sir!"
The walk to infirmary was short but Jaskirat could feel every step he had taken. He was escorted by two recruits with his earlier sparing partner apologising constantly.
"Dr. Arora, Sir ke ribs par lagte hi woh gir gaye, shayad koi purani injury hai" one of the boys announced.
"Tum dono jao, continue with your training" Jaskirat raised his head at the new voice. It was not the same doctor he had been visiting for his injuries since the past 3 months.
The recruits were reluctant but Jaskirat gave them a nod, his eyes still fixed on the doctor who was now reading some file, probably his.
"Jaskirat Singh Rangi" she mutters to herself, her eyes scanning the file.
She finally looked up and Jaskirat felt pain leave his body for a second.
She had beautiful black eyes which were rimmed with kohl, her features were sharp, complimented by a silver nosering. She was wearing a pink kurti underneath her doctor's coat.
She closed her eyes with a sigh and walked towards him. Jaskirat had forgotten why he was in the infirmary in the first place, but then the sharp pain in his ribs reminded him. He flinched wildly and Sunaina was quick to notice it.
She pulled a stool in front of him and sat down.
"Shirt utariye" she instructs, grabbing the tray towards herself.
Jaskirat hesitated for a minute before he grabbed the hem of his shirt. With a hiss, he pulled it over his head and threw it on the examination bed.
Sunaina felt her throat dry up as his naked upper body came in view. His chest was littered with scares, some fading some permanent.
Sunaina inspected the wound and grabbed his file with a pen.
"Exactly hua kya tha?" She asks, adjusting her glasses over her neck.
"Um abhi to training mein direct impact se lag gayi. 3 mahine pehle ki injury hai" Jaskirat explains. Sunaina nodded.
"Sharp pain or dull ache?" "Sharp."
"Pain while breathing?" "A little."
"Deep breathing?" "Worse."
She scribbled something down.
"Any dizziness? Loss of consciousness?" "No."
"Good." Sunaina finally looked up from her notes.
"Can you lie down on the examination couch?"
Jaskirat complied. The moment he shifted positions, pain shot through his side. Sunaina noticed immediately.
"Hurts while changing positions?" she asks
Jaskirat nods, not having power to speak anymore. She pulled out a pair of gloves and said "I am going to examine the area, let me know if the pain increases?"
Jaskirat did not get a chance to reply as her fingers pressed against his lower rib, the first few points were manageable. Then she pressed one particular spot and pain exploded through his side making him hiss.
"Yaha?" Sunaina questioned, her fingers no longer pressing but hovering over his ribs. Jaskirat nodded, his lips pressed as the pain slowly faded away.
She nodded and made a note in his file "Take a deep breath"
Jaskirat obliged and the pain returned again. He exhaled through his teeth.
Sunaina hummed taking her gloves off. "Fracture nahi hai, Most likely you've aggravated an old rib injury.
Jaskirat visibly relaxed, at least nothing was broken. Hopefully the pain will fade gradually.
Sunaina picked his tee and passed it to him, their fingers brushing lightly. The slight touch sent a chill down her spine, a feeling she choose to ignore.
"I'll prescribe an anti-inflammatory medicine", you can take them with your regular- she clicked her pen open, writing on the notepad but Jaskirat cut her off.
"Zarurat nahi hai" he mutters.
Sunaina looked up from her notepad and raised an eye brow at him. She rolled her eyes, and kept her pen down. Resting her chin on her open palm, she looked at Jaskirat with a mocking expression.
"Aur aapki medical qualifications kya hai, Mr. Rangi?" she asks, her tone holding the mocking expression in it.
Jaskirat opened his mouth but then closed it, having no answer to her question.
"Exactly" sunaina smirked going back to writing the prescription for him.
Despite himself, Jaskirat felt intrigued with her. Most people around him either looked at him with admiration or fear. She looked at him with neither of those.
She finished writing the prescription and handed it over.
"Painkillers prescribe kare hai, but please only use them jab extreme pain ho, ice compresses twice a day and no exertion on that area" she instructs keeping his file back in the shelf.
"Thank you" Jaskirat muttered. He got up with a grunt and walked to the door.
"Have a good day!" Sunaina called out, a habit she had picked with each patient.
Jaskirat paused in his steps, he slowly turned to look at her. She looked up and gave him a smile.
"You too doctor" Jaskirat muttered, closing the door behind him.
--
Later that day, Jaskirat sat in his small government quarters, allotted to him. He was the only person on the floor, other 3 flats were empty.
The silence made him uncomfortable. It was quite ironic how he had wanted peace for years and now that he head it, it felt uncomfortable.
The realisation annoyed him as his brain compared the current situation to his life in Pakistan.
Lyari was always loud, dogs barking, curses from the street, bullets. Even after becoming the King of Lyari, he had always been occupied. It was annoying to sit and do nothing.
Jaskirat sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. He still had to figure out dinner for the night.
His internal ramblings were cut off by the sound of doorbell. Jaskirat quipped up, he never had visitors. Occassionally Ajay sir or Bansal would drop by to check on him. But that hardly happened.
He dragged himself to the door, almost deciding to ignore it.
"Doctor?" Jaskirat questioned as he looked at Sunaina who was on the other side of the door. She looked surprised to see him. She wore the same clothes as she had worn to work, only different was she was holding a box of something.
"Aap yaha rehte hai?" She asked, Jaskirat nodded.
"Mein Flat 13 mein rehti hu. I was out for 3 months aur jab wapis aayi to I saw new neighbours. Cookies?" She offered the box to him.
Jaskirat looked at her carefully and then took the box from her "Thank you"
Sunaina smiled at him and said "Aap ko kuch chahiye ho to please don't hesitate to ask me"
Jaskirat nodded at her. She smiled at him again and turned to her flat. The lobby was small and Jaskirat was just realising that.
She opened the lock of her door, the sound of keys ringing loudly, "Good night doctor" Jaskirat called out just as she stepped in the house.
She turned to look at him "Good night"
--
The next day, Jaskirat stood in front of the infirmary. He had no intention to be there. He did not know how he even got here. His feet were working on auto pilot.
He raised his hand to knock on the door, but a voice cut him off "Jaskirat?"
Jaskirat closed his eyes in embarrassment and turned around to face Sunaina. He had got to the infirmary even before she did.
"Kuch chahiye aapko?" Sunaina asked in that sweet voice of hers with her evergreen smile.
"Woh ummm jo meds the, jo kal prescribe kare the woh chahiye" Jaskirat lies.
Sunaina raised an eye brow at him "Aapko pharmacy mein nahi mile?" she asks unlocking the door.
'Pharmacy chala jata to aapko kesse dekhta-shut up jaskirat, you don't even know her for a day yet' he chides himself.
Sunaina took his silence as the answer and led him into her office. She surfed through the shelfs checking for the medicine.
"here" she passes him the strip. Their fingers brushed again and Jaskirat felt a shiver run down his spine and he immediately stepped back. She did not notice but if she did, she chose not to comment.
A comfortable silence settled between them. Sunaina busied herself in arranging the files on her cabinet and Jaskirat stood their awkwardly.
It was stupid, he had the medicine, there was no reason to be there. He dragged himself to the door and before leaving he turned to her
"Good day, Doctor"
Sunaina smiled at him and gave a small wave "Good day Sir"
--
The problem started exactly three days later.
Jaskirat told himself he was only visiting the infirmary because his ribs still hurt.
The second visit was because one of the recruits had accidentally hit his shoulder during combat training. The third visit was because he had a headache. The fourth visit was because he had a paper cut.
Even Sunaina stared at him for that one.
"Aap intelligence officer ho ya kindergarten student?" she deadpanned while putting a band-aid on his finger.
Jaskirat had the decency to look embarrassed. Sunaina simply laughed.
And God help him, he found himself waiting for that laugh every day.
--
The real problem was when she became a part of his daily schedule. Jaskirat had seen her struggling with groceries and helped her. That was the first time he stepped into her house and he realised how different it was from his. It looked like a home.
Since that day, their interactions that increased, good morning in the corridor, occasional coffee on their balconies, complaining about Delhi traffic, arguments about medicine, arguments about food, arguments about whether he was taking care of himself.
Which he wasn't. But that wasn't the point.
The point was that somewhere between those conversations, Jaskirat had started looking forward to seeing her.
And that terrified him. Because people like him weren't meant to have normal lives.
It had gotten to the point where even Ajay and Bansal noticed it.
One day while they were sitting in Ajay's office, Bansal popped the question "To Jaskirat, how is it going with you and Sunaina?"
Jaskirat choked on his tea at the sudden question earning laughter from both men.
"Kuch nahi hai humare beech mein" he mutters avoiding eye contact.
Ajay raised an eye brow at him and leaned forward "Bansal ne essa to nahi bola"
The men smirked at him as he squirmed under their teasing looks.
Ajay sighed and said "Dekho Jaskirat, Sunaina ki zindagi bohot mushkilo se bhari hui hai. Ab jake shanti mili hai usse. Agar tumhe kuch lagta hai uske liye to usse bata do. Par dil mat todna uska"
The seriousness in his voice made Jaskirat feel like a young recruit again and he gave him a firm nod.
--
It happened on one random evening. She had been dull at work the whole day and jaskirat was really worried about her. So that evening when they were having their coffee on the balcony he asked her.
"Aaj kya hua? Itna muh kyu latka hua hai tumhara" he had used a casual tone not wanting to make her feel interogated.
"Mere bhai ki death anniversary hai aaj" she whispers, a lone tear falling down her cheek.
Jaskirat froze for a second before he recovered. His eyes soften as he leaned forward to hear her properly.
"Umm he was a spy for India. Unhone kuch sensitive information di thi, umm 26/11 attack se related. It was originally planned for 3rd October but he sent intel. He was caught and tortured and then murdered there" Her voice cracked in the end,
Jaskirat froze, an old memory surfing through his mind. He remembers that man, that day in the factory, the torture Iqbal had done to the guy.
Sunaina's silent crying had turned into full on sobbing, she covered her mouth with her hand trying to muffle them.
"Gate kholo" he says getting up.
She looks at him confused and whispers "Khula hua hai"
Jaskirat's heart skipped a beat, his concern for her security rising but he choose to ignore that feeling. As he disappeared in the house, Sunaina thought she had fucked up in front of her crush.
But than just a second later, she felt weight drop beside her and she raised her head to meet Jaskirat's
"Mein tumhe hug kar lu?" Jaskirat whispers, his hand hovering over her shoulders.
Instead of answering, she lunged in his arms. Jaskirat did not even take a second to wrap his arms around her.
He cradled her head in his palm, allowing her to cry all she wants. Jaskirat knew no amounts of word could offer her comfort, he too had felt this pain once. The main of loosing a sibling.
"Jaskirat?" she whispered against his chest. He hummed, the sound vibrating against her cheek.
She looked up at him flushed maybe from all the crying or their close proximity "Thank you"
He nodded his head, the words being unable to leave his mouth.
--
It happened a week later, on a random Tuesday morning. Jaskirat had just finished training his first batch of the day and was resting before the second batch came in.
That was when Sunaina took the seat beside him on the bench her shoulders lightly brushing his. Jaskirat immediately straightened up and looked at her, his attention solely focused on her.
"Hi" She muttered smiling at him.
Before he could even reply, she spoke first "Jaskirat, tum kal shaam free ho?"
Jaskirat's mind froze for a minute before he nodded
"To phir kal shaam ko mere saath coffee par chale?" her voice was confident but her posture gave her away,
Jaskirat gulped and took a deep breath trying to calm his nerves. He plastered a smirk on his face leaned forward to her face
"Tum mujhe date par puch rahi ho?" he whispers, his warm breath hitting her face.
Sunaina smiled and whispered back "Tum to puch hi nahi rahe, meine socha mein initiative le lu"
Jaskirat froze as she got up and walked out.
"Sir training shuru kare?" a recruit asked nervously. Jaskirat internally groaned while Sunaina waved at him from her office.
The next evening they both were in the coffee house after work. Instead of wearing her typical work attire, she had opted for a black saree that day. It hugged her curves perfectly and gave her body a wonderful shape.
Once they placed their orders, they started to talk.
Jaskirat told her about his life in Pathankot, about his family, then he told her bits and bits about his life in Lyari.
Sunaina on the other hand talked about her life with her parents and how after they died in a car crash, her brother joined RAW. She had become a doctor and then joined the operation after his death to honour him.
The time had passed in a jiffy and soon they were walking back home together. Sunaina had wrapped an arm around his bicep while talking about some recruit that was scared of him.
The rain started half way their journey home. Sunaina's eyes lit up as she watched water pour down the empty road.
She unravelled her arm from his bicep and stepped into the empty road. Jaskirat's eyes widen as he scanned the road for any vehicles.
Sunaina on the other hand twirled around in the rain, her wet hair swaying as she giggled loudly.
"Jaskirat aao na" she whines holding his sleeve with her wet hand.
"Bimar padh jaogi" Jaskirat tried his best to sound firm but he just could not seeing her face.
She gave him a deadpan look "Tum mat hi bolo, apna khayal to rakha nahi jata. Aa jao ab" She drags him into the rain.
Sunaina grabbed both his hands "Dance with me."
"Mein dance nahi karta." Jaskirat grumbled, his body soaking wet within seconds of being in the rain
"Pleaseeee" she whines making him chuckle, his facade fading.
Jaskirat twirled her around making her giggle. He grabbed her exposed waist which was all wet and pulled her towards him. Her hands landed on his wet shirt, the white fabric had become transparent giving her a clear view of his toned chest. Her own saree had become soaking wet and had clung to her body like a second skin. Her hot breath fanned against his neck, her wet hair sticking on her neck and chest, water droplets cascading down her face.
"Sunaina.." Jaskirat whispered. She hummed, her fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt.
"Mein tumhe kiss kar lu?" Sunaina whispered before he could speak again.
Jaskirat gulped and leaned his face down to hers, their noses bumping together.
"Tum sab puch leti ho, kuch to mujhe karne do" he jokes making her giggle softly.
She reached to his cheek and placed a palm there. Jaskirat took her lips in his, she clutched his with her free hand and he held her face with an open palm while his other hand went to the back of her neck deepening the kiss.
Sunaina broke first due to lack of breath and took deep breaths, her chest heaving up and down. He joined their foreheads together.
"Itne mahino se, zinda lash ki tarah jee raha tha" Jaskirat whispers, Sunaina looked up at him through her eye lashes.
"ab lag raha hai zinda hu" he mutters. She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him into a hug. Jaskirat leans down and hugs her. The rain continued to pour around them but they did not care.
--
Delhi, 2020
Jaskirat chuckled softly as the movie played in the background. His wife, Sunaina cuddled on his side, scroffing at the TV.
"yeh dekhke tumhe hassi aa rahi hai?" She questioned offended, pointing her hand at the TV, her wedding chooda (bangles) clinking on her wrist at the action.
Jaskirat laughed again, this time at her reaction rather than the movie. Sunaina pouted at him and tried to pull away from his body.
Jaskirat was quick and pulled her back to him. He kissed her pout making her blush. She huffed and got out of his hold.
She walked to the kitchen, pulling out unnecessary utensils just to annoy him. Jaskirat laughed at her cute actions just to annoy him and shut the TV off. He walked to the kitchen and hugged her from behind.
"Kya hua? Itni gussa kyu ho?" he muttered against her neck.
Sunaina sighed and turned in his arms. She looked at him "Jaskirat adoption agency se phone aaya tha, their's a baby" she whispers. They had chosen to adopt instead of going through the natural process.
Jaskirat froze for a minute before looking at her for confirmation "Sach mein jaan?"
She nodded nervously. He understood it was her nervousness and anxiety which came out as anger. He pulled her to his chest, her body instinctively melting against his, already feeling relaxed.
"Chinta mat karo, you'll be an amazing mother" Jaskirat whispered. Sunaina tightened her arms around his waist.
"I love you" She whispered against his chest.
"I love you too" Jaskirat whispered dropping a kiss on her forehead.
After years of violence, bloodshed and loneliness, Jaskirat had finally found peace.
Not in medals. Not in missions. Not in recognition.
But in the woman standing in his arms and the child that was about to enter their lives.
✧･ﾟ:Ben likes to play with you. To push you right to your limit, see just how much you can take before you come apart around him with the sweetest moan of his name.
✧･ﾟ:Sometimes it’s stuffing you up so well that you almost can’t breathe. Ben’s big—so big it must be a crime of nature, because how does he even fit in his pants—and taking him all at once knocks the air from your chest. Your eyes get teary and glazed, when he folds you beneath him and forces every inch into your dripping cunt. You whimper, and he just smirks.
✧･ﾟ:“You can take it, doll. C’mon.” He kisses your knee, pressed right up to your chest. His tone drips with cruel mockery. It just makes you wetter, clenching and gushing around his cock.
✧･ﾟ:Ben groans, pushing in deeper. Until he’s pressed against your cervix, forcing you to feel every inch. The throb of his veins, as he just sits in your warmth. He’s going to keep you here as long as he feels like it. As long as he needs to adjust to the feeling of you, squeezing around him like a damn toy.
✧･ﾟ:“Relax.” He orders, but you just whimper.
✧･ﾟ:“Ben- I- I can’t-“
✧･ﾟ:“Yes, you can.” He pushes impossibly deeper, tearing a deep moan from your chest. “Easy for me, brat, or you don’t get fucked.”
You try to close your eyes, because the view of him pressed over you is too much. Ben grabs your jaw and squeezes once in warning.
“Look at me.”
You shake your head, taking ragged breaths from swollen lips. Ben squeezes again, rutting into you pussy, and your mouth falls shamelessly open. Ben spits down your throat, and your eyes shoot open as you swallow it without thinking.
He smirks, and Lord, how does he think you’re ever going to stand a chance. His massive chest enveloping your vision, the hunger, blown out gleam in his eyes. Hair pressed to his brow and pretty lips still curved in amusement. There’s nothing soft, in any of it. He’s a man on a blind mission to unravel you, and once he starts, you’re a goner.
“Such a good little slut,” he mocks, and you can’t even catch enough breath to moan. “Is it big, doll? Makin’ you cry?”
You nod, and he chuckles.
“Can’t even fuckin’ talk anymore. So much attitude, and I didn’t even have to fuck it out of you.” He ruts again, and a broken whine pushes out from your chest. “Christ, you’re squeezing me like a watermelon.”
You blink at him, the urge to tease him just overpowering the hold he has on your mind.
“Like- Like a what?”
Ben grunts, a thick, calloused hand splaying over your abdomen to pin you down.
“Did you say-“
“You heard me.” He grunts, fingers dragging over where he’s bulging slightly through your stomach.
No one but Ben has ever managed to do that to you. You didn’t even think it was possible, until he fucked you for the first time and pushed down on himself, forcing you to take it deeper. He’s obsessed with it. Says he likes seeing what he does to you pretty body. You think he’s just always trying to knock you up.
“Have you fucked a watermelon- Oh my god-“
Your eyes roll back, as Ben pulls almost all the way out, then slams forward. Your eyes roll back as you arch off the mattress, the first tears escaping from your eyes. Ben laughs, repeating the motion, forcing his cock through your tight, soaked channel.
“You wanna think before you talk back, doll?”
He thrusts again, rolling his hips so the head of his cock drags over your g-spot. You giggle and shake your head, because why would you behave when it makes him fuck you like this. With a deep, possessive growl that vibrates in your body, making your pussy flutter around his massive cock. Ben drops his brow to yours, pressing you into a stretch you didn’t even know your body could take.
“Dirty fuckin’ girl.” He hisses, biting at your lower lip as he starts to set a ruthless pace. “Like to fuck with me, don’t you. Testin’ my damn patience.”
You hum, staring up at him with an open-mouthed, dazed smile. Your pussy drools around his cock, slack from being bullied open over and over again. Ben pushes his hand further down, and you cry out as your g-spot gets pushes right over the drag of his cock.
It’s more than you can take, and still not enough. Tears are streaming down your cheeks as you go boneless, just trying to breathe and keep looking at him. His grin is smug, as you just gape up at him like a fool.
“Nice and dumb, aren’t you,” he mocks. “All it takes is some cock, and you get real fuckin’ stupid.”
He slams forward so hard, you think you feel him in your throat. If he hasn’t already rearranged your guts, he’s unraveling them. Your heart is beating so fast you can feel it in your fingers, but that might just be Ben. His jaw is getting tight, his dirty talk falling off in low groans every time you clench around him.
This is your favorite part. Where you’re just putty in his hands, but still effecting him so much he loses himself. He’s fucking into you like a machine, but staring at you with a burning, almost affectionate devotion you never see anywhere else. He always grumbles that your pussy is like a truth serum. If he’s not full of shit—which he usually is, but never about this, never about you—then you know. You’re not just his favorite cocksleeve. You’re something more. Something that burns so bright you see it all the time, but only because you know how to look.
You sob out his name, as the heat in your core gets unbearable. His lips twitch, and he only fucks you harder. He leans down, kissing away your tears as he drills your pussy into oblivion.
Something that overtakes him completely, when he cums with a roar of your name. You’re dragged over the edge with him, fucked out and limp as he paints your insides with hot, thick ropes of cum. He doesn’t pull out after, just fucking you with shallow thrusts and thick rolls of your clit.
You can’t speak after, when he lays fully over your spent body. Neither of you need to. You can just feel it, in the heat of his body. How he lingers, instead of rolling off and grabbing a joint. You don’t ask him for words. He doesn’t know how to give them.
But you know he won’t end up in another bed. You know he’s not going to move for a while, as you brush your fingers through his hair. Eventually he pulls out, and you make another weak, broken sound.
“Fuckin’ crybaby.” He mutters.
“Only for you.” You breathe, and he chuckles.
“Damn right.”
And there’s that something in his voice. The something that tells you that he’s going to use you again, and stay after. It’ll never be enough, for either of you.
It never, ever will be.
✦Soldier Boy Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on aO3✦
✦Author's Note: i literally made myself black out with this one✦
✦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✦
Uzair baloch had never regretted dropping out of school as much as he did now.
Staring at the blue leather bound diary, that his wife had declared as her sole companion except him, filled him with a bit of childish jealousy.
Ok, a lot of childish jealousy.
That wasn’t even the “why he hated part”. That part was because, when opened the book, to peek through it, as curiosity got the better of him — he expected to see elegant urdu…
Not English.
It wasn’t even the kind of English that his bhatija, Faizal scribbles on his notebooks when his ammi threatens to pitti pitti him for not completing his homework.
Atleast they were readable, capital ABC’s and sentence that comprised of max to max 6-7 words.
Uzair had started to think himself of as an Ustad of angrezi , after he could read a sentence that faizal couldn’t . He felt immensely proud sitting beside his biwi as she tutored little Faizal and he got to flaunt off his angrezi skills.
Now he realises how dumb he would’ve looked, with that smug smile when he outwits little 5th fail faizal.
Because infront of him, in that diary , it was pure elite English written in cursive.
Uzair could only decipher a bunch of squiggles, which only reminded him why he found siyasi things so bekar in the first place.
This sort of impossible handwriting was always used by big politicians and burger bachis—the kind his wife somehow managed to read without even squinting.
Because she was a burger bachi herself so…
Uzair shut the book with a soft “thwap”
His eyes full of determination now, he was going to figure out what was in those fragile pages that kept his wife away from his arms at night…albeit for a few minutes, but still! He needed his cuddles as soon as he reaches the haveli from work.
And who better to help him than his best friend, Hamza Ali Mazari.
“So you want me to ready your wife’s diary, Kyunki tumhein angrezi nahi aati ?”
The shorter yet bulkier man commented. A cigeratte dangling from his lips, the smoke curling into little grey ghost— he glared at the tall man , who had disrupted his rare holiday.
Uzair wrinkled his nose at the kabootar Khana , where his best friend resided.
He wasn’t happy to be here too, his wife had gone shopping with her friends, giving him specific instructions not to follow her…so here he was playing detective to pass time.
“Haan.” A simple and straightforward answer, as if it was the most simple thing in the world.
“Abbe tu pagal wagal ho gaya hai kya? Ek din chutti kya mil gayi tu apni akal kisiko bech aaya kya??”
Uzair gave a dirty glare to hamza. THE AUDACITY, to question him on such relevant matters.
Letting out a tired sigh, Hamza leaned back into the chair, throwing his cigeratte out of the window. Uzair would now face the cold brutal truth.
“Nahi,” he said flatly, what? It’s wierd reading your bhabi’s diary…almost invasive! If only Uzair knew the defination of privacy.
Uzair blinked, dumbfounded at his refusal
“…Nahi?”
“Nahi” Hamza pointed at the diary like it was evidence in a criminal investigation.
“Main iss shaadi-shuda psycho type ke tamashay ka hissa bilkul nahi banunga.”
Uzair narrowed his eyes, warning lacing his tone.
“Hamza.”
“Bhai, Teri biwi ki diary hai.” He looked genuinely scandalized now. “Private cheez hoti hai. Privacy naam ki bhi koi cheez hoti hai.”
Uzair looked unimpressed by the said statement.
“Par ye diary to Wo dressing table ke upar hi rakhti hai hamesha...”
“Kyunki Wo tujh pe bharosa karti hai!” Hamza reprimanded the Bhondu bacha, he really has left his mind with his wife, since he is speaking such utter bullshit.
“Usne yeh bhi kaha ke main yeh nahi parh sakta.”
Hamza paused.
“…Aur pata nahi kaise, is se baat aur bhi buri lagti hai.
Without a word, the taller man grabbed the diary and turned toward the door, lighting a cigeratte on the way out. Exasperated.
Hamza furrowed his brows, questioningly at his sudden departure after his insistent requests “Kahan ja raha hai?”
Uzair decided it was a waste of time to reply back.
“OI UZAIR!?!?”
“Kya hai.”
“Kya kar rha hai?”
Uzair shrugged casually, already turning the doorknob, ready to leave. “Chai wale ko dene jaa hoon.”
All thoughts of killing the baloch, along with his “mere nikkah main nachke, sabse attention cheen lunga” wale bhai ke thoughts came rushing back.
He should include an addition of Uzair Baloch in his journal too tonight.
“KYA?”
“Haan.” Uzair nodded like this was perfectly reasonable. “Woh toh padha likha lagta hai, Rehman bhai ne uske school ke paise diye the bohot saal pehle.”
Hamza stares at Uzair as if he’s grown 1000 heads.
“YOU CANNOT MAKE THE TEA SELLER READ YOUR WIFE’S DIARY!”
“Lekin usse angrezi aati hai—”
“USKE PAAS PURI BAZAAR BHI AATI HAI!.”
Uzair smirked inwardly, his masterplan had worked. Now hamza was going to do his bidding.
“…Accha point hai.”
Hamza snatched the diary instantly, flipping through the pages angrily.
“Sit down before you destroy your marriage.”
A victorious smirk stretched across Uzair’s face as he dropped back into his chair.
“Knew you’d do it.”
“I hate you.”
“Padh na lodu .”
Hamza muttered several things under his breath about emotional blackmail and men who clearly had no understanding of boundaries.
“Khuda qasam,” he grumbled, finally settling on a random page, “you have absolutely zero understanding of privacy.”
Uzair waved him off impatiently, growing visibly agitated again. He checked his watch, jaw tightening.
It was nearly time for his biwi to return from shopping, and there was no way in jahannum he intended to waste another minute in this kachra place instead of heading back to their alishan haveli to receive her.
His wife had expensive taste and an even more expensive habit of sulking if he wasn’t there to greet her properly.
“Bas shuru kar.”
Hamza cleared his throat dramatically. Then his brows furrowed almost immediately.
“…Oh.”
Uzair leaned forward, curiosity getting the better of him once again.
“Kya hai ? Bolna yaar”
There was something deeply uncomfortable in his expression now, he let out a mocking gag. The type single teenagers shoot when exposed to the sight of couples kissing in alleyways.
“She really likes you.”
Uzair straightened so fast it was almost comical. A smug expression settled onto his face with alarming speed.
“Obviously,” he said, offended the question had even been asked. “Shohar hoon main uska. Of course she likes me.”
Still, beneath all that insufferable confidence, warmth bloomed quietly in his chest. It was oddly comforting—knowing the feeling wasn’t one-sided. That for all the ways he hovered around her, thought about her, missed her after a few hours apart…she was just as hopelessly gone for him.
Achha tha, he thought smugly. Nice to know his biwi was equally whipped
Hamza starts reading--
He began reading aloud, slowly at first, translating bits of Urdu-English mix into something Uzair could understand.
The first few entries were mundane — grocery lists, reminders about a tailor, a paragraph about how pretty the moon looked last Tuesday. Uzair felt his shoulders relax. Maybe it wasn’t anything secret.
Until the lovey dovey parts started—
“Uzair fell asleep on the sofa again today. One arm over his eyes, grumbling at absolutely nobody. He looked unfairly beautiful , his kohl adorned eyes did wonders to his face.’”
Uzair averted his gaze almost instantly.
A faint blush crept onto the tips of his ears, the only visible crack in his otherwise smug composure.
“Dusra kuch padh.”
Hamza side-eyed him.
Uzair, for his part, turned up — suddenly fascinated by the ceiling.
Hamza turned the page expecting more such teasing entries for the younger baloch, then his smile froze.
The handwriting shifted—sharper, more hurried, as if written in a fever. He read silently at first, his eyes scanning the words as he dictated . Then his jaw dropped.
“—sometimes I imagine his hands on my waist, pulling me against the wall. His lips on my neck, teeth grazing that spot that makes me gasp. He’d push my dupatta aside, trail his mouth down my chest, and I’d arch into him, begging for more. I wanted him to slide his hand under my kameez, fingers finding my cunt already wet. He’d groan against my skin, call me his good girl, tell me I’m all his. I’d feel his cock pressing against my thigh through his shalwar, hard and aching. I wanted him to fuck me right there, slow and deep, until I screamed his name—”
“The Fuck,” Hamza breathed.
“….”
“…..”
“AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH”
“AAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHGAADJJ”
BAS BAS BAS!” Uzair lunged forward and snatched the diary out of Hamza’s hands, his face turning the colour of a ripe tamatar. “Chup kar! Yeh tera baap ka diary nahi hai!”
“TUNE HI TO BOLA THA PADHNE KE LIYE??? YA ALLAH MERI AANKHEIN LELO, YE KYA DEKH LIYA MAINE?? UZAIR MAIN TEREKO NAHI CHODUNGA”
The roads witness Rehman baloch’s left hand man chase his right hand man with a gun , and no one till this day knows why.
Except for (y/n) baloch…well uzair had fulfilled all her fantasies that night as a way of confrontation on her diary drabbles, very thoroughly if she may add.
Note! : man this reminds me of the old days when I used to post at ungodly hours. This is based on this request, and I think I was unable to do justice on this…*sighs* . I’m like really Ill and I think half of the people I know here already know about it….anyways, this is a short drabble I scraped up from my deathbed :’)
