summary . . . after finishing his most recent mission, leon can finally focus on making amends with you years after the divorce.
notes. i have been down bad in my leon era for years now and requiem gave me the motivation to start writing for him. i wrote this at work in two hours, and then an hour at home. ngl, my bad if the time line is wonky bc the timeline for re is weird for me 🚶♀️ i had to use the wiki site for this.
tags ──────── fluff & angst, ranges from the years of re2 to re9, contains spoilers for requiem. cw, mentions of alcoholism because of ven!leon. word count: 3.1k words.
Leon Kennedy married at the age of 27.
It was shortly after he returned from his mission abroad in Spain. But it only lasted for 9 years.
He’s 49 now and he’s been divorced for 13 years. He has many regrets in his life, being the cause of his divorce is his biggest one.
He’s on the road, driving above the speed limit to get to his destination quicker. There is a beautiful bouquet sitting in the passenger seat of his expensive car. Every time he presses his foot against the brake pedal at a yellow light turning red, his eyes glance over it to make sure it’s not about to fly off.
He couldn’t let them get ruined before presenting them to his ex wife.
You were the greatest thing that happened to him since that fateful night in Raccoon City. It’s been 13 years, and he still believes you were the only good thing to happen at all in his twisted life. The marriage might have been short, but he cherishes the moments.
Your love, your touch, your presence.
He met you through Claire. He liked to talk to her from time to time and see how she was doing. Although, their conversations weren’t very consistent. It never took long for her to bring up the same name each time. Yours. You worked at TerraSave with her. She always spoke so highly of you.
Maybe he felt a little envious that she found friendships easier than he did. Yet, it did leave him curious as to who you were. He eventually met you one day. There you were, attached to Claire’s hip. It was nice to put a face to a name.
He couldn’t deny the sudden attraction. He reached out to you in secret after everything was said and done.
Claire would forgive him for stealing her friend away, wouldn’t she? Now, instead of him hearing about you, Claire was hearing about him through you. You knew she probably found you very insufferable when that engagement ring appeared on your finger.
He slowly circled the parking lot of TerraSave, scanning the remaining vehicles. There weren’t many. Just the usual workers who stayed after hours to finish their assignments. You and him had that bad habit of overworking. He eventually spotted your car. He should know it. He bought it for you after all.
Leon held back his smirk when he saw the empty parking spots surrounding your car.
Perfect. Everything was going according to plan.
He parked beside you and turned off the engine. He took in a deep breath and exhaled. He pocketed his keys, unbuckled his seatbelt, and grabbed the bouquet. He checked over it. Still in good condition. He opened the car door, his boots stepping on gravel.
He knew very well what he was doing. He intentionally wore his usual attire that you always had your gaze wandering over to him. His leather jacket, his dark jeans, a tight fitting shirt underneath. Though, he did feel a little ridiculous because it reminded him of being in school and trying to get your crush’s attention.
Leon closed his car door and held the bouquet in both hands. His eyes went from your car to his. What would be better? For you to find him on yours or his? He decided on yours, and when he was practicing which pose he should go with, he got caught by some young male employee walking by. The two of them stared at each other and had an unspoken agreement to pretend that didn’t happen.
He laid the bouquet on the hood of your car and leaned against it. He closed his eyes briefly, taking another moment to inhale and exhale. He would fully admit that he was nervous.
He began to think back to the moments that led him here. Working under the DSO and the horrors that he’d seen had affected him deeply. He knew it, and instead of relying on you or others for help, he turned to his vices. Leon allowed his drinking habits to get out of order. The arguments ensued. You told him to stop, he did for a few months, and he’d come home drunk after a grueling mission.
He never knew when your breaking moment occurred. He only remembered that when you said the word, divorce, he snapped out of his drunken haze. Only then did he start begging for you to reconsider. He’d even fallen to his knees, arms wrapped around your legs, telling you how he’d get the help he needed. Anything to get you to stay. But you were firm.
It hurt so badly to see you sign your name followed by “Kennedy” on those divorce papers.
More than all those times he got launched into oblivion by some bio weapon.
You separated. He moved out to some apartment. Now he drank because his life was shitty and you were gone.
You two were very cordial with each other. There weren’t any hard feelings and Leon never blamed you for the decision you took. He pushed you to it. So, in this new arrangement, he felt like he owed you something. He paid his and your bills, he sent you money, he took care of any problems you might have, and he bought you any necessities. And at least, in this way, he was still taking care of you like he promised you in his vows.
He got better after he helped Chris take down Arias. He focused on himself. And really, he wanted to fix things with you in the following months of his mission in Alcatraz.
But when his thumb hovered over your contact in his phone, he stopped. Something held him back. The doubt crawled. What if he found himself falling into that dark space again? The thoughts continued to fester. He wasn’t good enough, and you deserved better.
2016. 2017. 2018. 2019. 2020.
The years started to fly by. Every single damn time he went to call you, he held himself back. When he finally decided, no more, he found out he was infected. Despair filled his heart. Why now? He couldn’t go back to you like this. So he put it on hold.
He would fix things with you once he found a cure for this. Helping himself and the others infected with the same thing was part of his motivation. The other part? The absolute refusal of dying before repairing your relationship.
The mission was brutal. But like all the others, he pushed through. There were times his infection got the better of him and he did lose a little bit of hope. He was on edge wondering if his time was finally up.
Whenever he fell unconscious, he saw you. Your bright and glossy eyes when he got on one knee. You, in your beautiful white dress, approaching where he waited at the altar. Leon remembered shedding tears at how gorgeous you looked on your shared special day.
No, he couldn’t die here. Not yet. Not when he still wanted you.
He pushed through, and succeeded. You were his motivation.
And once he settled back to normal, he made his plan. Now, in the parking lot of TerraSave, he’d wait here as long as he needed to for you to come out. He opened his eyes again, filled with determination as the sky changed colors.
The parking lot began to empty as more employees clocked out.
Until—
Click. Click. Click. The sound your heels made on the pavement made his head snap in your direction. You were searching for your keys in your purse. You let out an annoyed huff. Why didn’t you get them before you left your office? Same problem at the end of every day. The lanyard around your neck was also fueling your annoyance. You jerked it back into place, finally finding your car keys.
You snatched them out of your purse and hooked the straps in the crook of your elbow. You lifted your head and came to a sudden stop.
Your brows knitted together. Were you… Were you seeing things?
Leon Kennedy was leaning comfortably against your car, his arms crossed over his chest. You spotted the bouquet behind him. The corners of his lips quirked upwards at the way you reacted to seeing him. He pushed himself off the hood of your car, reaching for the bouquet.
“Long day?” His voice cut the silence.
Yes, it was. You wanted to go home and throw yourself on your couch. What was your ex husband doing here? He looked better.
You took cautious steps closer. The bouquet he bought for you was beautiful, and he got your favorite flowers too.
“What are you doing?” You asked, the suspicion in your tone very much clear. His smile grew a little wider and he chuckled.
“I can’t come see my ex wife and give her some flowers after a stressful day?” He asked. You were standing closer to him now. He briefly checked out your ID attached to your lanyard. Oh, the giddiness he felt seeing “Kennedy” in bold print on the simple piece of plastic. He knew you never changed your last name after the divorce. “Are we on bad terms and I wasn’t informed?”
Leon watched your eyes slowly narrow. Damn. You were getting suspicious of him. How dare you still be quick to catch on to his schemes.
He held out the bouquet, “These are for you.”
“Yeah, you said that.” You waited a couple seconds before finally taking the bouquet from his grasp. Your fingers grazed his rough palm briefly. Although you thought nothing of it, Leon felt his heart pound harder against his chest.
Just like the first time he met you, he was instantly drawn into you. He noticed your features. He could still see the younger you in there. It reminded him how you were both much older now and all the time spent apart. He should have been there the last decade. To see you and him slowly age together.
He found you so much more attractive. A part of him wanted to sit and stare at you for hours on end.
You snapped your fingers in front of his face which brought him out of his trace. His eyebrows quirked upwards for a moment.
“Did you hear what I said?” Leon blinked. He gave you a sheepish look and shook his head. You huffed and frowned. You were cradling the bouquet in your arms now, “I asked why are you here.” You weren’t mad or hostile, just curious to see him appear where you worked. He hasn’t done this since the divorce.
He didn’t respond right away. He tilted his head back slightly. He was contemplating on what to say. Or how to explain the way he’d felt since the first time he wanted to reach out to you.
Meanwhile, you kept staring at him with that look of curiosity. But on the inside? You were just as affected by his presence as he was by yours.
“I’m sorry.”
Your shoulders became tense at his apology. It was sincere, you knew it. Not like the one he gave you from his knees when you told him you wanted a divorce. Those were desperate attempts to keep you. Even he was aware he didn’t mean them.
“I’m sorry,” Leon repeated, his eyes meeting yours. “For everything. For being the reason why our marriage failed. For not being the husband I told you I was going to be… You didn’t deserve any of that. I don’t blame you for leaving me because you tried to help me, and I didn’t want any help.”
An unknown feeling in your body slowly began to disappear. Your throat tighten. This closure you were getting with Leon was something you didn’t realize you needed. For a brief moment, you were sent back to those early days when you were dating. He was still the same rookie cop from Raccoon City, slowly being shaped into an elite agent for the government.
“And I don’t blame you for no longer loving me.” He muttered, his expression becoming rather grim. It had been a while since he was this open with you. “I just need you to know that I’m still in love with you, and that I’m truly sorry.”
“Leon… I didn’t… I didn’t leave you because I stopped loving you. I never did.” You admitted. Your admission of how you truly felt made a flicker of surprise appear in his eyes. “I left you because if that’s how you were going to spend the rest of our lives together? … I wasn’t going to be able to live like that and watch you keep turning yourself into someone you weren’t.”
Did he really think because he became an alcoholic for a moment in his life that you’d stopped loving him? He couldn’t be more wrong. Yes, you hated that vice. It had destroyed him and taken control of him. But during the time he drowned his sorrows in heavy liquor, you never stopped seeing him as your Leon. He was just your misguided Leon.
He spent all these years believing you’d stopped loving him because of his addiction. This moment caused something to shift inside him. You’d given him all the confirmation and confidence he needed.
Leon slipped a hand into the front pocket of his jeans. His gaze went to the bouquet and then to you again.
“Do you want to go out sometime?” He asked. Leon watched you press your lips together, clearly not trying to smile. He chuckled softly, “You know you want to.”
You rolled your eyes at his cocky attitude, “I’ll send you my schedule.” In all honesty, if you didn’t send it to him, he’d be okay with that. It would give him all the more reason to start pestering you since you wanted to play hard to get this time around. He did, however, feel a sharp pain in his chest when you mentioned a schedule.
It was a reminder how he no longer knew exactly what time you’d come home, whether you’d be flying out of state on a random Tuesday morning, or leaving the country.
Leon plucked your car keys from between your fingers. You gave another confused look as he pressed the unlock button on the remote. He walked over to the driver’s side and opened it. He held it open, nodding his head and motioning you to get inside.
Great, he’s starting already.
You made your way and stood in the middle. You shifted your purse, setting it on the passenger seat. You slipped into the driver’s seat, moving the bouquet from your lap and beside your purse.
He dipped his head down, planting an unexpected kiss on your cheek. You would have thought it was sweet… If he didn’t go and mess it all up by sinking his teeth softly into your flesh and giving it a pull. You hissed. He always did that in the early mornings when he was rushing off to the DSO because he chose to stay in bed with you a little longer.
“Stop it!” You covered your cheek with one hand and swatted him repeatedly with the other. He snickered, shielding himself behind his arms from your soft blows. You wiped away the saliva that wet your palm on the plastic wrap surrounding the flowers.
“What?” He laughed one more time. He rested his forearm against the top part of the car. “How do you expect me to act after my ex wife admits she still has a crush on me?”
“Leon, please do not call it a crush.” You rubbed your forehead with your fingertips. Here came the headache, “We’re 49 years old.”
“I’ve missed you.” He said. A smirk appeared on his face when you glared up at him through your lashes. He patted the roof of your car and dangled your keys in front of you. He quickly moved them out of the way when you tried to grab them, “C’mon. Are you going to make me work for it? ‘Cause you know I will.”
“I guess… I’ve missed you too.” You finally relented.
“Oh, you guess?” Leon mocked. You grabbed the keys in one swift movement from him.
“Get out of here before I call the security guard on you for trespassing.” You scoffed, putting your seatbelt on. He let out a loud gasp.
“I’m scared.” Leon sarcastically exclaimed. He clutched the front of his shirt, going on with his act of being terrified, “You’re threatening my clean record and my background as a cop.” You clenched your jaw tightly, turning your head the other way. He knew you were trying to control your smile and keep yourself from laughing at his jokes. But you broke. He heard the soft chuckle and you shook your head.
“You’re still annoying.” You looked over at him again. A silence settled. Just you and him staring at each other.
He decided to let you go. Leon closed your door, and walked around the front of the car. He heard the engine turn on. He nearly stopped to open the passenger side door and pretend like he was getting in. Let’s not push your buttons too much.
The two of you drove home on separate roads, miles apart like you had been the last 13 years. The only difference today? The two of you wore the same, identical smile and thought about each other.
Leon is in the familiar room you two once used to share. He’s in the same king sized bed with you wrapped up in his embrace. The feel of your bare skin pressed against his after all these years is so surreal. You’re fast asleep with your head tucked under his chin. You’re exhaling softly, your breath hitting his neck.
His fingertips are running up and down your spine in a slow manner. He’s awake, enjoying this feeling of being content. When was he the happiest, he wonders. Was it the day you exchanged vows on the altar or was it now when he finally had you again?
It had to be this very moment.
He kissed the top of your head, letting his lips linger. A mischievous smile appeared. He quickly rolled you two over, the sheets rustling as he moved your bodies. His weight on top of you pinned you to the mattress. You felt the disturbance in your peaceful slumber.
“Ugh… Leon,” You groaned in a drowsy manner. He grinned, noticing the twitch in your brows. He leaned up until his lips were by your ear.
“It’s your turn to hold me.” He mumbled. Leon began kissing your jawline, slowly moving down and down, until he came to the crook of your neck. Your arms wrapped weakly around his shoulders. He felt your nails lightly scratching his nape. He hummed and closed his eyes. His face buried into your neck, taking in your scent.
Nothing mattered. Not when he finally had Mrs. Kennedy in his arms again.
a cold chill runs through sukuna’s body as he grumbles half asleep something about leaving the window open.
annoyed, he moves to pull up his blanket to find it being tugged on with the sound of small sniffles filling the room.
“papa?”
one of his crimson eyes shoot open locating where the sound is coming from, his senses heightened.
only to find his 3 year old son holding his plushie rubbing his eye with a small fist and incessantly sobbing.
sukuna sighs relieved that it’s just his bratty offspring, moving to sit up.
he looks down at his son chin resting on his hand with a raised brow.
“papa y-yuji has a bad dream” he speaks through multiple hiccups.
sukuna is not impressed. putting his grumpiness aside his heart softens at his sons disposition.
he effortlessly grabs yuji bringing him into his arms and patting the back of his head.
“what dream?” he asks wondering what could bring a three year old to such distress.
this whole situation seemed silly to your husband. he was not taking it seriously.
“doggy comes and bark and bites yuji” he babbles through his limited grasp on language.
sukuna tries to hide his grin, seriously? he couldn’t believe he had to deal with such stupidity.
seeing sukuna’s non-reassuring expression yuji proceeds to burst further into tears.
the sound finally wakes you and you stir in your sleep confused.
you immediately shift into action when you recognize the sound of your sons sobs.
“what happened??” you ask out of breath worry knitting your brows.
you push sukuna aside reaching out your hands to pull yuji into your arms “baby what’s wrong?” you kiss him on his forehead inspecting for any signs of hurt.
“brat had a nightmare” sukuna remarks shrugging yet still wanting you to calm down.
“oh yu tell me about it” you wipe yujis tears with your hand leaning down to kiss his chubby cheek.
“bad doggy bite me and- and-papa laugh at me”
this little snitch sukuna’s jaw tightens.
you slowly turn your head to look at your husband your glare shooting daggers.
“ryomen.sukuna.is.this.funny.to.you?” you spoke through your teeth your tone laced with threat.
sukuna frowns throwing up his hands “i heard him out woman, there was no reason for him to make such a fuss”
“kuna he’s three!” you shake your head, disappointed.
you’d always lectured sukuna to be more considerate towards his son, to understand that he was a baby and needed to be treated as such.
your husband would always grumble under his breath about how he needed to toughen up so he wouldn’t be a pussy and you’d smack him on his arm everytime warning him to be softer, kinder.
you knew you had to teach him a lesson.
“it was just a dream okay yu? it wasn’t real” you assure yuji rubbing his hair softly.
your son listens to you attentively his hiccups quieting down “besides, if doggy was real then papa would protect you from it, right?” you aim that question at sukuna.
“whatever” your husband mumbles moving to go back to sleep now that the commotion was over.
however he’s pulled back by your hand on his arm “not so quick tiger” sukuna turns his head to look at you.
“you’re gonna make it up to him and put him back to sleep” you raise your chin your tone final.
yuji looks between the both of you “mama put papa in timeout” you laugh unexpectedly at how spot on yuji was.
he was going to be a very observant and caring kid you could just tell.
sukuna holds your gaze for a long time then finally gives in picking up yuji and carrying him to his room.
“you should sleep” he mutters to his son.
“i’m scared..” yuji speaks in a hushed tone.
sukuna’s heart melts and after a moment of self reflection he finally speaks apologizing in his own way.
“after you sleep i’ll go beat up bad doggy”
“really?”
“really.”
soon enough yuji starts to feel drowsy, drooling on sukuna’s shoulder.
you watch from the doorway your heart filled with so much love for the both of them as sukuna tucks him in.
“bad doggy..” yuji mutters in his half asleep state.
“close your eyes” sukuna brushes his sons eyelids close.
cw: explicit smut, toji eats you out on the phone w/ shiu.
Toji’s got you spread out on the living room couch, one leg hooked over the backrest, the other pushed up and out by the iron grip of his forearm. Your shorts and panties are long gone—crumpled somewhere on the floor—and his broad shoulders keep you pinned open.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table. He didn’t even pause—just reached over with one lazy hand, thumbed it to speaker, and answered without lifting his head. “Yeah?” Voice rough, muffled against your pussy.
Shiu’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Yo, you busy? Got a job lead, need to talk details. You free to call?”
Toji dragged his tongue up slow circling your clit with the tip before sucking it into his mouth hard enough to make your back arch off the couch. You slapped a hand over your own mouth to muffle the whimper.
He pulled back just enough to speak, lips shiny with you, breath hot against your throbbing cunt. “Yeah,” he drawled casually, “I’m free. Just eatin’. What’s up?”
Shiu snorted on the other end. “Eatin’? This late? You order takeout or somethin’?” Toji’s tongue flicked out again lapping at your entrance before plunging inside, fucking you with slow, deep strokes. Your thighs trembled around his head, pussy soaking his face. “Somethin’ like that,” Toji muttered, voice thick, lips brushing your clit with every word. “Tastes perfect. Real fuckin’ good.”
You whined and despite your best efforts the sound carried. Shiu paused. “…You good, man? Sounds like you’re multitasking.”
Toji laughed as he sucked your clit again, hard, popping off with a wet sound that was obscene even over the phone. “Yeah,” he rasped, dragging his tongue flat up your slit one more time, slow enough to make your eyes roll back. “Just… enjoying my meal. Keep talkin’.”
Shiu sighed, clearly suspicious but too used to Toji’s bullshit to push. “Alright, whatever. So the job’s in Shibuya—client wants it quiet, double the pay if we wrap by Friday—”
Toji hummed like he was listening, but his mouth never stopped. One thick finger slid inside you—then two making your thighs squeeze around him harder. You were dripping down his chin, soaking the collar of his shirt. He didn’t care. Just kept eating like your pussy was the only thing on his mind while Shiu droned on about payout and timelines. “—you in or what?” Shiu finished.
Toji pulled back just long enough to answer, lips swollen, “Mhm,” he finally grunts into the phone, voice lazy. “Double’s good. Send me the location.”
He dives back in without missing a beat—tongue fucking into you deep while his thumb circles your clit in tight, relentless little strokes. Shiu keeps talking logistics—times, entry points, cleanup—none the wiser. Toji responds in short, gruff sentences, each one punctuated by another long lick or a slow suck that makes your hips buck against his face.
Then Shiu pauses. “Yo… what the hell are you eating over there? Sounds like it tastes fuckin’ good. You got some gourmet shit or what?”
Toji laughs against your pussy, “Yeah. Real fuckin’ good. Best meal I’ve had in a while.” You’re mortified and soaked and you feel like you about to fucking cum with Shiu on the phone. Shiu laughs. “Man, save some for me next time. Sounds like you’re enjoying the hell outta that.” He laughs slurping louder, “Nah, I ain’t sharing’.”
Toji’s thumb presses harder on your clit—once, twice—and you can’t hold it back anymore. A muffled moan slips past your fingers. Toji’s grip on your hip tightens in warning, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets meaner—tongue plunging deeper, lips sealing around your clit and sucking hard. “Gotta go,” he mutters into the phone, voice rough. “Food’s gettin’ cold.”
He hangs up before Shiu can say another word, tossing the phone onto the couch like it’s nothing. Then both hands are on you—gripping your ass, spreading you wider, burying his face so deep you feel his nose pressed against you.
Tongue and fingers work in tandem—curling inside you while his mouth devours your clit. You come hard, screaming his name, thighs clamping around his head as you shake and gush against his tongue.
Toji doesn’t let up even after you come, thighs clamped around his ears and your whole body twitching. He cleans up every drop, long, dragging licks from your oversensitive entrance back up to your swollen bud. You can barely form words. Your hand’s still clamped over your mouth even though the call’s long dead, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat.
He crawls up your body, caging you in, lips brushing yours so you could taste yourself on him. “Shiu’s right,” he murmurs, “You do taste fuckin’ good.”
a/n: bro I’m actually becoming too obsessed w toji
NOTES: really head the tws on this one. Based on this ask <3 she's a little out there but i love her a lot.
TW: modern!au, smut, dirty talk, cheating, stepcest, bisexual!ben (barely), aka Ben is your dad's new husband/your stepdad, stepdaughter!reader, mentions of drugs/drug usage/drinking, ben and your dad are absolutely not happily married, age gap between your dad and Ben (60s/40s), age gap between you and Ben (40s/20s), estranged father/daughter relationship, so much irony, that’s it I think
Masterlist
You really didn’t want to like him.
Not just because he was your dad’s new husband—a phrase that still made your skin crawl if you said it out loud. Not just because he was too young for your dad by at least a decade and a half, too cocky, too charming, too pretty for someone like your dad who was allegedly settling down for the second time in his mid-sixties. No, you didn’t want to like Ben because of how easily he’d stepped into your life—like it hadn’t been scorched earth just to get you here in the first place.
Like there hadn’t been seven years of silence.
Like your dad hadn’t missed every holiday, every milestone, every time you’d actually needed a parent since he left your mom when you were 13 to “live his truth.” Like the last text you’d sent him in one of your rare, ‘I miss my dad’ moments—Hey. Can we talk? It’d be nice to see you sometime—hadn’t sat unread for months before he reappeared out of nowhere, casual as ever, inviting you to spend the summer with him in LA and “meet my new husband.”
You’d almost said no. You should’ve said no.
But then you got there.
And Ben opened the door.
And you realized: your dad’s new husband is Soldier Boy.
Or, well—was. Now he’s just Ben. A little washed up. Shirtless. Sweatpants slung low on his hips. Hair messy, eyes sharp. Beer in one hand and a joint in the other. Rude. Flirty. Crude. Inappropriately flirty from the jump. And alarmingly charismatic.
He’d looked you up and down, no shame whatsoever.
“Shit. You’re the daughter? You’re all grown up, huh?”
You’d glared. Rolled your eyes. Scoffed. But even then, you felt it—the pull. The danger. The heat beneath your skin you tried to blame on the LA sun.
And over the weeks that followed, it only got worse.
Because Ben? He was fun. Loud, crass, impulsive. He shared his stash, blasted Sabbath from the surround sound, taught you how to mix all his favorite drinks. You’d found yourselves watching trash TV and drinking by the pool, high and sun-drunk, heckling dating shows like you were old friends.
He made you laugh so hard it hurt.
He was everything your dad wasn’t.
Your dad was like a resume in human form—polished, precise, strategic. Always telling you what you should be doing with your life, always trying to turn every conversation into a self-improvement seminar—as if he’d get any say or opinion after all but abandoning you at 13 years old. Ben couldn’t have cared less. He told your dad to “chill the fuck out” more than once. He took your side in arguments. He winked at you across the kitchen table like you shared a secret.
And maybe you did.
He should’ve made your skin crawl.
Instead, he made you want to stay in the house you could hardly wait to get out of.
It’s a random Thursday night in June when it happens the first time.
The house is quiet. Your dad’s out at some godawful networking dinner with his old finance buddies—guys Ben visibly loathes, even just by mention—so it’s just you and him tonight.
The two of you eat takeout on the couch, half a dozen containers spread out across the coffee table, mostly empty at this point. You’re on your third drink and somewhere into hour two of back-to-back ‘90s action flicks.
Ben’s arm is stretched casually over the back of the couch. His legs spread wide. He’s back in those goddamn sweatpants—the ones with the loose drawstring and, you’re almost positive, no underwear. He stretches during a particularly violent scene, a deep, lazy motion that shows off more than it should, then turns toward you with a smirk.
“You always get this quiet when you’re buzzed?”
You lift your glass to your lips. “I’m not quiet. I’m just trying not to say something that’ll get me in trouble.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, grin widening, “everything outta your mouth could get you in trouble. You’ve got a real attitude problem.”
You roll your eyes, but your mouth twitches. He always does this—winds you up, pokes just hard enough to see what you’ll do. You hate how much you like it.
The movie drones on in the background, flickering across his face in shades of blue and orange.
And then, you say it—quiet, but pointed.
“You don’t seem to like my dad.”
Ben doesn’t even blink. “Nope.”
You blink at him dumbly. “You don’t really even try to hide it.”
He chuckles. “Why would I?”
“I don’t know. Because you married him.”
He takes a long sip of his drink and nods. “Yeah. I did.”
You frown, studying him. “Why?”
There’s a long pause. Ben exhales, long and slow, scratching lazily at his chest. He leans his head back, eyes drifting up to the ceiling like he’s trying to find the words there.
“Honestly?” He says, glancing sideways at you. “I don’t really know. Just kinda… stumbled into it. He chased me for months. Took me on all these stupid-ass trips and gallery showings, made everything seem easy. Next thing I know, we’re drunk in Cabo and he’s got a ring out and I was too high to say no.”
You stare at him. Your mouth actually falls open. “That’s… wow.”
“Yeah.” Ben pauses, grinning crookedly. “But hey. He’s loaded, lets me top, and buys me drugs. So, y'know, I don’t complain too much.”
You choke on your drink, coughing hard enough to make your eyes water.
Ben barks out a laugh, full-bodied and amused. “What? I’m bein’ honest!”
You gape at him, still coughing. “You married him for the drugs?”
“No,” he says with a lazy grin, “I married him ‘cause he wanted me, and I was bored. The drugs are just a nice perk.”
You shake your head, incredulous. “You’re unbelievable.”
He shrugs, as if he hears it all the time. “Probably,” he says. “Doesn’t stop your dad from wiring me a stupid amount of money every time I threaten to leave, though.”
Your eyes narrow. “You’ve… threatened to leave?”
He throws an arm back over the edge of the couch, nodding casually. “A couple times, yeah. First month was rough. He thought he was getting some domesticated little house husband. I thought I was getting a guy who didn’t talk about quarterly earnings in bed.”
You let out a startled laugh—quick and sharp—then immediately cover your mouth.
“Yeah,” Ben says, a little softer now. “It’s not like—I don’t hate him or anything. He’s just not…” He waves a hand, searching for the word. “Fun.”
You glance at him. “And that’s important?”
“Hell yeah, it is.” He looks at you now, really looks. “You want to wake up next to someone who makes you feel like passion project homework every day?”
The air goes a little still.
That hits a little too close.
You don’t answer, but the way your smile fades is answer enough.
“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, settling back.
Then, quieter—almost reflective—he says, “Your dad’s a decent enough guy. I’ve never been one for domestic shit like this. Models, parties, showgirls, drugs, pretty boys—that’s all more my speed. I thought I’d get used to this. Maybe I’d like it eventually. And maybe one day I will. Just not with him. Not here.”
You shouldn’t feel the warmth that spreads in your chest. You shouldn’t want to lean into it. But God, it’s so easy with him.
You rub your thumb over the rim of your glass. “So what, you’re just waiting it out? Until it crashes and burns?”
Ben hums. “Maybe…”
He trails off and looks at you with something too direct. Too sharp. Like he’s weighing something. Like he’s deciding.
“You ever think about what it’d take to really blow something up?” he says, voice low. “Not just piss someone off. I mean ruin it. Drop a match and walk away.”
Your heart kicks.
Your stomach flips.
You shouldn’t ask, but you do anyway.
“Are you trying to blow it up?”
He smiles—barely.
“Not yet.”
So you keep drinking.
Not fast, not sloppy—just steady sips, enough that the edges blur and the silence feels less loaded. Enough to quiet the ache in your chest and loosen the knot in your throat. The house feels different without your dad in it. Less stiff. Less watchful. Like for once, no one’s waiting to catch you in the act of being wrong.
Ben tops off your glass without asking, without even looking. He just knows. Slides the bottle over with an ease that feels almost intimate.
“So, I gotta ask,” he says, leaning back into the worn leather of the couch, one ankle crossing over the opposite knee like he’s settling in for something real. “Why’d you even come out here?”
You glance at him, wary. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he gestures lazily, “you and your dad barely tolerate each other. You could’ve stayed wherever you were. Gone anywhere else. But you didn’t. You showed up here.”
You look back down into your glass. The wine swirls a little when your fingers tighten around the stem. The question shouldn’t sting, but it does. Because you’ve asked it yourself more than once since stepping through that door.
“I guess I didn’t really have anywhere else to go,” you say eventually, voice low.
Ben doesn’t press. He just watches. Waits. And somehow, that makes it harder to hold back.
You breathe out slowly. “I just got out of a…something.”
He nods, easy. Like he already figured that much. “Ah. That explains the vibe.”
You squint at him. “What vibe?”
He grins, teeth flashing. “The ‘I’m pretending I’m fine but I’m one bad song away from crying in the shower’ vibe.”
You snort despite yourself, the sound sharper than you meant it to be. “Shut up.”
“Am I wrong?” He raises a brow, all smug and satisfied.
You don’t answer. Just take another sip to keep from smiling too much. The glass is cool against your lips, but the warmth in your chest isn’t from the alcohol.
After a beat, the words slip out quieter: “He cheated on me.”
Ben doesn’t react right away. But then you catch it—a flicker in his jaw. The way his hand clenches slightly on the armrest. Controlled, but telling.
“Yeah?” he says, voice tight. “Shit. That’s a tough break, sweetheart.”
You swallow. It should’ve ended there. You should’ve shrugged it off like always. But something about this moment, this house, him—you can’t stop.
“And,” you add before you can chicken out, “he kept acting like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was my fault and I was being dramatic. Like wanting to actually be wanted made me—needy.”
Ben scoffs. Loud. Disgusted. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”
You laugh, but it’s hollow. “There were other things, too. It just... wasn’t right. We didn’t work. It was never going to last.”
“Let me guess,” he says dryly, “bad in bed?”
Your face goes hot.
And of course he notices. His eyes light up with wicked amusement.
“Oh, come on,” he drawls, tilting toward you just a little. “That little asshole cheated and couldn’t fuck? What kind of soft handed tinkerbell were you dating, sweetheart.”
The laugh that bursts out of you is unexpected—sharp, startled, real. It hits your ribs and shakes something loose.
“I didn’t say that,” you say, still breathless.
He turns to face you fully now, one elbow resting on his knee, eyes zeroed in on you like he’s seeing through every word you don’t say.
“You said enough,” he says. “And I know this—any guy who makes you feel like you’re asking too much just by wanting to be touched is full of shit. Especially when it’s someone like you.”
That last part lands harder than it should. Someone like you.
Your breath hitches. You look down, then back at him, trying to find the joke—something that makes this a little safer, a little less earth-shaking. But Ben’s not smirking now. He’s not leaning in. He’s just looking at you, open and unguarded in a way that makes your stomach twist.
“Fuck that guy,” he says again, softer this time. Like a vow. “Boys your age don’t know fuck all about women. They couldn’t get it right if they had a week to plan it out step by step.”
Then, without warning, without buildup—
“I mean, shit. I bet I could do better right now.”
The words hang there.
No teasing edge. No leer. Just something sharp and true that makes your heart slam against your ribs.
“Ben…” you say, barely above a whisper. Your voice wavers, unsure, warning.
But he doesn’t move toward you. Doesn’t reach. Doesn’t try to walk it back.
“Yeah, I know,” he murmurs. “I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
You stare at him. He stares back.
And in that stillness, something shifts.
You’re actually the one who closes the distance.
You’re not even thinking anymore.
Not about your dad.
Not about how completely fucked this is.
Just about the way Ben’s looking at you—like he’s been waiting for you to crack.
And when you kiss him—soft, slow, almost testing—he doesn’t freeze, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pull away.
He grabs you.
A hand on the back of your neck, the other gripping your thigh like he’s claiming it. Like this was inevitable.
“Fuckin’ finally,” he mutters against your mouth, already pulling you into his lap.
You gasp when his hand slides up the back of your shirt. He’s hungry—not sweet, not slow. Like it’s been months. Like you’re the first real thing he’s touched in forever.
“Been sittin’ here all damn summer,” he groans, “watching you walk around this house like that—shorts ridin’ up, talkin’ back, lookin’ at me like you wanted me to fuck you up against the wall every fucking time.”
Your breath hitches. His mouth is on your neck now, biting hard enough to bruise.
“I knew the second you walked in,” he growls, “this was gonna happen. Knew I wasn’t gonna be able to help myself.”
His hand slips between your legs and he grins when he feels the heat through your shorts.
“And would’ya look at that,” he murmurs, voice dark. “You wanted this too.”
You don’t deny it.
Can’t.
You’re already grinding against him, dizzy with it. He drags his mouth back to yours, kisses you like he’s claiming every part of you your ex couldn’t touch right.
“Your dad can keep buyin’ me cars and coke and Rolexes,” he mutters. “But this—” his fingers press hard where you need it, “—this is mine now. S’my new favorite toy, baby.”
You let out a soft, wrecked sound—half whimper, half breath—and he grins like he just won a fucking game.
“There she is,” he says low. “Knew that mouthy little attitude was covering for somethin’. Should’ve known it’d be a sweet, needy little pussy just beggin’ to get filled.”
You arch into him. He loves it.
“Tell me that dumb little boy never made you come,” Ben says, like it’s not even a question. His fingers rub slow, deep circles through the fabric. “Bet you faked it every time just to get it over with. Huh?”
You nod before you even realize you’re doing it. Your head falls back and his mouth is on your throat, biting and sucking.
“Jesus,” he laughs against your skin. “Fuckin’ criminal to treat a pussy this good so poorly.”
He shifts under you and suddenly you feel it—hard, heavy, hot against your thigh through the thin cotton of his sweatpants.
“I’m gonna take care of you, baby,” he says. “Proper. Don’t you worry, gonna ruin you for assholes like that ever again.”
Your shorts are gone before you can blink. Your underwear too. He tears them down like they’re on fire, muttering something like “don’t need these where you’re going” under his breath.
And then he’s got two thick fingers inside you before you can even catch up.
“Fuuuck,” he groans, watching the way your mouth drops open. “Tight little thing, too. You’re killing me, sweetheart.”
He curls them just right and your hips jerk.
“That’s it. That’s what I wanna see. Wanna watch you fall apart for me—right here in your daddy’s living room. Hell, we should send him a fuckin’ thank you card.”
Your eyes snap to his, wide and scandalized—and he laughs again, low and pleased and cocky.
“C’mere, sweetheart,” he says, pulling his sweatpants down just enough to free himself, stroking once, twice, thick and flushed and so ready. “Let me show you how a real man fucks.”
You don’t even hesitate.
You climb on.
And the second he sinks into you, both of you swear at the same time—raw, shaky, fucked. His hands clamp down on your hips, holding you in place like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“Christ on a fuckin’ cross,” he rasps. “You feel like heaven, baby.”
You’re too full to answer. Too gone. All you can do is hold on.
And Ben?
He fucks up into you like he means it. Like he’s trying to brand you. Like he wants every inch of this to echo inside you long after it’s over.
“Mine now,” he says again, hand sliding up your back, yanking you down to his chest. “You hear me? Say it. Say you’re mine.”
You shouldn’t.
But you do.
“M’yours.”
You can barely think.
He’s too big, too deep, holding you down like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. Sweat slicks your skin. Your knees ache from the couch cushions. Your name keeps falling from his lips like it’s some kind of tether to keep him from completely losing it.
“That’s it, baby,” Ben growls, voice ragged, nose brushing your cheek as you gasp into his neck. “Fuckin’ take it. This pussy’s made for me. You feel that?”
You whimper and shakily nod your head.
“Say yes.”
“Y-Yes.”
“Louder.”
“Yes, Ben—fuck—yes.”
His grin is evil. Pleased. Possessive. He shifts his hips, angling deeper—somehow—and you cry out.
“Bet he never touched you like this,” Ben murmurs, breath hot against your ear. “Never knew what to do with you. Poor little thing, all wet, messy, and unsatisfied.”
He thrusts again—hard. You dig your nails into his shoulders. He groans like it turns him on even more.
“I could make you come just from talkin’ to you probably, huh?” he asks, voice low, dangerous. “Wouldn’t even need to touch you. Just put my mouth in your ear and tell you what I’m gonna do.”
Your thighs shake.
“Wanna hear what I’m gonna do next time?”
God, a next time.
You nod. Too fast. Desperate.
He drags his mouth to your ear, voice dropping into something dark and honey-slow.
“Next time, I’m gonna eat you out on the dining room table,” he murmurs, each word soaking into your skin. “Gonna spread you out like a five-star fuckin’ meal and make you come so hard you scream my name with your daddy and I’s wedding photos starin’ down at us.”
Your entire body clenches around him.
“That’s it,” he groans, bucking up into you. “Tighten up for me, sweetheart. Fuck—you like that idea, don’t you?”
“Yes—Ben, yes—”
“Damn right you do,” he grits out, snapping his hips harder, deeper. “You wanna be a bad fuckin’ girl for me? Let me fuck you stupid while your dad’s out playin’ golf with his boring-ass friends?”
He’s so deep now. You’re gone. Vision white-hot. Your nails rake down his chest and he loves it.
“Look at you,” he pants, eyes locked on yours now. “Gonna come for me like a little slut, huh? My filthy little secret.”
You’re shaking. Right on the edge.
And then he says it:
“Go ahead, baby. Make a mess on your daddy’s husband.”
You snap.
Your orgasm hits like a flood—wave after wave crashing through you, tearing you open. You cry out, legs locking around his waist, and Ben fucks you through it, not even slowing down.
“God damn,” he growls, hips jerking erratically now. “You feel so fuckin’ good, sweetheart, I—shit—shit—”
He buries himself to the hilt and stays there, spilling into you with a low, guttural sound that you feel in your bones.
Neither of you move for a long moment.
The world has narrowed to this moment, suspended and surreal.
You’re collapsed against him, still trembling, your body caught between aftershocks and disbelief, while Ben strokes your bare back in slow, absentminded sweeps — like he didn’t just ruin you on your father’s couch. Like he didn’t just say the filthiest things imaginable while defiling his husband’s daughter beneath the glow of recessed lighting and a glowing TV screen.
The house is quiet again.
Not the brittle, watchful quiet that usually stalks these halls when your father’s home. This is softer. Almost peaceful. The low hum of the fridge, the hush of distant traffic through the open windows, the clink of ice shifting in the glass on the end table. Domestic. Ordinary.
You’re feeling anything but that.
You’re curled against Ben’s side now, legs tangled over his, skin flushed and oversensitive. There’s a strange weightlessness to everything now—like your body still hasn’t caught up to what just happened. Your head is foggy, mouth dry, muscles boneless. You’re not entirely sure if you’re going to laugh or cry.
Ben looks infuriatingly fine.
Relaxed, even. His broad chest rises and falls beneath you, the slow rhythm of someone completely at ease. One arm is draped around your shoulders, his thumb lazily tracing abstract shapes against your skin like this is just something he does. Like you’re not your father’s daughter. Like this isn’t going to detonate both your lives the second it’s discovered.
He reaches for his drink, takes a long sip, then glances down at you with a satisfied little smirk.
“Damn,” he says casually. “Shoulda done that weeks ago.”
Your stomach flips.
“You’re unbelievable,” you mumble, but your voice is quiet now. Tired. Soft. There’s no real bite left in it.
He hums, amused. “You keep sayin’ that. Still haven’t kicked me off the couch.”
You don’t move. You couldn’t if you tried. He’s everywhere—the scent of his skin, the bruises forming on your hips, the heat still blooming between your thighs—dripping down them slowly. You should be running. You should be screaming.
Instead, you feel… seen.
Wanted in a way that isn’t neat or polite or earned. Wanted like a need. Like he couldn’t have helped himself even if he’d wanted to.
Ben tilts your chin up with a finger, eyes locking onto yours. The smirk fades into something else. Not gentle, but… steady. Undistracted.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You good?”
You nod. Then hesitate. Then nod again slower.
“Yeah. I just…” You trail off, swallowing. “This was a mistake.”
He huffs. Soft and unsurprised.
“Maybe,” he relents. “But it was a good one.”
You huff a breathy laugh despite yourself. “You’re not even a little sorry.”
He holds your gaze for a long second. Then shrugs.
“I’ve done a lotta things I regret,” he says. “This ain’t one of ‘em.”
That lands heavier than you expect. Not because he’s being cruel, but because you actually believe him.
He leans back further, pulling you with him until you’re half sprawled across his chest, your cheek against warm skin and the steady beat of his heart. It thumps beneath you like it has nothing to hide.
“Look,” he adds, voice low and way too conversational. “I’m not gonna pretend this turns into some fairytale shit. I’m married to your dad. You’re his kid. That’s a fuckin’ mess.”
You tense.
“But,” he continues, fingers flexing against your arm, “I’m also not gonna act like I didn’t just have the best night I’ve had in a long goddamn time.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself.
“And from the way you’re still clingin’ to me? I’m guessin’ you didn’t exactly hate it either.”
You don’t answer. You just press a little closer, fingers curling against his ribs.
Ben smiles to himself.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”
There’s no way this is a one-time thing.
You know it. He knows it. It hums between you like a live wire.
You stay curled against him longer than you should. Minutes pass. Your pulse slows. Your body cools. But the weight of his arm around you, the stroke of his thumb, the comfort of being held like this—like it matters—it’s too easy to want.
It’s too easy to forget what room you’re in. Whose house this is. Whose name is on the mortgage. Who put the ring still glinting on Ben’s left hand.
You tilt your face up and find him already watching you with that same unreadable look on his face. Something between cocky and fond. Like he’s deciding what version of himself he wants to be right now.
“You look like you’re thinkin’ too hard,” he murmurs.
You bite your lip. “I should get up.”
“Probably,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it.
You don’t move.
He exhales slowly. Reaches out and brushes a kiss against the corner of your mouth. Soft. Filthy. Stupidly sweet.
“You want to stay.”
It’s not a question.
Your silence answers for you.
“We can’t stay like this, sweetheart,” he says, voice gentler than you expect. “You know that.”
You nod.
“If he comes home and finds us in here…” Ben shakes his head. “That’s a fuckin’ war.”
You swallow the knot in your throat. It feels juvenile, the sadness creeping in. Like you’re some teenager sneaking out of her boyfriend’s window instead of a grown woman who just made the worst—or maybe best—decision of her life.
Ben can see it all over you.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and reassuring. “It’s not a never. It’s just a not tonight.”
That shouldn’t help, but it does anyway.
You sit up slowly, skin still humming. Your clothes are scattered—shirt half-draped off the couch, panties missing somewhere under a cushion. Ben watches you dress, occasionally passing you articles of clothes, with an appreciative gaze, his fingers absently stroking the side of your thigh until you finally step away.
You pause at the doorway. Glance back.
“Are you gonna pretend this didn’t happen?”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Sweetheart,” he says, “I’m gonna jerk off to this every day for a week.”
You laugh—an actual laugh, bright and shocked.
And just like that, some of the heaviness lifts.
“Go on up to bed,” he says, stretching back into the couch like a cat in sunlight. “Before I drag you back and make it worse.”
You do.
But you leave the door cracked behind you just a little.
Just in case.
You wake up the next morning to the smell of coffee.
Not the fancy, artisanal shit your dad likes—real coffee. Strong. Maybe a little burnt. Messy.
Definitely Ben’s doing.
Your stomach flips before you even sit up.
You drag yourself out of bed, still groggy and sore in a way that makes heat creep up your neck. You throw on the first oversized T-shirt you find and start making your way down to the kitchen. Every step down the hall is accompanied by a dull, unmistakable throb between your legs—a physical reminder of just how far you crossed the line last night.
No pretending that was a dream.
Ben’s at the counter, shirtless—of course. Sweatpants riding low, hair damp from a shower. He’s stirring creamer into your dad’s mug like you’ve seen him do just about every morning since you’ve been here—like nothing in the world has changed.
He looks up when he hears you and smiles.
“Mornin’, sweetheart.”
You try not to react to the pet name. You really do, but your pulse stutters.
You force your face into something neutral. “Morning.”
You make a beeline for the other side of the kitchen, grab a mug, keep your back to him.
Act normal. You can do normal. Normal is easy. You’ve been doing normal for years!
Your dad walks in just moments behind you, already dressed and polished, phone pressed to his ear. He gives the two of you a distracted nod, drops his briefcase by the couch, and disappears through the living room into his office mid-sentence, voice muffled as the door glides closed.
And the second he’s out of sight—
Ben moves.
He’s behind you before you can react, big hands sliding around your waist like they belong there, his mouth brushing your shoulder. Warm. Familiar. Infuriating.
“Miss me this mornin’?”
You tense. “Ben—”
“Shhh,” he noses along your neck, slow and deliberate, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just beneath your ear. “You were squeezin’ my dick like a cockring last night, and now you’re actin’ shy? That’s adorable, baby.”
You swat at him, half-laughing, half-panicking. “Stop it.”
He doesn’t.
His hand settles low on your stomach, pulling you back against him. You feel him immediately and it makes your knees go weak.
“You’re the one struttin’ around in that shirt, lookin’ like breakfast,” he murmurs. “What’d you think was gonna happen?”
“You’re insane,” you hiss.
He hums, “What I am is hard.”
You elbow him again, darting a frantic glance toward the living room where your dad’s voice is still droning on about property values and escrow.
“He’s gonna come back.”
Ben’s teeth graze your jaw. “Then maybe he shouldn’t leave me alone with his bombshell daughter.” His voice drops, filthy and amused. “‘Specially not when she tastes like fuckin’ candy and makes those pretty little noises when I—”
You slap a hand over his mouth.
He licks it.
“EW—Ben, what the fuck! Are you five?”
He just grins against your hand, eyes bright and pleased, like this is the most fun he’s had all week.
You recoil with a gasp. “Oh my god—”
You spin in his arms, eyes wild, and he just looks at you—pleased, satisfied, like he already knows he’s won.
“This ain’t gonna stop, sweetheart,” he says softly. No teasing now. Just fact. “You know that, right?”
Your heart slams against your ribs.
He lifts a hand and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear—gentle enough to make it worse.
“You’re mine now.”
And just like that, your dad’s walking back in through the living room.
Ben steps away instantly. Easy. Unbothered. He grabs his mug, takes a sip, slides onto a stool like he wasn’t just pressed up against you seconds ago.
He flashes that charming, effortless smile.
“Hey, babe. You want eggs?”
Your dad nods, still half-distracted. “Yeah, that’s fine. Thanks.”
You’re still standing there, mug in hand, pulse in your throat.
Tojis big hand was cupped against your mouth covering the entire lower half of your face muffling your moans as he slammed his hips in and out of you, the car filled with wet skin slapping and tojis low grunts as his thick cock hits your sweet spot over and over again with each brutal thrust - stretching you out soo good.
His hand on your hip traveling up grabbing a fist full of your hair forcing your head his eyes on your glossy ones, his cock still drilling into your wet cunt.
“stupid f-fuckin’ girl always needing my cock shit—, you should be fucking grateful i’m even fucking your slutty pussy,” he pants his thrusts growing erotic as he feels your walls flutter around him.
his fist with your hair let’s go shoving your face into the car seat, his hand moved landing a hard smack on the fat of your ass cheek his eyes watching the spot turn pink. “fuckin’ slut,” he spat out, voice laced with mock disgust. His hand uncovers your mouth making you let out a gasp - air filling your lungs before it’s quickly ruined by a moan his thumb roughly drawing fast circles on your puffy sore clit.
“oh fuck-! ‘ji!” a whine ripping from your throat, your knees planted in the car seat on the verge of giving out. his hand grips your hip tighter threatening to leave a bruise later as he keeps you in place, toji grunts lowly as he keeps the pace up on your clit his hips slamming in and out of your soaking cunt making your eyes roll back at the overwhelming pleasure he’s giving you.
“the hell were ya thinking having that bitchy attitude with me in front of shiu, huh?” he spat his hand landing another sharp smack on your ass cheek making your entire body jolt.
Your brain felt like mush all you could do was whimper in response, too fucked out to answer your boyfriend. Toji lets out a deep mean laugh at your pitiful whimper the whole noise pissing him off even more.
His cock slowly drags out of your pussy making you whine missing the feeling of his thick cock filling you up so sweetly. his hand lands another quick hard slap on it before rubbing the spot. his chest looming over your sweaty back, lips brushing against your ear.
“clean your dumb self up before shiu gets back in here, then once we get home i’ll fuck you how my bitchy slut deserves to be fucked.” his voice laced with nothing but a promise, Toji doesn’t do threats.
summary: days off don't come often, and you're determined to make the best of it with sam
pairing: sam x reader (gn) ft. dean | genre: cozy fluff | word count: 3.0k
warnings: fluff overload, sleepy sam, lots of kisses and cuddles, friendly banter w/ dean, implied post-cage sam (but like. years post cage), obligatory soup mention
notes: requested !!. soup was decided via best friend and also google coin flip, so if you don't like it, blame google 🙂↕️
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Perfect days like this don’t come often for you and Sam. It’s rare to get a moment of silence and some space to breathe in a world that seems hellbent on breaking you. It’s been a perfect day right from the moment you woke up, and you’ll be damned if you don’t make it a perfect one right until you fall back asleep.
For once, Dean doesn’t come bursting into your room with a new hunt. For once, nobody phones you at ungodly hours asking for information or alerting you to another disaster. For once, you’d been up late last night and been allowed to sleep in as much as you wanted today. No monsters today, no hunts with high stakes, nothing that even requires stepping foot outside the bunker. You have everything you need right here, and that starts with Sam tucked against your side under a mountain of blankets.
Dean has an unfortunate habit of turning the bunker’s heating way down whenever he’s home, and ever since the cage, Sam’s been finding it harder and harder to get warm and stay warm in the winter. He’s got perpetually cold fingers, the tip of his nose always seems to be icy, and he’s taken to leaving blankets on the chairs he frequents most often. Naturally, whenever it gets cold in the winter, that means the majority of those blankets work their way onto Sam’s side of the bed, effectively burying him underneath them all.
This morning – or afternoon, given that your clock is showing sometime just after 12:30 – all you can see of Sam’s body is the top half of his head. He’s on his side turned away from you, eyes shut, lashes fluttering softly, cheeks a faint pink. His hair is, per usual, a mess; one downside to having his hair long like this is that he gets awful bedhead. Half of it is squished flat from his pillow, and the bits on top stick up in funny loops, knotting around each other and looking like a little cloud.
He’s not asleep, or at least, not entirely. You’ve both been floating in and out of sleep for a while, just letting your tired bodies take the rest they need to feel alive again. Sometimes you’re asleep, and Sam’s not, then you wake to Sam’s heavy arm around your waist and his deep breathing in your ear while he dozes. Once, you were both awake at the same time, and you took full advantage of that chance to admire him.
You roll over onto your stomach, resting your chin on Sam’s shoulder. He makes a low noise in his chest, rolling slowly onto his back to better accommodate you. He doesn’t open his eyes, just opens his arms and tugs the blankets over your shoulders when you settle in. You nudge your head under his chin, and he lazily presses his lips to the top of your head with a soft sigh.
“Comfy?” you ask.
Sam makes another low sound in reply. It vibrates through his chest and right into your body where you’re pressed against him. Something about it sounds like home to you; something reliable, because he’s done it with you the entire time you’ve known him, and according to Dean, he’s been making this same low noise since he was a kid. It’s something that’s so quintessentially Sam that you can’t really think about him without it.
You trace small shapes on his chest over his sleep shirt; non-sensical patterns that don’t mean much, just intended to pass the time until you decide to get up. You start reaching for a lore book on the nightstand, and Sam lightly smacks your hands away from it, still with his eyes closed.
“No readin’,” he slurs. “’S a day off.”
You retract your hands, wiggling them under the blanket, then taking them out again, then putting them back under. With how many layers are over you, plus Sam’s body heat, it’s boiling hot under the sheets. But the bunker itself is freezing, and the cold air of your arms outside the blankets sends a shiver down your spine.
Slowly, you kick the top two blankets off, waiting to see how Sam adjusts. When he gives you a slight nod, you settle back in under just the thin sheet and one comforter. Your shared body heat compensates for the blankets, and Sam hums contentedly as he relaxes.
You stay wrapped in each other’s warmth for as long as you can manage, before Sam starts to complain about being hungry. Ordinarily, he’d never make a big deal out of it, and you can tell he’s already disappointed about having to move from the coziness of the bed, but Sam is a simple man. He enjoys complaining to you because it means you talk to him, and he loves listening to you talk. His complaints are barely anything more than a semi-intellegible sleep-laced grumble, but it makes you laugh nonetheless; hearing your laugh always makes him smile.
Finally, slowly, Sam cracks his eyes open, blinking at you blearily as he tries to focus on you. It takes him a few minutes until he can keep them open, but when he does, the first thing he looks at is you, and how soft you look. His fingers trace lightly down the bridge of your nose, and you squirm away from him. He chases after you, peppering your face in kisses and smothering you in his love.
“D’you want breakfast, or not?” you whisper after a final peck to his lips.
“Guess we have to,” he whines, slowly extracting himself from the blankets.
You toss Sam a flannel to put on over his shirt, and he shivers as the cold fabric touches his skin.
“Cold?” you ask.
“Mhm.”
“Could be worse.”
He squints at you, fighting to get one arm through the sleeve. “How could it be worse?”
You roll your eyes at his drama. “I could be doing this.”
Before Sam has a chance to react, you stretch up and put your cold fingers at the base of his neck, just above his shirt collar. He flinches with a muffled shout, cursing under his breath. He’s not mad, just scheming for a way to get you back when you least expect it. It’s Sam’s talent after all; remembering all the tiny ways you prank him and then getting you back the exact same way after you’ve completely forgotten about it.
You apologize with a kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing over the impression of the pillow wrinkles on his skin. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and the stubble is rough under your lips, but you don’t mind. The only downside to him not shaving is that you can’t see his dimples nearly as well. You’ll just have to make him smile harder to compensate.
“Look who finally showed up,” Dean drawls from his chair as you and Sam enter the kitchen.
“Shut up,” Sam mumbles.
“Ever heard of saying ‘good morning’?” you quip.
“It’s not morning,” is Dean’s reply, and you roll your eyes.
“Smartass,” you whisper, low enough that Sam can hear you, but Dean can’t.
Sam snorts a laugh, prompting Dean to raise his eyebrows, looking like an over-excited owl.
“Quit talk’ ‘bout me,” he complains.
“We’re not,” you and Sam say at the same time.
Dean waves a hand at you dismissively, mumbling something to himself about freaky telepathy crap as he leaves. It’s a good thing he leaves when he does, because he would definitely have comments about the gentle way you brush your fingers through Sam’s tangled hair while you wait for your tea to steep. You’re humming something soft under your breath, and with Sam’s arms locked around your waist, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.
The tea finishes steeping, and you and Sam have your routine debate over how much sugar is too much sugar. Sam’s always talking about how you put too much in and “why do you even drink tea if it’s all just sugar?”, but it’s a predictable part of your routine.
“Because, Sam, I like my drinks to not be bitter,” is always your reply.
“Then drink something else,” is always his.
And as soon as you turn your back to go sit down at the table? Sam’s stealing an extra spoonful of sugar to make his drink less bitter. He knows you know he does it, but he’ll still pretend you’re the only one liking it extra sweet. He always follows this up with a soft kiss to the top of your head, and one hand rubbing your shoulder as he sits down across from you. Normally, there’d be newspapers and notes all over the kitchen table, but today, it’s clear. You’d almost forgotten the wood was brown underneath all the white and yellowed-with-age pages. It’s quiet, peaceful, and nobody feels compelled to talk lest they break the silence. These are the kinds of moments that you wish you could have more of; maybe when there’s no sign of impending apocalypse, you’ll get to have a million more moments like this.
The trek down the hall to the library is filled only by the sound of your shoes scuffing on the floor, and the sleeves of Sam’s shirt rubbing against his body. His hand is in yours, fingers curled protectively around you, even though there’s nothing in the bunker that can hurt you. It’s instinctive, like everything else he does around you; the way he tugs you closer by the shoulders, the way he brushes your hair from your face in the wind, the way he slows his stride to match yours. He notices every detail about you, and he’s impeccably in tune with you.
You drop on the couch in the library, legs curled up under you and blanket tucked around your waist. The latter is done by Sam, who's large hands fold all the edges around you like it matters, because to him, it does. It’s accompanied by a quick kiss to your lips, and Sam smiles against your mouth.
“Oh God, you two are gross,” Dean complains from the table.
“Why, because we love each other?” Sam replies.
“Yea- no- yes. You’re- it’s all the-.” He gestures helplessly around.
“This?” Sam says, kissing you quickly again.
“Yeah. That.”
Sam does it once, twice, a third time, and Dean fake-gags in the background. It makes you laugh, and you loop your arms around Sam’s neck and tug him down for a real, proper kiss. You can taste the faint remnants of tea on his tongue, and something sweeter than tastes like all your favourite memories.
Dean’s giving you a disgusted look when Sam parts from you, and you send him your brightest smile, just to frustrate him a little more. Dean doesn’t tease you because he’s mad or jealous, he teases you because he loves you like a best friend and a sibling, and to see you making Sam so happy means the world to him. For Dean to see his little brother finally getting the love he deserves means he gets to bug you just a little more for it.
Sam strides over to the bookshelf, taking down a worn leather journal and a faded poetry book with a braided bookmark sticking out of it. He hands you the journal, and you feel a little jolt of affection in your stomach when your fingers brush Sam’s over the cover. You murmur thanks, and he settles down beside you with his poetry book, arm slung behind your back.
Poetry is something Sam has been meaning to get into for a while. He remembers a brief period at Stanford in which he read a handful of poetry collections from the university library, but he hasn’t had a chance to read any in a long, long time. You remember him mentioning it to you offhandedly once, and you’d made it your mission to find him as many anthologies as you could. Now, he takes great joy in sitting down with a collection and a pale highlighter, underlining all the passages that make him think of you.
“Still readin’ that cheesy poem stuff?” Dean pipes up after a long bout of silence.
Sam doesn’t answer, still too absorbed in what he’s reading. His tongue is poking out a little from between his teeth, and he’s got that furrow in his brow that says he’s concentrating everything on the words on the page.
“Sam?” Dean asks again. “Sammy. Sam.”
Finally, Sam’s head pokes up. “What, Dean?”
Dean huffs a laugh. “I was askin’ if you were still on that cheesy poem stuff.”
Unimpressed, Sam holds up the book, turning the cover to Dean. “Yeah. You should try it some time, I hear it helps you with your feelings.”
Dean looks surprised and mildly offended. You burst into laughter, nearly doubling over on the couch at the sight of it. Sam’s grinning like he just won the lottery, because he gets to hear your laughter at something he said. For a brief moment, everything is exactly as it should be in the world; Dean’s happy, you’re happy, Sam’s happy.
After several minutes of banter between yourself the brothers, your laughter has finally subsided. Your sides hurt a little, lungs burning with that faint touch of bliss, and your cheeks hurt from smiling. Sam’s dimples are out in full force, and his eyes have that gleam to them they only get when he knows he’s allowed to be happy. Sliding sideways, you tip yourself, so your head is laying in Sam’s lap. His hand comes up to comb through your hair, the pads of his fingers rubbing your scalp as he goes. It’s relaxing, lulling into a warm state of comfort.
You let yourself get lost in the journal pages, somehow retaining everything and nothing. Nothing else really matters besides your head in Sam’s lap and his hand in your hair, and that’s all you can focus on. At some point, Dean leaves, no doubt retreating to the Dean Cave for reruns of his favourites; there’s a TV channel he’s found that airs his favourite westerns at this time of day. Dean being gone and out of your way gives you the perfect idea.
You slowly sit up, stretching your shoulders and meeting Sam’s gentle gaze. Sam has an impressive ability in moments like this to make himself look small and soft; the imposing, broad-shouldered hunter that everyone else knows somehow folds himself into a little ball around you. When you pair that with his puppy eyes, you know you’re done for.
“What time is it?” you say quietly.
Sam checks his watch, turning his wrist so you can see. “Dinner-ish. Why?”
You smile, standing from the couch and tugging Sam with you. “I got a plan.”
He follows you to the kitchen, trailing after you like the puppies you so fondly compare him to. He stands in the middle of the kitchen as you start pulling stuff from the fridge, watching you with an amused expression that borders on complete adoration.
“What are you making?” he asks.
You turn, holding up a carton of cream. “Soup. Potato soup. I found this recipe I’ve been dying to try.”
Sam examines the ingredients on the counter, turning over the potatoes and block of cheese. “Dean’ll complain about there being no meat.”
“That’s why I also have…” You turn back to Sam with a triumphant sound, and a package of bacon bits in your hand. “These.”
Sam gives you a polite round of applause, and you bow dramatically. “Well done.”
“Hey, I don’t want the ‘Meat Man’ on my ass about it,” you say, putting air quotes around Dean’s nickname.
Sam moves to stand behind you, hand on the small of your back as he reaches for a knife to start working on the potatoes. The gesture is small, almost unnoticeable if you didn’t know what to look for, but it’s one of those things he just does because he can. You work in tandem, barely speaking besides asking for certain things and murmuring warnings about hot food moving around the room. Sam disappears to go retrieve his brother while you set out the soup, and you can faintly hear Sam pounding on the door to Dean’s room.
“Alright, whatddya got goin’ on?” Dean says, sitting heavily in his chair.
“Soup,” you say, pointing at the pot.
“I gathered that,” Dean asks. “What kind of soup?”
“Soup, soup,” you offer unhelpfully. “Warm soup.”
Dean takes the spoon, peering questioningly into the pot. “Aw c’mon, didn’t even put any meat in here?”
“Just shush and try it,” you say, handing him a bowl.
He does, raising the spoon to his lips and tasting it. He gets a piece of bacon, and his smile grows. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
Sam kisses the side of your head. You throw a bit of bread at Dean, who tosses a strawberry at you with equal force. A bit of soup gets spilled, and Dean tries to see if it’ll taste good with hot sauce (it did not; he put way too much to be edible). Sam periodically gave you small kisses or light brushes of his fingers. It’s chaotic, but it’s home.
Crawling into bed that night is the best you’ve felt yet. You’re calm, no residual nerves from hunts or research, no frustrations at finding dead ends, and no reports of more deaths to those you know. The bedsheets are warm, Sam’s working on bundling himself in all his blankets again, and it’s perfect.
When Sam’s sorted himself out, you curl up against his side, head on his chest and arm around his waist. You rub small circles over his hipbone, and he melts into your touch like it’s salvation. He takes your book from the bedside table and opens it to your marked page, clearing his throat softly before starting to read in his low, steady voice. The words go right through you, Sam’s voice calming you and guiding you lightly into sleep. You started the day in Sam’s arms, and that’s exactly how you’ll end it, too. Days off don’t get much better than this.
» inducing pure consciousness every time i close my eyes for more than 5 seconds.
» reality shifting every time i blink my eyes. (to my wr hehe)
» manifesting shit instantly because im god duh!
» overall being a master at inducing pure consciousness, master reality shifter, master manifestor, master lucid dreamer n more.
» perfect mental and physical health for me and my family as well.
» looking like a doll, clear n glowing skin, healthy n thick hair, being skinny n tall (5'5 ft & 50 kgs), superrr duper confident n social, being sexy, smart and strong hehe etc etc!
» being a workaholic, academic weapon, gym rat, and a baddie at the same damn time.
» money!!!!!!!! being filthy rich !!!!!!!!
» being the LUCKIEST and everything working out in my favour (it already does tho lowk).
» getting my spark back.
» being a walking success story. speaking everything i want into existence!
Summary: Two years ago, Sam Winchester tore your heart clean in two. And when he stumbles his way back into your life, you do your best to contain your feelings, through snippy comments and sharp glares. Too bad a witch destroys every shred of restraint you were holding on to.
CW: Exes to lovers, lust spell (so technically dubcon, but they communicate. A lot.), they’re mean to each other at first, but then it’s sweet I promise, oral (f!rec), unprotected PIV, multiple orgasms, switch!Sam, lots of feelings, praise kink, slightly possessive Sam
WC: 10.4k
Based on this request!
Led Zeppelin’s ‘Black Dog’ blares through Baby’s speakers as Dean’s lead foot presses on the gas, the steady purr humming in your ears like a stable stream. Your notebook is sprawled over your thighs, legs crossed one over the other across the leather bench seat, your pen drumming against the pages as you twirl it between two fingers. Pushing your thumb under the pocket clip, worrying your lip between your teeth.
The silence is comfortable. Or, as comfortable as it gets, these days. Dean’s fingertips tapping along to the bass on the steering wheel, Sam mumbling out directions every few moments as he shifts that stupidly-outdated map laid across his lap.
It’s normal. Familiar. But that tension? It doesn’t waver.
No one told you it would be easy coming back. You’re smart enough to know things would be… different.
Before, things were perfect.
You’d known the boys your entire life. Sharing old motel rooms when your fathers would team up on a hunt, yours dumping you into the hands of a young Dean: the official babysitter of yourself and chubby-cheeked Sammy. Fixing your toddler selves bowls of knock-off cereal brands so he could watch you fight over the toy, playing silly cartoons on the rundown televisions, and stuttering his way through bedtime stories until the two of you fell asleep beneath heavy blankets.
Dean became an older brother of sorts. And Sam, that best friend you’d dreamt of each time you’d switch schools or hop states.
Months would pass before you’d see either Winchester, but when you did? Nothing would ever change. You’d shot a gun at seven years old for the first time under Dean’s instruction. Held Sam’s shaky hand as he patched up your first split lip at nine from sparring gone awry. At eighteen, you’d spent a full night on the phone, blubbering through tears, as Sam told you he’d gotten into the school of his dreams.
And at twenty-two, when Sam was ripped right back into the hunting life? You were the first person they’d called to help.
Things did change after that. Not Dean. The man hadn’t changed one bit since he turned thirteen. But that dynamic between you and Sam? Yeah. That was different.
All those nights you’d spent staying up late, exchanging stories in the dark. Those times he’d patched you up with strong hands that lingered just a moment too long. When you’d always catch his eyes on you through the review mirror of the impala, or his leg would brush yours almost intentionally when he’d sit too close at diners. The silent pining that would make your heart race and your throat tight every time his warmth would invade yours.
Until finally, after successfully taking down a vamp nest, running on that intoxicating post-hunt adrenaline, the line was crossed. He’d captured your lips with his own, cradled your face with clammy hands, slid those perfect nimble fingers into your hair.
A year. A year he’d been yours, and you’d been his. A year he’d held you to his chest under scratchy motel sheets, whispered sweet ‘I love you’s into your ear, held your hand in his beneath bar-tables. A year of Dean fake-gagging every time you’d kiss, of finding flowers placed carefully in your duffel, of shared showers and nights of passion.
A year that was shattered into pieces right along with your fragile heart when his guilt just… took over. When he’d stood with your hands in his, beneath the overhang of a motel balcony, in the pouring-goddamn-rain like some fucked up Hallmark movie, and told you you deserved better. That no matter what he did, he’d just keep hurting you. Putting you in unimaginable danger. Like he wasn’t the one steady thing holding you together. Like he hadn’t saved your life more times than you could count.
So yeah. You left.
Seven-hundred-fifty-six days. That’s how long you kept your distance. How long you’d spent hunting solo, with a brand new phone number, patching your own wounds, and driving your own beat-up shitbox from state to state. Not that you were counting, or anything.
But as it always seems to happen, like fate hates your fucking guts, the Winchester brothers had stumbled their way right back into your life. Telling you demonic stories that not only sounded straight out of your nightmares, but flipped your entire world upside down. And ever sense? You’ve been mingling in this awkward bubble of snappy arguments and tense silence, often dissipated only by poor Dean playing mediator.
It’s not like it’s on purpose. It’s just that every time you hear Sam’s voice, or your eyes find that stupidly sweet dimple that pops when he laughs, all you can think about is the way he used to whisper sweet nothings into your ear as you fell asleep. Only makes it more obvious just how cold your bed is at night, or how much you crave the feeling of his strong arms holding you close.
But if staying silent, and shoving away the memories that claw at your heart each day, keeps the apocalypse from destroying the fucking world? Then that’s a sacrifice you’ll just have to make.
You’re shaken out of your thoughts when the pocket clip on your pen snaps under the pressure of your thumb, tumbling across your journal and onto the floor with a sharp sound that makes you flinch. You sigh. Shake your head. Sam murmurs out another right turn from the front seat.
None of you are necessarily thrilled to be in this hunt. Not because of the tension, though, that too—but because you’re almost sure it’s a witch.
And oh, you all fucking hate witches.
You received the call after a series of strange deaths occurred in a small town in Louisiana. Like this man who choked on his damn tongue while watching TV in the comfort of his own home. Another whose eyes practically liquified in his own skull (which, ew. That wasn’t a fun coroners report to read). And, your favourite, the guy who quite literally drowned in his own blood after his throat swelled up and multiple blood vessels burst in his nasal cavity.
The catch?
Each man bought something from this ancient, rundown antique shop only weeks away from going out of business, just days before their deaths. One owned by an older woman, Winifred, a retired pharmacist. Real subtle.
Dean takes another turn, the shop coming into view, and it looks even worse than that photo Sam had found in the library. The once-purple paint is faded, and peeling off the siding. The sign is crooked, and only about a third of the lights work. The front window has boards nailed over it from where there was surely a rock thrown through the glass.
You break the silence first.
“…I think I should be the first to talk to her. Alone,” you start, gaze flicking down to the papers in your lap. “Sounds to me like she’s not all that fond of men. Maybe she’ll accidentally slip something to me, if she’s comfortable enough.”
Sam stiffens slightly at the sound of your voice. Barely noticeable, but you see it. Of course you do. You can’t deny how much it hurts. But God, you have to fight off your scoff. He doesn’t look back. Wouldn’t, not if he doesn’t have to. Never does anymore. Dean seems to notice, too, shooting his brother a sideways glance.
Sam clears his throat.
“Not a good idea,” he says, voice low, like he’s already dismissing you. “Witches don’t play fair. Especially not when they’re cornered.”
You let out an exaggerated sigh at that, one only lost beneath the sound of Zeppelin still shredding through the speakers.
Why? Because he always does this.
You voice an idea, and he shuts it down. Immediately. Like you’re not a hunter, too. Just says ‘no’ without so much as a decent explanation or a look your way.
Your jaw ticks, once, and you set aside your journal, swinging your legs off the seat to sit up a little straighter.
“I wasn’t exactly asking for permission, Sam,” you profess, not raising your voice. But that tone? Yeah. Sharp enough to cut.
And there it was. That bitterness. The bite to your voice that always shines through when you’re annoyed with him, which, these days, is more often than not. He winces, hands gripping that map just a fraction harder, the paper crinkling beneath his fingertips.
You can feel Dean’s eyes flicking between the two of you in the mirrors, a little amused, but mostly uncomfortable. There’s a part of you that feels bad, the way he’s always shoved right in the middle of your useless bickering. But Christ, you just can’t help it.
“I get that,” Sam grumbles after a moment, keeping his gaze straight forward. It’s easier than looking back. Easier than seeing irritation in your eyes. “But going in there by yourself is a bad idea. I won’t let you do it.”
“Let me—?”
You’re half way through the words, brows raising in disbelief. Probably about to say something stupid. Something that’ll haunt your thoughts like a vengeful spirit later when you’re lying awake, thinking about everything that’s gone wrong. But Dean beats you to it.
“Okay,” he sighs, like dropping his tone will keep the two of you in line. And, well, it works. For now. “She’s right, you’re right. Just relax.”
He eases on the gas, pulling up along the curb, shifting the Impala into gear firmly, like the way the car sways into park will emphasize his words. He leans forward, popping open the glovebox, pulling out three fake ID’s.
“We’re all going in. Sam and I will look around, do some digging, and you can have your little chat in the office,” there’s no real question in his voice, just all business. That note of authority that he’ll always have over the two of you, even now, in adulthood. “I’ll take the second level. Sammy… sulk around downstairs, or something. I don’t care. Just shut up, you too, please?”
“Fine.”
The two of you speak at once, both less than thrilled with the agreement. Sam lets out an irritated huff, running a hand through his hair in that sharp way he always does when he’s holding back from snapping.
Yeah. Maybe he knows he’s being stubborn. Overprotective, even. But he can’t help it. There’s just something about you being put into danger that sets alarm bells off in his head, constantly, even when you roll your eyes, or scoff at him with a glare.
“Just…” he starts, voice almost a rough whisper as he finally turns back to look at you. “Be careful. Please.”
Oh.
Somehow, that manages to soften you. Just a fraction. Maybe it’s the way he actually glanced back at you, and you got an eyeful of that puppy dog expression that wrecks your very soul. Or maybe it’s the genuine care in that tone, a softness you don’t really hear from him anymore.
And, Christ, have you ever missed it.
“…Yeah. Of course,” you breathe after a moment, voice quieter, now. Less bite. Sam’s gaze lingers for a suffocating moment, searching your face, before he turns away.
You have to take a long breath before you open your door.
The shop’s door opens with a teeth-grinding squeak, a bell chiming overhead as you step into the small space, the instant smell of dust and overly-potent herbs assaulting your nostrils. To say it’s jam packed would be a complete understatement.
Rows and piles of… stuff fills the room. Stuff, because, most of it, you can’t even decipher what the hell it is. Half of it looks older than time itself, the other half like it’s partially eaten by termites or stained with God knows what. Old flower pots, bookshelves, chests, chairs, tables with missing legs, what the fuck is this, what the hell is that.
You’re about to mumble out some probably insensitive joke when a voice breaks through the silence.
“Welcome,” she calls, and the three of you glance up from your mortified staring. It’s a young woman, probably in her early twenties. Curled blonde hair falling over her shoulder, sun dress flowing past her knees. She does a once over, eyes lingering on the boys for an uncomfortably long moment, before her gaze finds yours. “Can I help you…?”
You step forward, flashing her your ID. “Yeah. My name’s officer Young from Covington Police Department. I was hoping to chat with a Mrs. Winifred LeBlanc?”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just blinks at you awkwardly, her gaze finding the boys behind you again, and you can sense the discomfort there. Huh. Still, she nods, but makes no move to close the distance. “She’s my grandmother,” she utters, one hand tucking a perfectly curled lock behind her ear. “…She’s home sick today. We can, um. Chat in the office, if you’d like. I’m sure I can help… I co-own the store.”
She doesn’t say much else. Not even a ‘this way’ when she turns on her heels, nodding towards a door labelled ‘staff’ as she moves through the maze of a store. You spare a glance at the boys, trying not to linger on the way Sam’s brows are furrowed, his eyes swirling with that same sweet worry that makes your heart flip.
Christ.
You follow her into the rickety office, taking a seat in the polished wooden chair across from the desk as she shuts the door behind you with a click. You glance around the room, hunter eyes taking in every little detail. The way the wallpaper is peeling at the corners. The lock on the top cabinet to the right, the one with worn paint around the handle. The laminated labels taped to every surface, swirly cursive describing what’s inside each drawer, every box.
You cross your legs, hands tucked politely in your lap.
“So,” you start, voice even, professional in that practiced way, and you glance at her name tag before continuing. “Anna. Your grandmother. Winifred was a pharmacist before opening this store, yes?”
“Winnie,” She corrects, nodding slowly, fingers twitching around the edge of the desk as she takes a seat. “…That’s right. She worked at St. Mary’s for over thirty years before retiring. She opened the shop to stay busy.”
Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
You casually shift in your chair, opening your notebook, as you flip to an empty page in one smooth motion. Your pen hovers.
“What is this about?” Anna asks, suddenly. “Is… is my grandmother in trouble?”
“No, no. Of course not,” you assure, giving her a sweet smile.
You can tell that she’s tense. Overly tense. You could probably brush it off as anxiety, being questioned by a ‘cop’ n’ all, but the way her eyes keep flicking towards the door is all telling.
“I just had some questions for her, is all,” you begin again, and she nods slowly in response. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the series of… sudden deaths in the area. We’ve found that they were customers.”
At that, you see her stiffen. The way her back goes all ridged, her fingers stop tapping on the countertop, her eyes get a tad wider.
“We’re just gathering some information on the deceased,” you clarify, not wanting to spook her. Because Jesus, she looks about two seconds and a strong gust of wind away from bolting. “Wondering if Winifr—Winnie, remembers any of them, or has any information on their whereabouts before their passing.”
Anna shifts uncomfortably again under your gaze, fingers now toying with a stray piece of paper on the desk as she chews anxiously on the inside of her lip.
Yeah. No question that she’s hiding something.
She hesitates for a moment, and when she speaks, her words come out faster than before. “Well, she… my grandmother is in her eighties, you understand. Her memory… isn’t quite what it used to be.”
You hum, taking note of her stammers, pen gliding along the page, and you can almost hear the way she tenses even further. That explains the labels, then.
Abruptly, she stands, rounding the desk towards the cabinets behind you, her kitten heels tapping on the hardwood.
“We, um. We keep copies of receipts from every customer, in case of returns. I’m sure she… kept some records, if you’d like to look through them…”
You nod, pivoting in your chair, analyzing her every move. And Jesus Christ, she doesn’t know how to be subtle.
Her hands shake as she digs through the drawers. She fumbles with the papers as she flips through old records, drops receipts on the floor, paper clips rattling when she knocks an old file straight out of the cabinet.
“Sure. That would be… helpful,” you say, glancing back at your lap, folding your journal closed, tucking the pen inside the pages—because oh yeah, you broke the damn pocket clip—but by the time you look back up, she’s moved.
Three clicks of her heels against the floor before your head is yanked back by her fingers fisting in your hair, her other hand shoving a soaked cloth towards your face, the fabric covering the entirety of your mouth and nose. Your eyes widen immediately, notebook clattering to the floor as your hands instinctively reach for hers to peel those grimy hands off.
But fuck. The cloth is drenched in… something. You’re not sure what. The scent is sickeningly-sweet, flooding your senses so rapidly that you damn near choke on it, blood rushing straight to your head.
You can pinpoint the exact moment something changes. Your vision goes all blurry for a split second, and you’re almost sure you’re going to black out. Somehow, you manage to move, kicking the desk in front of you hard enough to topple over some old vase with a loud enough crash that it echoes through the room.
That sound is enough.
Sam was brooding outside the office, pretending like he wasn’t counting your breaths through that door. One second, he’s staring at some strange piece of pottery that looks ancient, that’s probably cursed. and the next? He’s kicking down the door before the crash fully registers.
“Hey!” He barks, the door flying open with enough force that the handle slams the wall behind it. His eyes lock on you, face half covered by that cloth, her knuckles nearly white in your hair, and you can see something in him snap.
He crosses the room in two strides, long legs eating up that short distance, and he doesn’t hesitate. A sharp grab of her wrist, and a brutal twist until she screams, letting go of your hair instantly. The rag drops from your face as Sam yanks her back, ramming her against the wall with a crack that tells you he put all of his weight behind it.
You breathe rapidly, trying to fight that godawful faint feeling long enough to steady yourself. Panicked, Anna tries to struggle out of his grasp to no avail, but she does manage to squirm just enough. And just like that? The cloth is over his mouth now.
His brows pinch as that undeniably sweet scent floods his nose, his hold faltering as a wave of lightheadedness crashes over him. And before either of you can react, she’s slipped away, snatching a key from the desk, sliding out the door like a wisp of smoke.
You attempt to stagger after her on shaky legs, but God, whatever the hell was on that cloth is dangerously dizzying. You end up half-doubled over with your clammy palm firm on the desk top, the other covering your eyes like blocking out the light will do anything to quell the haze.
Sam doesn’t seem to be doing much better. He’s leaned with his back against the wall now, breathing rapidly, face completely flushed. Worry claws at your chest like a rabid animal at the sight, but in the moment, you shove it down. You’re working.
And fuck, has it gotten hotter in here?
You shake your head a few times, clearing away some of the fog that’s clouded your mind, and your scrambled brain has just enough sense to start digging around in the now opened drawers of the desk.
In the corner of your vision, Sam pushes off the wall, swaying just slightly as he fights through the fog, your heart squeezing at the disoriented look on his face. Your pulse is hammering in your ears, vision swimming at the edges, but you narrow your eyes on the drawer.
“Hey—hey,” Sam rasps, voice low, rough with concern. Something in your gut twists at the sound. “You okay? You hurt? How much of that did you breathe in?”
He stumbles a step closer, one hand braced on the desk to steady himself. He’s close enough to touch, now, and Jesus, the room really is getting hotter.
You don’t respond to him, can’t, not right away, like your brain is only clear enough to focus on one thing at a time. You spare a glance at him, just a quick flick of your eyes, and you have to look away almost immediately. There’s absolutely no denying the way electricity buzzes through your veins like a faulty wire.
“Hey, hone—” he starts, cutting himself off with a shake of his head. Your heart stutters all the same. “Talk to me. You gotta… just relax, what’re you—”
“Just… just a second,” You snap, not angry this time, just urgent.
You shift some old log book and you see it. A row of key holders, laminated labels above each one. The curly letters spell out ‘home’ on the third row, that single key missing.
“They have everything labelled. Winnie had some kind of memory loss,” you begin, Sam raising a brow, mouthing out ‘Winnie?’ with some confused look on his face, which only earns him a glare. “Anna’s going to Winifred’s house. She took the key.”
Sam’s gaze drops to the drawer, then flicks back to your face. His lips part to respond, but his words seem to catch in his throat, thick and muscled, like every other damn part of him, adam’s apple bobbing, which is… um. Yeah.
Those puppy eyes of his are… darker. Deeper. Almost intense.
Jesus, what’s wrong with you?
“We’re going,” you breathe, slamming that cabinet shut with a smooth shove.
That snaps Sam out of it.
He takes another step closer, less unbalanced this time, until he’s right in front of you. Close enough that you can really see the flush on his cheeks. Close enough that you can feel each puff of his breath on your face, still unsteady. Close enough that the heat of him is almost unbearable.
“No,” he finally says, voice sharp. “We just got witch-roofied by God knows what. We’re not going anywhere but the motel.”
You’re about to argue, to tell him that he’s being ridiculous, that you can handle this, but then you look at him. Really look at him. And just like that, the words die on your tongue. Or, more accurately, they sizzle into nothing with the intense wave of heat that floods through your system.
You swallow. Hard.
You’re barely opening your mouth again when Dean barges into the room, revealing his equally disheveled state, though for an entirely different reason. He scans the room, eyes narrowed hands white knuckled at his sides. You can’t blame him. Sam looks wrecked, and as terrible as you feel, you know you must look the same.
“What the—what the hell happened?” He demands, eyes flickering quickly between the two of you.
Sam straightens, running a hand through his hair, sweat already beading at his temple. “Anna,” he grits out. “She’s our witch. Got us with some kind of potion. Dizzy, fever-like symptoms.”
Dean’s eyes widen in concern, gaze narrowed on the way the two of you are doubled over. “Christ. Can you two walk?”
“Yes,” you cut in, pushing yourself off the side of the desk, taking a step towards him. “She took a key. Thinkin’ it’s to Winifred’s house. We… we’ve gotta go—”
Dean stops you before Sam can even think about speaking, a hand on your shoulder. “Yeah, no. The only place you’re going is to the goddamn motel, and horizontal. And you’re calling Bobby. Both of you.”
And with that? Protests shut down. Because Deans got that tone. And if there’s one thing you’ve learned over the years, it’s not to test Dean Winchester when he sounds more like a scolding father than a brooding hunter.
The drive back to the motel was more than just tense. Dean drove double the speed limit, all windows down, AC flowing at full blast, and holy shit, you’re still only getting hotter.
And worse? Every time you catch even a whiff of Sam’s scent, that masculine mix between something woodsy and warm like fresh coffee… and, fuck, is that vanilla? You feel like you might just die.
Dean drops the two of you off like an angry parent in a custody exchange, immediately jumping back into the impala with a quick order of ‘call Bobby, and don’t go anywhere’, barely sticking around long enough for Sam’s trembling hands to pull the door open.
The motel room feels like a sauna. Curtains drawn, bed rumpled from last night’s case research, the air suffocating, heavy with heat and tension thick enough to drown in.
You’re pacing, phone pressed firmly to your ear, godawful dial tone ringing as you wait for Bobby to pick up, while Sam leans against the wall near the door. He’s trying to look composed. Failing. His shirts sticking to his back, his jaw is clenched so hard he could break a tooth.
And every time you shift, step closer, before turning around again, he flinches like your presence is burning him.
Finally, like a miracle disguised in that gruff hunter tone, Bobby’s voice rings out through the phone. “This better be good.”
You’re speaking before he even fully has the words out, pulling the phone away from your ear just far enough to put it on speaker.
“Hey, God, I was getting worried you wouldn’t answer,” you ramble, voice tight, practically panting from the heat. “We’re on a hunt. Sam and I, uh. Got hexed or something. By a witch.”
You can hear Bobby’s breath hitch at the other end of the line, and the sound he lets out is nothing short of protective irritation. You stiffen, sparing a glance at Sam, his mouth pulled into a thin line. Yeah. That sound brings the two of you right back to childhood.
“Hexed?” Bobby barks, voice sharp through the speaker. “What kind of hex? Don’t tell me you two touched some damn cursed trinket again—”
Sam cuts in before you can even answer, pushing off the wall with a groan that goes straight to your gut. Jesus Christ. “We didn’t touch anything. The girl smothered us in it. Sweet smell. Like, intense, make-you-want-to-gag sweet, knocked us dizzy, and now it’s like… like we’re burning up. Really fuckin’ bad.”
There’s a long pause at the other end.
Then Bobby sighs, the deep, weary kind that says ‘here we go’ without words.
“…You two alone right now?” He asks, slowly, and your brows pinch together. What?
“Dean just dropped us off,” Sam mutters, voice rough. “He’s goin’ after her.”
There’s another beat of silence, and you hear Bobby standing up. Something that sounds like a heavy book being dropped in front of him. The rustling of pages. Then, low, careful, and deadly serious:
“You listen to me real close,” he says. “That, was concupiscentia letalis.”
Sam’s eyes snap so wide, it would almost be comical if you weren’t so fucking confused. And, well, hot. Holy shit it’s hot.
Neither man speaks right away, and that just about makes you lose it. You shoot Sam a look. “What?” You hiss with a glare, because damn him, and his stupid college brain (which is unfairly hot), and those stupid latin courses—
“Someone’s gotta tell me what the hell is going on, ‘cause right now, I’m feelin’ about ten seconds away from burning to ash—”
“—It means ‘lethal desire,’” Sam says quickly, voice tight, cutting off your rambling like a hot knife.
He won’t look at you. Wouldn’t dare.
Bobby cuts in before you can even react. “Concupiscentia letalis… it’s a witch’s love curse gone feral. It’s not just attraction or lust, it’s like… an aphrodisiac on steroids. Makes your body crave another person’s like oxygen. And if that craving isn’t… resolved…”
He trails off, but you don’t need him to finish. Because suddenly, it’s like all the dots connect in your brain with a click. The heat. The dizziness. The way your skin prickles every time Sam so much as breathes in your direction.
And most of all: why, even now, with death on the line, all you can think about is how much you want to close the distance and kiss him until neither of you can remember your own names. Why you can’t seem to shake the thought of tearing his clothes off, unzipping his jeans with your teeth, and fucking him so stupid that your legs give out beneath you.
But still. The whole thing is just so… insane.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Sam lets out a groan at your words, which he should not be allowed to do right now. Not when you’re physically fighting with every primal thought your brain conjures up. Yeah. It’s feeling pretty goddamn real to you right now.
“Oh, I’m serious. And it’s incredibly deadly, too. Your temperature’ll just keep risin’ until your blood boils inside your damn body,” Bobby deadpans, and you can hear the way his hand smooths over his scratchy beard.
“You’re telling me that I’m fatally horny?” You butt in, disbelief lacing your tone, your face going even more red than before. Sam, from his place against the wall, has gone uncharacteristically quiet. “That it has to, what, be sated, or we die?”
“…More or less, sweetheart, yeah,” Bobby sounds almost apologetic as he speaks, which is so out of character that it only fuels the rising panic.
Sam closes his eyes for a second like he’s praying for patience, a clammy hand running over his face, pushing his sweaty hair off his forehead. The gesture only serves to emphasize the flush on his skin, the tension in his neck, the way his jaw is clenched impossibly tight. The way his jeans are very clearly getting quite restricting…
You can almost feel your panties being ruined.
“Listen,” Bobby breathes, snapping you out of your eye-fucking trance. “I’m gonna do some diggin’, see if there’s any other way to… put an end to this. Just… don’t do anything stupid, please, I’ve already heard more than I wish I had.”
And with that, the line goes dead.
You screw your eyes shut, practically slamming your phone down on the table, because Christ, this whole thing is so messed up. You spare another glance at Sam, breathing against the wall like he’s just ran a marathon, and that intense ache in your core pulses, pulls like a string tugged too tight.
You wince at the feeling. The need cruising through your veins. The way standing is becoming more and more uncomfortable. “…Sam—” you start, but he’s faster.
“Don’t.”
His voice comes out a gravelly rasp, words tight in his throat, like the sound of your voice is making his muscles scream with tension. But that single word? It already has your thighs squeezing together. Your cunt pulses around nothing beneath layers of fabric.
He finally looks up at you again, and the sight of him hits you like a delicious gut punch: skin flushed and sweaty, chest rising and falling with each rough-heaved breath, hazel eyes so dark they’re practically black. Fucking hell.
“We just need to… ride this out,” he mutters between ragged pants. “Just… need to keep some distance. Wait for it to wear off. It will. It has to.”
You stop short at those words, blinking at him almost dumbly, because Jesus Christ, your thoughts are cloudy. But if there’s one thing you do know: it’s that you need him. Now. And by the looks of it? He needs you, too.
“Sam…” you try again after a moment. “You… you heard Bobby. This isn’t something we can just ride out…”
“I know what he said,” Sam growls, voice low and strained, like each word is being ripped from his chest.
He pushes off the wall abruptly, pacing like a caged animal. One hand rakes through his hair again, the other clenched tightly at his side. And all your lust-fueled brain wants to do is close the distance, climb him like a fucking tree, and lick that sweat off his neck.
“But there’s gotta be another way,” His voice cracks slightly, throat bobbing. “There’s always another way.”
He stops mid pace, back to you now, shoulders rigid, and it only makes him look impossibly bigger.
“Because if we… if we do this, if we give in, it’s not just physical. It’ll mean something. And I can’t…” his breath hitches. “…I can’t do that to you. I won’t.”
Those words get trapped in your head like an echo in a silent room. Because yeah. It will mean something. It’ll mean everything. Crossing that line the two of you have been tiptoeing around through heated arguments, tense silence, and hateful glares.
“That’s… you wouldn’t be doing anything to me, Sam, I—”
“No,” he cuts in, voice raw.
He turns to face you then, really face you, and there’s something in those sweet puppy eyes that tells you he’s seconds away from breaking.
You almost wish he just would.
“I’ve been gone from your life for two years,” he says, stepping forward without meaning to, hands twitching at his sides like his body is just aching to touch you. “I pushed you away. I hurt you. And now? I’m supposed to believe it’s okay for me to…”
His breath hitches as another wave of heat rolls through him, and you can see it in the way he tenses, doubling over slightly at the waist.
“God, baby, I can’t…” his voice drops to a whisper. “I really fucked up. You hate me for it—and you should.”
That right there? Those words? That goddamn pet name? They cut through your heart like a knife. A sharp stab of pain right in your chest, that almost hurts more than that intense heat, the constant ache.
“I don’t… I don’t hate you,” you murmur, voice shaking with the effort to hold back. To keep yourself in place.
“You do,” Sam chokes out, eyes blazing with pain and want and something almost dangerous. “I… I pulled away because I thought you deserved better than this. Than me. A real future. Not some… some hunters half-life.”
His voice cracks, and so does your heart.
“And I regret it every fucking day. And now you’re standing here—looking at me like that—and God help me, all I can think about is how soft your hair felt when I’d run my fingers through it at night,” he swallows hard at that, jaw clenching. “So don’t tell me you don’t hate me. Not when I ruined us. Not when you can’t look at me without looking like I broke your goddamn heart.”
Your thoughts are still muddled. The need vibrating through your veins still burns. The pulsing cramps are damn-near blinding. But above it? That constant ache for what you once had.
For what you still need.
“…I don’t hate you,” you repeat, slower this time. Your voice trembles like the words physically hurt to voice aloud. “I’m at your throat all the goddamn time ‘cause every time I hear your voice, all I can think about is how you used to tell me how much you loved me.”
Sam tenses like you’ve burned him.
“And—pretending to hate you? Is a whole lot easier than admitting I still fucking love you.”
He freezes. Not just his body, but his breath, his pulse, that shake in his hands. Everything just stills like the world stopped spinning.
His throat works. His fingers flex at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you.
“…Then don’t,” he whispers, voice so rough, it’s almost broken. “Don’t make it easier. Don’t lie anymore.”
Finally, the dam breaks, and he moves. Not fast, but sure, until he’s so close, that you can feel that electric heat mixing with yours. It’s so intoxicating that for a mind numbing second, you feel like you’re on fire.
“I love you,” he says, softly, finally, his voice cracking under the years of guilt. “I never stopped.”
And just like that, you’re both done pretending.
You’re not sure who moves first. But before either of you can take another shuttering breath, the distance is closed, and his lips are on yours.
It’s not slow. It’s not soft or sweet or reverent. Because with the spell pumping through both your blood streams like a drug? You can’t be slow.
It’s desperate. Hungry. Electricity flows beneath feverish skin with intensity that consumes your senses, like nothing is left but him. The heat between you spikes almost violently, the room feeling like an oven now, but neither of you care. Neither of you can care. Not when every nerve is lit up like a wildfire.
A low, guttural, pussy-soaking sound is ripped from Sam’s chest as his hands fly to your waist, tight and bruising, like holding you is the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control. His lips crush yours open, tongue pushing past the seam of your mouth to slide hot against yours, swallowing up the moans that you’re too far gone to contain.
You’d almost forgotten just how good of a kisser Sam is.
Almost.
One big hand slides up your back, trembling and clammy, fingers tangling in your hair, while the other stays hard at your hip, fingertips making indents in your flesh. He tilts your head just so, giving him that much more access to absolutely devour you, and you’re almost sure you could combust right then and there.
The spell? Fucking relentless. Your legs feel so weak, that if it wasn’t for Sam’s tight hold, you’d probably topple right over. Your core pulses almost painfully, your panties no doubt absolutely destroyed.
You can’t take it any longer. Not when he feels so goddamn good.
“Need you now. Please,” you pant, barely able to pry your lips off his long enough for the sound to be audible.
“God—yes.”
One arm locks tight around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest as the other cradles the back of your head. The heat is unbearable. Electric, firing like a faulty system, but so is that ache, deeper and sharper with every passing second. Your mouth only leaves his to lick his sweaty throat that way you’ve been wanting to since the damn office.
Sam stumbles forward, guiding you backwards until your legs hit the edge of the bed. There’s barely any hazel left in his eyes as he lowers you down gently, too gently for how desperate you both feel, but when his knee nudges between your thighs?
Instinct takes over.
Clothes come off in frantic tugs and whispered curses. A ‘fuck’ when his shirt gets caught on his head, a ‘shit’ when his shaky hands fumble with the clasp of your bra. You’d expected… something. Maybe some sweet relief from the missing layers, but when have things ever been that easy?
Instead, you only feel impossibly hotter. Like you’ve been reduced to nothing but a stupid-horny mess. Even more frantic now that you feel his bare skin on yours. Hot and muscled and holy-fucking-shit has he gotten more jacked?
Every second that he’s not touching you? Physically painful.
His mouth finds your neck, barely kissing, just desperate bites and licks to sweat-slick skin, as one hand trails down your stomach. He claws at your waist like he’s trying to scoop handfuls of your flesh, or crawl inside you the way you both need. Your back bows into him with a cry that sounds half-pain, half-relief, because it hurts, but it’s so good.
He practically tears your jeans off, you’re almost sure you heard the button snap and clatter to the floor—but you can’t find it in you to care, not when the air meets your bare thighs, drenched with slick, and there’s a heavenly second where you’re not burning up… only for a pleasure-pain cramp to seize through your abdomen with enough force that your hips buck against his.
“S-Sam, it hurts, please—need you, need something—” you plead, and for God’s sake, you can feel your eyes burning.
“I know,” he breathes, ragged, his words vibrating against your neck, sending a shock of pure need through your system. No one should be allowed to sound that fucking hot. “I know, me too, I’ve got you, just—God, hang on, baby.”
Both of you groan when he dips one hand beneath your panties, two fingers sliding against your soaked cunt. You’re so wet it’s almost embarrassing, the spell practically working fucking overtime, coating your inner thighs with sweet arousal. You can smell it, senses heightened like the spells turned you superhuman levels of horny (it has), and you can tell Sam’s in the same damn boat.
“Baby, you’re…” Sam breaks off voice low and hoarse like he just can’t string his thoughts together long enough to speak. And honestly? You feel the same goddamn way. He presses a long, hard kiss against your throat: “You’re so beautiful. So beautiful. So wet f’me…”
Those perfect, thick fingers slide through your core, so drenched you can hear it, and holy-fucking-shit, one circle over your swollen clit and you’re already crying out.
“Fuck—Sam—!” You sob, and oh, he just keeps moving.
Feverish bites everywhere he can reach. Lingering just below your breast, that’ll be a mark tomorrow, then to your stomach, your hip, over a new scar just over your navel. Each one desperate but so sweet, like he’s apologizing without words.
It isn’t until his bangs are teasing your trembling thighs that your brain catches up enough to realize that hey, he’s not fucking you yet, and you just can’t have that.
“Sam? W-what’re you—?”
“Gotta taste you,” he murmurs, muffled by him squishing his face against your plush flesh. And before you can protest, he’s licking a jaw-dropping stripe along your soaked inner thigh, groaning at the taste. “Been… been dreaming ‘bout how much I missed this for two years, baby. Don’t make me wait.”
Oh.
Well, who are you to say no to that?
It’s not like you could, anyway, not with how quickly he’s hooking two now glistening fingers into the waistband of your panties and tugging them down in one rough motion. And the second they’re gone, he pushes between your thighs, those gorgeous broad shoulders spreading them wider, and presses a hot, open mouthed kiss right above your clit.
You gasp. Arch. Damn-near tremble.
He growls low in his throat, the vibrations flooding through your sensitive nerves like a shot of pure ecstasy, and then his mouth is on you for real. His tongue drags through your folds eagerly, dipping in your dripping hole before his lips seal over your swollen bud with a suck that has stars exploding beneath your eyelids.
He alternates between deep licks and firm suckles, kissing your pussy like he can’t get enough of the taste. And holy fuck, pleasure shoots through you like goddamn lightning. It eases that ache, even just for a moment, replacing it with something so blindingly perfect that the coil deep in your core is already winding tight.
“Sam, fuck—! So—so good, I need… I need you—” you sob, and God, Sam could listen to that sound for hours.
His tongue sweeps through you just right, legs squeezing around his head. And by the looks of it… there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. He flattens that thick muscle, shaking his head back and forth like he’s trying to eat you fucking alive, and the sound that slips out of you is barely even human.
“Just—jus’ a little longer, baby. Lil’ longer, a-alright?” He pants between wet laps, his nose smushed against your pelvis because Christ he just can’t get close enough.
You’re close. So fucking close. Your cunt clenches around nothing, just aching to be filled, and oh God, you can barely take being empty any damn longer.
Sam eats like he’s starving. Groans and whines slipping from his swollen lips with every wet slurp, and you’ve truly never seen a man so pussy-drunk. But even through each desperate lick, you can tell he needs more.
His hips thrust against the sheets like he just can’t help it, and watching him rut against nothing while your pussy’s practically begging to be filled? That’s your breaking point. Your fingers lace in his hair just as his lips seal around your clit again for one heavenly second, before you drag him away with one firm pull.
“Sam,” you whine, pushing yourself up onto your elbows on trembling arms. “If you’re not inside of me fucking immediately, ‘m going to go insane.”
Slick drips down his chin like something straight out of a wet dream, and you almost come on the spot.
“Lie down.”
He doesn’t waste a second.
“Fuck—yes,” he breathes, eyes blown wide and wild with need.
One second he’s between your thighs, next he’s falling back on the bed, shirt long gone, sweat-slick chest heaving, already working his jeans open just as you crawl over him like you own him.
And in this moment? You do.
His hands grip your hips hard as you settle over him, straddling his waist, and holy shit, he looks so perfect. Flushed and needy, his thick cock (fuck he’s huge) pressed tight against his stomach, leaking and begging for attention, but he doesn’t move. Just stares up at you like he’s seconds away from breaking and you’re the only thing holding him together.
You grind against him once, cunt sliding against his throbbing dick in a smooth movement, because holy shit you’ve never been so goddamn wet. Sam’s head falls back, hitting the headboard with a thud, just as he gasps out: “You’re so fucking gorgeous.”
“You’re perfect,” you whisper, voice slurred with agonizing need. “Missed you s’much.”
You don’t take your time. You line yourself up, his thick tip parting your slick folds, as you sink down in one sharp movement. Your lips part in a silent gasp because fuck—the stretch—you’d forgotten just how goddamn massive he was. It’s so much and yet not enough, and it hurts so good.
His whole body jerks beneath you, his fingers digging into your hips, so much rougher than he lets himself be, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. Not when you’ve been imagining him white-knuckling your needy flesh for two agonizing years.
“F-fuck—!” He gasps, head falling back again, pretty throat exposed as his eyes roll shut. You almost lick it all over again. “God—you’re—so tight, baby, I can’t… I can’t even—”
They flutter back open just to look at you, puppy eyes so wide and full of lust and love and concern because of fucking course they are, and he lifts up slightly, kissing your collarbone, then your jaw. One hand moves to cradle the back of your neck to bring you impossibly closer, like he wants to mold your bodies into one. You wish he could.
“Are you…” he whispers against your skin, jaw working with the effort to keep still. “A-are you okay, honey?”
“Shut up,” you breathe, but this time, there’s no bitterness in your tone. Not at all. Just need. Just love. And, well, a fucking insane amount of arousal that has no goddamn time for sweet, sappy, worried-Sam-crap.
You’re pretty sure every single one of your senses have gone completely dumb the moment his thick cock splits you open. because fucking Christ he’s buried to the hilt inside of you, so perfect, so big, and it takes a solid couple of seconds for your vision to clear.
You almost want to just stay just like this, full of him, so deep you can feel every delicious inch fucking everywhere, but you’re not sure your body can handle another second without desperate friction. The heat pulsing through your veins screams move, move, move—and in the moment, you’re not strong enough to deny.
You brace your hands on his shoulders (God you love those broad shoulders), nails undoubtedly leaving red halfmoons on his flesh as you lift your hips until just that fat cockhead remains inside, before you drop all your weight back down with a guttural moan that tears from your chest. You have to suck in the saliva that pools behind your teeth, because goddamn, you almost drool.
Sam lets you take control, let’s you ride him like he’s all yours (and God, he is), his hips only lifting to meet yours on every downward stroke, your sopping cunt sucking up every thick inch he provides.
He mouths at your neck and it’s nothing near gentle, it’s all claiming—nipping wherever he can reach, leaving splotches of spit and red-purple marks that’ll just be so pretty later. It’s teeth and tongue and suction, marking you deep, branding you as his again in ways word never could.
“I… I was so stupid, baby,” he gasps against your skin, words broken. “Fuck, I love you. I love you so much—”
Each word is punctuated by the intoxicating slap of skin on skin, your whimpers and cries and pleas, the creak of the motel bed beneath you.
Sweat beads at his forehead, cute little bangs sticking to his skin, his swollen lips parted, puppy eyes so far gone: and you’re pretty goddamn sure it’s the most mouthwatering sight you’ve ever seen. You can’t hold back from licking a stripe along his glistening jaw as your body grinds feverishly over his, and he responds with the hottest damn groan you’ve ever had the privilege of hearing.
“I love you so fucking much,” you moan, broken off only by a sob when his cock hits so perfectly deep inside your pussy, walls fluttering around him just as a fire is ignited in your core. “Oh, God—I can’t—”
“Let go, baby,” Sam chokes out, voice trembling as his hand snakes between your bodies, because fuck you forgot just how perfect this man knows you, his thumb rubbing firm circles over your slippery clit. “…‘M right here, honey, gonna—gonna make it so good—fuck I love you.”
You can’t think. Not when you’re fucking yourself on his perfect cock like this, him meeting you thrust for thrust, fireworks exploding deep in your core every time he drags right there. Your moans are stupidly broken, gasps of ‘right there’ and ‘oh my God!’ like your brain can’t form anything remotely coherent.
And when that first wave crashes over you, it’s more intense than anything you’ve ever felt.
It’s like every single one of your senses are dialled to a thousand all at once, but at the same time—each is smothered to nothing by the blinding sensation exploding deep in your core. You can’t see. Your ears ring. But oh, do you ever feel. Your cunt clamps down around his dick, squeezing him so hard his eyes roll back, your back arching, mouth falling open in a silent scream as your orgasm rips through you.
“Yes,” Sam groans like he’s being torn apart in the best damn way. “God, yes, you’re so fucking beautiful—takin’ me so perfect, honey, I-I can’t—”
You sob out his name once, barely even coherent, but that’s enough for him. Because oh fuck, he shatters.
His hips rut against yours with a firm slap that’s definitely going to get the two of you reported later, a shuddering groan pulled from his gut as hot ropes of his release floods your tight walls. His hips twitch so goddamn deliciously through every pulse of his release, but his cock is still thick and unrelenting inside of you.
Because for crying out fucking loud, he’s still hard as steel.
You weren’t aware that anything could make this man’s stamina higher—even a goddamn lust spell from hell—and yet, here you are. Throbbing cock buried to the hilt inside your fucked-out pussy that’s still spasming from intense release.
“You… God, you’re still—”
His fingers rub sweet circles over your hips as he pants, which he should not be allowed to do right now, not when your heart already feels about ready to explode. “Yeah,” he gasps against your lips. “Still… fuck, still need you, baby—”
He rolls his hips up slowly, deliberately, testing how your cunt will squeeze him, and yeah. You do. Because without the friction, that stupid ache is back, tight in your abdomen and pulsing in your core.
“Yeah, yes, fuck,” you curse, thighs absolutely about to give out, and fuck, your eyes are definitely getting glassy. “S-switch. Please.”
It doesn’t take any convincing.
With one strong, smooth motion, he flips you beneath him, bicep flexing and oh shit you almost come again. Pathetic? Maybe. But you’ve never been so hot for someone in your damn life.
He pillows your head with his hand, so fucking sweet, even now, lowering you gentle onto the mattress. His body covers yours like a shield, heavy and perfect. You whine at the sight alone.
“Easy, honey…” he coos, because of course he does, the bastard, before kissing you slow and deep before pulling back just enough to watch your face.
He pulls out like you’re made of goddamn glass, both of you gasping at the oversensitive drag, and then shifts between your parted thighs again. He guides himself back inside in one steady stroke that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch, because fuck you’re pretty sure his tip just kissed your cervix.
His forehead drops to yours, sweat-slick and fever-hot, a broken sound stuttering from his lips. Your breaths mingle as his hand moves, finding yours that was fisting the mattress, as he moves it to be stationed next to your head, fingers locked in his.
Not pinning. Not forcing. No—for crying out loud, he squeezes your hand once, sweetly, like he’s pouring love and reassurance into the action, before he sneaks a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
If your eyes weren’t glassy before? They sure as hell are now.
Then, finally, perfectly, he starts to move.
Slow at first, less urgent now, even when heat is still buzzing beneath your skin like static. Deep rolls of his hips that make every nerve scream in intoxicating pleasure-pain because you’re so sensitive, but you just can’t stop. Every thought your brain may be trying to form? Gone. Disappeared. All evaporated the second his thick cock filled you up just so.
“Ah—I… Jesus Christ, Sam, you feel so fucking good—” you pant, pussy squeezing him so tight, it’s a wonder he can move at all.
He smiles at that, dimples n’ all, and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen anything prettier. But you don’t have time to ogle, not when he shifts slightly, hips tilting, and drives deeper with a groan that vibrates through both of you.
Your eyes roll right fucking back. Because the second that angle changes? You see heaven. It’s like you can feel everything. Everything. every ridge, every curve, every fucking vein for God’s sake. And oh, Sam knows.
“Right there?” He breathes, doing it again, and again, harder this time, just that little bit higher. You whimper, clawing at his hand, and he squeezes yours right back. “Yeah. I remember.”
Each thrust is practically torture. Deep, relentless pressure building in your core all over again. His fat cock stretching you to the brim, and you just know you’ll be feeling him for days. But the way his thumb keeps brushing over your knuckles? That says something softer beneath the fire. Something like I’m here. I’m not leaving. I love you more than breathing.
“You… you’re mine, aren’t you, honey?” He chokes out, and your heart does an immediate flip, because fuck you missed hearing that. “My girl. My, perfect girl, who takes me s’fucking well, yeah?”
Yup. You could die right here. Spell could boil your fucking blood for all you care, because that is all you’ve ever needed.
“Y-yes, I love you, fuck, ‘m all yours,” you cry, and just like that? Your body is done.
Done holding back. The pleasure is completely blinding, deafening, exploding like a fire cracker and holy hell you feel it fucking everywhere. Your thighs shake around his hips, cunt clamping around him so fucking tight, soaking him with your arousal—God you can hear it—your inner walls fluttering violently as each wave crashes over you.
“All fuckin’ mine, huh? I love you,” he growls, voice barely his own, hips snapping forward once, twice, deeper each time, chasing his own high.
The drag of you clenching around him is just too much, white-hot and perfect, and his rhythm starts to break apart with uneven snaps of his hips. They sputter hard against yours as he spills inside you all over again, his whole body shaking with a groan that shoots through you like liquid fire.
“Just… just one more,” he grits out between clenched teeth. “Let me—let me feel you again.”
Whines, moans, mewls, whimpers, every damn sound your body can muster is yanked from your chest. Because after those first waves hit, Sam doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. Hips rolling with fever, cock pumping in and out of your weeping pussy with perfect precision. You can’t tell when one climax ends and another starts: or maybe it’s just one, long, absolutely earth-shattering orgasm because holy fuck the pleasure goes on forever.
“S-Sammy—” you mumble after a moment, because oh. Your mind goes a little hazy, more than before. And fuck, black pinches at the corners of your vision with each thrust because oh God it feels so fucking good, but it’s so fucking much. “Sam, I…”
“I know, honey,” he soothes, but, uh, he doesn’t, because fuck, those perfect thrusts just keep coming.
Your vision swims, going all blurry then with black dots and holy fuck you’re really about to pass out—and when it hits, your body just goes… slack. Completely blissed-the-hell-out, nerves buzzing with pure unbridled ecstasy. And for a few moments? All you hear are distant echoes.
You come back to it a moment later, and those mind numbing thrusts have stopped, but Sam’s cock is still nestled so fucking perfectly inside of you, thick and pulsing. “…Hey, hey, baby, fuck—are you—? ‘M so fucking sorry, holy shit.”
There’s a long moment where you can’t respond to him, because what the fuck, Sam just made you come so hard you passed out. Cold. It’s not funny at all but Jesus you laugh anyway, because it’s so ridiculous, and you just love him so goddamn much—
He softens at the sound, and you can see it, the way some tension leaves his face. It’s adorable. And Christ, his cock is still half-hard, and all your greedy mind wants is for him to do it again. He blinks at you, sweet puppy eyes searching, before a worried smile of his own breaks out on his pretty face. “You’re okay, honey…”
Kiss.
“…‘M right here. I’ve got you…”
Kiss.
Sam presses kisses all over your face, sickeningly sweet, over your cheeks, your eyelids, your temple, your lips, all while murmuring sweet coos of reassurances that it’s okay, you’re okay, that he’s here, and not goin’ anywhere…
“There you are,” he whispers, placing another kiss to your lips, more firm this time. “Back with me?”
“…Yeah,” you breathe after a moment, head falling back against the pillows, your eyes fluttering closed. Because fuck, for the first time in hours? You don’t feel a second away from exploding. “I think it worked.”
Sam lets out a low breath, shaky, dazed, dropping his forehead against yours again. “Jesus Christ. Never do that to me again,” he huffs, hand squeezing yours again, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. “…Yeah. Think it did, baby.”
He doesn’t pull out. Not right away. Just lowers himself gently, careful of his weight, until he’s able to roll on his side, pulling you close instinctively. Like holding you is automatic. Sweat-slick and trembling, buzzing with aftershocks, but still pressing kisses to your temple like he never wants to let go.
You could’ve stayed like that forever, if it wasn’t for the wince-inducing sound of Sam’s phone ringing, just as your eyes have just fluttered shut.
You scramble for his jeans, tossed haphazardly next to your side of the bed, snaking out the stupid moment-interrupting device—seeing Dean’s name flashing on the screen.
“…Hello?” You breathe, not bothering to hide the absolutely exhausted, no doubt fucked-out tone in your voice. You even see Sam grimace at the sound, which only makes your grin widen.
“Where’s Sam?” He asks, automatic, gruff voice coupled only by the familiar purr of the impala, and some old AC/DC track ringing out in the background.
You roll over in Sam’s arms, shifting so his face is just inches from yours, his breath warm on your temple. And if you weren’t so fucking tired? You’d be just about ready to go again.
“Right next to me,” you say, softly, but your voice is still hoarse. “Anna’s gone? You killed her?”
There’s a chuckle on the other end of the line, and your brows furrow, confused—but Sam goes beat red, and it only makes it clear that you’re definitely missing something.
“Uh, yeah. Like, an hour ago,” Dean laughs, and you hear the distinct sound of that Dean Winchester snort that tells you he’s so ready to tease. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? You’re sounding a little… out of breath—”
Sam swiped the phone out of your hand before you can even think about scoffing.
“Shut up,” he warns, voice tight, and you can’t help but let out a laugh of your own.
“Just sayin’,” Dean continues, Sam stiffens—it’s hilarious, really. “Y’know, Bobby was telling me some pretty interesting stuff, earlier—”
Click.
AN: Wow! FINALLY! I am so sorry this took longer than I’d hoped… but thanks for sticking around anyway!
This entire fic is a result of me really enjoying writing backstory, and then getting caught up in it. I hope the 5k words of smut will make up for my rambling, lol…
Anyway. Last note is just another THANK YOU to everyone, because holy shit, the love and engagement on here is just incredible. I adore all of you!
PS: Title is an Alice In Chains song, so… reference to my profile photo (yeah, different album, I know…)
dean sits on the edge of the bed, bare chest out, jeans unbuttoned, trying to look relaxed— but the second you step out in your little white coat and heels, clipboard in hand, dean's mouth drops open.
"holy shit."
you glance over your fake glasses with a fake-smile. "excuse me?"
"i— i mean, uh," he coughs, trying to sit up straighter, clearly already half-hard under the denim. "you look.. professional."
"call me doctor,” you correct sweetly, clicking your pen. "now, mr. winchester, you're here for your check-up?"
"yup," he grins. "been real tense lately. might need a deep examination."
you pretend to ignore the innuendo. "vitals first,"
you lean in, press your hand to his chest— right over his heart. he's pounding. you hum, "elevated heart rate. interesting."
you slide your hand lower, "tense abdominals. very firm," your fingers ghost along the waistband of his boxers, and dean visibly twitches.
"doc," he rasps, "you're killin' me."
you glance down at the bulge in his jeans and tilt your head. "hm. guess i should check for swelling."
you unbutton the rest of his jeans agonizingly slow, and dean just sits there, breathing heavy, watching you like a starving animal. you finally free his cock— thick, flushed, leaking. he lets out a shaky breath.
"goddamn. this feel like a regular check-up to you?"
you give him a firm stroke and pretend to jot something down. "definitely some engorgement,” you murmur. "might be blood flow buildup. i'll need a more thorough exam… internally."
"fuck," dean groans. "you're gonna kill me. you can't just say shit like that."
you straddle him slowly, letting his cock slide between your folds— not in yet, just teasing. he twitches beneath you, groaning through gritted teeth.
"you sure you can handle this, mr. winchester?" you purr.
"doctor," he warns, grabbing your hips, "if you don't sit on my cock in the next ten seconds, i'm filing a malpractice complaint."
you laugh, and then sink down in one slow, filthy grind that has both of you gasping. dean's hands are gripping your thighs, holding you open, desperate, "fuck, you feel like heaven."
you roll your hips, panting into his mouth. "you just let me do my job," you whisper, nipping at his jaw. "i'll have you feeling better in no time.”
you're riding him slow. too slow. hands on your clipboard, biting your lip like you're still taking notes, hips rolling lazily as his cock drags in and out of your soaking wet cunt. dean's fists are clenched at your waist— trying to be good, trying to let you play doctor.
but you're smirking. you know exactly what you're doing. and that's when he fucking snaps.
"alright, that's it."
you yelp as he suddenly grabs you, lifts you right off his cock, clipboard flying to the floor. before you can process it, he's spinning you, tossing you onto the bed like you weigh nothing. "playtime's over, sweetheart."
you're on your back, legs splayed, still wearing your little white coat and nothing else— chest heaving, mouth open in shock. dean's already over you, shoving his cock back inside you in one brutal thrust that punches a moan out of you so hard your whole body arches.
"you think you get to tease me like that?" he teases, thrusting deep, fast, already fucking you like he's making up for lost time. "you were riding me slow like you're taking your sweet time— nah. you wanna act like a doctor? Then let me show you what your patient needs."
you're whining. hands gripping the sheets, legs wrapped around his waist as he slams into you, thick and fast and relentless. your voice is hoarse. your eyes are glassy. you're being wrecked.
"look at you," he mutters darkly. "all fucked-out and twitchin'. ain't takin' no damn notes now, are you?"
he slaps your thigh and fucks you even harder. "say my name, baby. say who's fuckin' you like this."
"dean—fuck, dean, please—"
"that's right. not doctor. not mr. winchester. just me. just your man. the one who owns this pussy."
when you cum, it hits like a freight train— your body locking up, eyes rolling, fists grabbing anything just to hold onto reality. and dean? he keeps fucking you through it, chasing his own high, hips snapping so hard you swear you'll feel it for days.
he finally spills inside you with a groan, deep and messy, collapsing over your chest, panting against your neck. there's a beat of silence. then, smugly, he chuckles, "so... how'd i do, doc?"
you're straddling jason, with just your panties clinging to your hips, the rest of you bare against him, grinding against his abs like you're discovering how much you crave every ridge, every line, every touch. your heart is pounding, thighs quivering as you roll down slowly at first, testing him, letting him feel every inch of you.
jason is beneath you, chest rising and falling, jaw tight, eyes fixed on your every movement. His hands land on your hips, steadying you, guiding you just to feel his muscles flex under your weight, and it’s driving you insane.
at first, you're shy, hesitant, but the way he's watching you— soft, worshipful, completely captivated— made your nerves unravel. you grind harder, hips moving on instinct, and your moans slip out, soft, breathy, but thye grew louder, dirtier, more desperate.
he leans up slightly, just enough to let his fingers trace beneath the edge of your panties. his touch was teasing, deliberate, sliding them aside so he can brush against your clit while you ride him. the friction, combined with his teasing fingers, makes a shiver shoot up your spine and your chest ache. you gasp, eyes squeezing shut, hips bucking instinctively against him.
"you like that, don't you," he murmurs, low, soft, reverent, but with a in a way that makes your knees weak. his thumbs press into your hips, holding you steady while his fingers continue their teasing, circling your clit in sync with every grind of your hips. "look at you.. so beautiful, so wet for me."
you whimper, rocking harder, desperate, lost in the sensation. every moan, every subtle buck of your hips makes him lean closer, watching your face contort with pleasure, watching your shyness melt into pure need. he murmurs praises, guiding you, holding you, making sure every movement hits just right.
your hands clutch his chest, nails digging in, body trembling as he teases you relentlessly. the friction of your hips on his abs combined with his teasing fingers is too much— your moans grow louder, breaths hitching, every nerve ending on fire. he keeps you right where he wants you, firm but worshipful, pushing you to the edge with every grind, every circle of his fingers.
his hands never leave your hips, never letting you escape, guiding you, making you ride him exactly the way he loves, every small squeak and whimper fueling the fire between you. you're lost— lost in him, lost in yourself, lost in the feeling of being taken care of, teased, worshiped all at once. every motion, every gasp, every slick, heated movement is a filthy conversation between your bodies, and jason is entranced, watching you unravel beneath him, making you ride him like you’re his and his alone.
( synopsis ) after a messy hunt, the adrenaline hasn’t worn off yet, and dean winchester knows exactly how to spend it—with her, in the impala, fogging up the windows until the whole car is drenched in sin. baby’s never seen this much action, and Dean? He’s not about to let her go until she’s ruined for anyone else. [y/n btw not the car, he’s not fucking the car. felt like I had to explain myself sorry]
( 𝐩airing ) dean winchester x afab!reader
( rated ⒙⁺ ) 2.9k words. mature themes. ꒰ car sex in the backseat ꒱ ꒰ unprotected p in v ꒱ ꒰ creampie ꒱ ꒰ squirting ꒱ ꒰ overstimulation ꒱ ꒰ d/s dynamics ꒱ ꒰ wrist holding ꒱ ꒰ spanking ꒱ ꒰ hair pulling ꒱ ꒰ dirty talk ꒱ ꒰ degrading mixed with praise ꒱ ꒰ risky sex ꒱ ꒰ slight body worship ꒱ ꒰ biting/marking ꒱ ꒰ power imbalance ꒱
⌗ 𝐧𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐞𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 — calm luh first kinktober fic , watch me get more unhinged as we go , EVERYONE WILL HATE MEEEE
It had been hours since the hunt, the adrenaline still thrumming faintly in Dean’s veins, though now it mingled with something else entirely. The night outside was velvet-dark, stars pricked into the sky like shattered glass, the kind of quiet rural stretch that felt cut off from the rest of the world. The Impala sat parked beneath a thicket of trees, her glossy black curves catching the faint spill of moonlight. Inside, the windows were fogged and streaked with condensation, the kind of haze that spoke of body heat and desperation, of too many breaths shared too close together.
Dean’s girl straddled him in the backseat, her knees digging into the leather as if claiming her throne. His prized possession, the car, had long since been violated in far more ways than one, but nothing compared to the sight of her perched on his lap, grinding down onto him like she was made for it. One of her hands was buried in his hair, tugging at the strands until his scalp tingled, while the other pressed to his chest, keeping him caged beneath her even though he’d never dream of escaping. Dean’s hands were locked around her hips, fingers biting into the curve of her waist, guiding her movements with rough insistence, dragging her down onto his cock until it felt like if she pulled away for even a second, he might actually break apart.
His head tipped back against the fogged glass, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut, a low groan rumbling up from somewhere deep in his chest when she leaned down to kiss along his jawline. Her mouth was hot, demanding, lips parting as she marked him with open-mouthed kisses that trailed down the strong column of his neck. He knew damn well those bruises would rise later, dark proof of her claim, and some part of him reveled in the thought of having to hide them from Sam in the morning. His breath stuttered when her tongue flicked against his pulse, dragging slow, lazy circles there, like she knew exactly how to set him on fire with the smallest touches.
“Fuck,” Dean rasped, his voice wrecked and low, breaking on the syllable as her hips rolled down and took him even deeper. His knuckles went white from how hard he gripped her, dragging her flush against him, unable to get her close enough. His mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a grimace, that familiar Winchester brand of humor slipping through even as his body burned up. “See Sam anywhere?” he managed to grunt, a breathless laugh catching in his throat, though the words came out more desperate than playful.
Her lips brushed the shell of his ear, her voice a whisper wrapped in smoke and heat, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure down his spine. “Can’t see shit,” she murmured, laughter soft and wicked, before it dissolved into a moan when she slammed down harder, burying him to the hilt. Her nails raked down his chest, slipping under his shirt to drag across the solid muscle, leaving trails of heat in their wake.
Dean groaned, turning his head just enough to capture her mouth with his, his kiss messy, all teeth and hunger, tasting her moan as it spilled into him. He held her tighter, grinding up into her with brutal precision, the Impala rocking faintly with the force of it. The leather squeaked under their movements, the scent of sweat and sex filling the enclosed space, clinging to every surface until it felt like the car itself was watching, bearing witness.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” he growled against her lips, voice husky, breaking with each thrust. “Gonna get us arrested if we keep this up.” But the smirk ghosting across his face betrayed him—he’d never stop, not with her riding him like this, not when every whimper she let slip made him harder.
Her head tipped back, hair sticking to her damp skin, chest heaving as she ground down on him. The sight burned into his brain—her flushed face, her lips parted, eyes half-lidded with pleasure—as if she were carved for him and him alone. Dean’s hand slid up her spine, tangling in her hair, jerking her back down for another kiss, swallowing her cry as he snapped his hips up with more force, the kind of rhythm that said he wasn’t letting her go until she was ruined on him completely.
The world outside could’ve ended, monsters could’ve been clawing at the windows, but in that moment, Dean Winchester only cared about the woman in his lap, the way her body clenched around him, the sound of her voice breaking every time he pushed her higher, harder, closer.
Dean’s hand slid between their sweat-slicked bodies like it had every damn right to be there, two fingers parting her folds until his thumb found her clit and pressed down hard, circling it in quick, merciless motions that had her gasping into his mouth. The sound made him groan, his tongue pushing deeper, swallowing every broken little whimper like he was starving for them, like her noises were oxygen he couldn’t live without. His cock pulsed inside her, thick and hot, twitching with every squeeze of her walls around him, and the sensation shot fire through his spine straight into his gut.
“Yeah… yeah, that’s it, baby,” Dean rasped against her lips, his voice shredded from need, dripping with grit and want, sweat rolling down his temple as he smirked at the sight of her unraveling. His thumb pressed harder, faster, relentless little circles that had her hips jerking wildly in his lap, while his other hand clamped bruisingly tight on her thigh, anchoring her, keeping her exactly where he wanted her—on his cock, taking every single inch. “Ride me. Fuckin’ ride me like you mean it.”
Her head tipped back, a strangled cry tearing from her throat as her body bowed, and Dean’s green eyes locked on her with something obscene, filthy reverence tangled with pure possession. The way her neck arched, mouth falling open, tits bouncing with every grind of her hips—Jesus Christ, she looked ruined, fucked stupid, and it was all him. That thought alone had him snarling low in his chest, thrusting up into her with brutal precision, making the Impala creak and groan around them like the car itself was shuddering from the force.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, shifting his angle just enough that every upward slam of his hips drove him deeper, hitting that spot inside her that made her clench so hard around him it was like her body refused to let him go. She gasped, a sharp, broken sound, and he gritted his teeth, jaw flexing as he pounded harder, burying himself so deep she’d feel him in her stomach for days. The slick sound of her drenched pussy sucking him in filled the car, mixing with the slap of skin on skin, every thrust obscene in its perfection.
Dean’s mouth found her throat again, teeth scraping before he bit down hard enough to make her squeal. He sucked bruises into her skin, filthy little badges of ownership, marks she’d wear until they faded, and the thought of Sam seeing them tomorrow almost made Dean laugh against her. His lips dragged up her neck, breath ragged and hot. “Goddamn, sweetheart… tight little pussy’s milkin’ my cock like it was made for me.” His words spilled out rough and unfiltered, his hips never faltering, his thumb still tormenting her clit with ruthless strokes. “Made to ride me, take me, squeeze me dry. Look at you—fuckin’ mess already.”
She whimpered, writhing in his grip, but he held her steady, his gaze fixed on her like she was the only thing in existence. His voice dropped lower, filthier, a wicked chuckle breaking through the growl in his throat. “Bet Sammy’s out there wonderin’ where the hell we are. If he only knew…” He buried his cock deeper with a sharp snap of his hips, dragging a cry out of her chest. “If he knew you’re back here in Baby, sittin’ pretty on my cock, lettin’ me stretch you open—fuck—taking every inch like a good girl.”
He licked up the sweat beading at her throat, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to her jaw as his thrusts turned even rougher, each one making her tits bounce, each one knocking another broken moan out of her. “You like that, huh?” he whispered, filthy and dark, his smirk brushing against her skin. “Like knowin’ you’re fuckin’ mine while my brother or anyone actually, is just a few feet away? Like sittin’ here gettin’ split open on my cock, where anyone could see if they just walked by?”
His thumb worked faster, grinding into her clit in tight, punishing circles, and his cock throbbed deep inside her, every nerve alight with the way her body clutched him, wet and hot and perfect. “C’mon, baby,” Dean groaned, voice gravel and sin, his forehead pressing to hers as he fucked up into her with brutal rhythm, each word broken by thrusts. “Give it to me. Wanna feel you come all over me, squeeze me ‘til I can’t breathe. Wanna feel this pussy choke my cock.”
Her trembling hand dropped to his wrist, nails digging in as if she could slow him down, desperate for a moment to catch her breath. Dean only smirked, green eyes dark and glinting in the dim light, sweat dripping down his temple. “No, c’mon, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice husky but dangerously soft, a mockery of tenderness that made her shiver. “You can take it. I know you can. You’re my girl, remember? Built to take everything I give you.”
Before she could protest, Dean’s big hands closed around her wrists, prying them from his arm with unyielding strength. He dragged them behind her back, pinning both in one fist with effortless control. She gasped, chest arching forward, and the sight had his cock twitching inside her. His other hand—his free hand, wicked and merciless—slid right back between them, fingers finding her clit again, rubbing tight, vicious little circles that had her body jerking despite herself. Held there, pinned and spread on his lap, she had no choice but to take it, no way to escape the rhythm of his thrusts or the torment of his touch.
“Too… too much,” she whispered, voice cracked and breaking, but her hips told the truth. They kept grinding down, chasing every flick of his fingers, chasing the drag of his cock slamming up into her, wet and obscene.
Dean let out a low laugh, his head tipping back before he snapped his hips up hard enough to make the Impala’s suspension groan. “Look at you,” he rasped, eyes dragging over her flushed face, the sweat beading on her chest, her tits bouncing with every snap of his hips. He bottomed out with brutal precision, grinding deep, making sure she felt every vein, every inch, making sure she’d never forget who she belonged to. The leather beneath them squeaked, the windows rattling with the force of it, the whole car alive with their sin.
“You’re sittin’ here tellin’ me you can’t take it,” he continued, voice filthy, laughter spilling dark and rough from his throat, “while you’re fuckin’ yourself down on my cock like you’re tryin’ to break it in half. Christ, sweetheart.” His thumb worked harder, pressing circles into her swollen clit that bordered on cruel. “So greedy for it. Always hungry. Always wantin’ more.”
Her eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed, a strangled moan tearing from her throat as her body shuddered. But Dean wasn’t having it. Not tonight. His fingers left her clit for the briefest second, only to spank it with a sharp smack that made her yelp, her eyes flying open in shock and heat.
“Uh-uh,” he groaned, voice gravel and command, his chest heaving as he glared up at her. His hips didn’t stop, if anything they grew harder, sharper, punishing in their rhythm. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. C’mon. Let me see you while I fuck you.”
He squeezed her wrists tighter behind her back, holding her completely helpless, while his thumb resumed its ruthless torture on her clit. His gaze burned into hers, unrelenting, drinking in every twitch of her lips, every tear threatening to fall, every ruined moan that spilled from her mouth. “That’s it,” he breathed, a smirk curving his lips even as his voice rasped with lust. “Look at me while you fall apart. Look me in the eye while this pretty little pussy milks me dry.”
The sound of skin on skin echoed in the car, slick and obscene, her cries blending with his ragged groans until it was nothing but heat and filth filling the air. Dean leaned up, capturing her lips in a kiss that was brutal, teeth clashing, tongue claiming her mouth like he was staking his territory. When he pulled back, he was panting against her, his breath hot and damp. “Gonna cum for me, sweetheart?” he whispered, taunting, his thumb grinding tighter, faster. “Gonna cum all over my cock, make a fuckin’ mess on Baby’s backseat?”
She gave a frantic little nod, teeth catching her bottom lip so hard it nearly bled. “Yeah,” she whispered, voice shredded, barely a sound, more a confession than an answer.
Dean adjusted his hips, angling himself just right, that practiced hunter’s precision, finding the spot inside her that made her whole body seize. He drove up into her with merciless thrusts, cock battering her sweet spot, and her response was immediate—a strangled cry torn from her chest, hands clawing uselessly at the iron grip he had on her wrists behind her back. Her thighs shook violently, trembling as she gasped, body breaking under the pressure he was building in her.
And then—she snapped.
A sharp, helpless scream ripped out of her throat as she gushed around him, squirting hard, soaking his cock, his jeans, the leather beneath them. The hot spray hit him with every grind of her hips, drenching them both. Dean’s eyes widened, jaw dropping as the sound he let out was half moan, half disbelieving laugh. “Oh—fuck. Okay, shit—holy fuck,” he groaned, his head thunking back against the window as he let out ragged, breathless chuckles between moans. “Sweetheart, fuckin’—look at you. Didn’t think you had that in you. Goddamn.”
Her pussy clamped down on him in the aftershocks, pulsing tight, wringing him so hard he could barely breathe. He gritted his teeth, cursed low and filthy, and then lost it. With a strangled grunt, Dean slammed her down one last time, holding her flush against him as he spilled, fucking his cum up into her in sharp, jerking thrusts. The heat of it filled her, thick and endless, spilling back out almost as fast as he pushed it in. He rode the wave through clenched teeth, his whole body shaking with the force of it.
“Fuuuuck,” Dean groaned, voice breaking on the word as his hips finally slowed, collapsing back against the seat like his bones had given out. She went limp against him, her body spent, her head falling to his shoulder as her breathing came in ragged gasps.
Silence tried to creep in, but it wasn’t silence at all—just the aftermath. The windows fogged beyond recognition. Their heavy breathing filled the car, loud and uneven. Outside, crickets sang and some far-off highway hummed faintly. Inside Baby, it was heat and sweat and the raw smell of sex, clinging to the leather, soaked into the seams.
Dean tilted his head down, brushing his lips against her hairline as he used his free hand to sweep the damp strands from her flushed face. His voice came out softer than it had any right to be after what he’d just done to her. “You okay, sweetheart?”
She nodded against his chest, too wrecked to form words, looking seconds from passing out—but not the bad kind. The fucked-wrecked kind. Dean smirked, chest swelling with a mix of pride and something tender he wouldn’t dare name. He pressed a slow kiss to her forehead, letting her melt into him, even as his cock still sat buried inside her, twitching, leaking, her pussy fluttering around him with lazy aftershocks that kept dragging groans out of his throat.
Minutes bled by, their bodies locked together in the sticky haze of it, until—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Dean stiffened instantly, muscles coiling like a sprung trap. His hand darted for his flannel crumpled on the floor, grabbing it to drape over her bare back, covering her as best he could while she groaned in sleepy protest. He cursed under his breath, rolling the window down an inch.
Sam came into view, plastic gas station bag in hand, his brows furrowed as he rummaged inside. “I think I got the wrong salts. I’m not entirely sure, I kinda just grabbed the first thing I saw, so I came to ask if—” He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes finally flicked up, taking in Dean, shirtless and sweat-soaked, flushed to the ears, and the very obvious situation in the fogged-up car.
Dean cleared his throat, coughed awkwardly, trying to keep a straight face. “Uh… yeah, you might wanna give us a minute.”
Her muffled voice spoke up against Dean’s sweaty chest, lazy and unapologetic. “Five.”
Dean’s lips twitched into a cocky smirk. He leaned down to press a kiss against her temple before calling out, “Make that ten.” He didn’t even wait for Sam’s reply, just rolled the window back up.
On the other side of the glass, Sam stood frozen in horror, muttering under his breath as he turned away. “I have to sit back there…” His shoulders hunched in disgust. “…God, I have to sit back there.”
SUMMARY - you and dean decide to try something a little different but you quickly find neither of you are very good at it
WARNINGS - smut. piv. kinda public sex. lots and lots and lots of dirty talk. mentions of drugs.
WORD COUNT - 3.5k
╰┈➤ There’s something about a rowdy dive bar in the middle of Nowhere, Random State No. 4 that really gets the blood pumping after a naff day researching at the local library. It was just after ten at night when Dean decided he was gonna get the lay of the year that night—8 minutes into the movie he’d illegally pirated specifically to keep himself from getting bored and leaving to drive about the streets until 3am.
He’s gulping down his third beer 20 minutes later, a double whiskey neat lying ready for the taking by the hand not wrapped around the ice cold bottle. The music is a bunch of mumbling modern bullshit he’s never really taken a liking to, the lights dim but not enough to hide the scandalous going ons in the back right corner booth between two seriously coked out women. Dean sets the empty bottle down on the bar table, licking his teeth of the flavour, gaze lazing over the two women for a moment more before his green eyes flick to the door. A woman has just entered. Alone. Confident. Sexy as sin.
You’re bored. Tired. And quite frankly, in need of some action. Even a kiss would suffice. It’s nearing that feral time of the month again, you suppose.
Lips painted a dark glossy red, a half finished cigarette between them. You play with the ends of your hair as you sit down a couple seats away from Dean, unbeknownst. You order a double brandy and ginger ale, setting up a tab you know you’ll be using tonight. A cloud of smoke is exhaled through your nose, scoping out the bar properly while you wait for your drink. The nic buzz courses through you in a short burst of exhilaration.
Your eyes skip over every face in the joint, some looking right back at you, lustful interest playing behind keen eyes, including Dean’s. In your peripheral, you notice he’s pretty nearby. Slowly, your gaze returns to him and yeah, that’s a face that deserves to be between your thighs tonight. Hell, that’s a face that deserves your face between his thighs. For a moment, you’re both just staring at each other, the haze of mixing blunt smoke in the air. But then the bartender sets your drink down in front of you and you break the eye contact to thank her, sipping almost innocently while his eyes burn holes in the side of your face.
You wait. A solid forty-three seconds before he finally gets up and sits beside you, presence warm and dark. Still, you keep your eyes on the dying embers of the cigarette between your fingers, lip gloss marks stained across the tip, a matching mark on the edge of the plastic cup of alcohol. You take a long gulp of it and you feel him watch your throat before he actually says anything.
“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a dirty, no good place like this, hm?” he eventually utters, his own cup of whiskey swirling in his grasp.
The tip of your index finger plays around with the rim of your cup for a moment before you answer, eyes glancing over at him slyly. “This is where you go if you wanna get up to dirty and no good things, isn’t it?” you reply with a mischievous hum, taking another puff of your cig.
Dean hums, eyes on the way your lips wrap around the cig before dropping to that very generous shirt giving him all that cleavage for free and that goddamn orange push up bra beneath it. “This is definitely the place for that, sweetheart.”
Finally, you turn your gaze to him, holding eye contact as you finish the rest of your drink in one long gulp. Your thumb catches a stray droplet, tongue immediately flicking out to taste it on your skin. He watches, gaze almost hungry. He’s adjusting himself on his seat as you order yourself another drink. Dean insists he pays for it, smirk playing those pretty lips of his as he mutters something about being a gentleman—like he’s ever known gentlemanly behaviour to be in his personality bank.
His eyes are constantly on that bra peeking out beneath your shirt. Or more so, your tits.
“Fuck, I hate you for wearing that goddamn bra,” he mutters under his breath, breaking character for a moment.
Your lips twitch up for a moment as you offer him a drag of your cigarette. He takes it wordlessly, inhaling deeply, not minding the lip gloss on it.
“You’re not meant to know anything about this ‘goddamn’ bra, Dean,” you murmur in reply, nudging up closer to him so to anyone on the outside it looks like two strangers flirting. In reality though, it’s two seriously horny 20 something year old hunters with a penchant for trying new things with each other—hence the strangers role-play.
Dean scoffs at your words, not bothering to give you the cigarette back and instead finishing it. “How am I meant to pretend I’ve not ever had my face buried in between those beautiful tits of yours, sweetheart?”
You only smirk, removing another blunt and light from your pocket as your next drink is set on the table between you both. “Ain’t that the mysterious fun of it all, baby?”
“Mm, don’t call me baby right now, wearing’ that bra where people can see it,” he grunts, glancing around instinctively, checking for any lingering eyes. “That’s my fuckin’ bra.”
“Is it now?” you muse, a fresh wave of nic buzz washing over you. “I was under the impression I bought this bra for myself two years ago.”
“And what a great present it was f’me, sweetness,” he mutters, hand reaching for your thigh. You snatch his wrist swiftly.
“No touching.”
He rolls his eyes, flexing his fingers as you let go. Swiftly, he flicks back to that fake curious stranger persona like he hadn’t fucked you silly the past three nights in a row and was about to do so again in an hour. “You come here alone then?”
Two men begin to raise their voices behind you both by the pool table but neither of you pay much mind to them, totally engrossed in each other. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” you hum, inhaling another drag and taking a long drink soon after. The mix of alcohol, nicotine, and Dean’s dirty gaze is dizzying and elating.
“I would,” he replies quickly, leaning closer. “I really fucking would, sweetheart.” His tongue darts out to lick his lips, eyes flicking up and down you again.
“Name’s not sweetheart, sweetheart,” you click your tongue, setting the plastic cup down with only dregs left in it. Your gaze drops to the whiskey in his grasp and the silver ring glinting on his middle finger. “You gonna finish that?”
The corners of his lips twitch slightly, breaking character as the rowdy men behind you reach a crescendo of yells and accusations. One of the bartenders sighs irritably and stalks out from behind the bar to grab a bouncer. Still, it’s like the world doesn’t exist.
“You tryna leech off me already, sweetheart?”
You shrug mischievously. “Worth a try, ain’t it?”
Dean only watches you for another moment before slowly bringing the drink to his lips and downing the rest of it in one go, expression relaxed and unphased from the taste as he sets the empty cup back on the table.
Your tongue rolls over the inside of your cheek, trying to hide an amused smirk. “You got a name, stranger?”
He bites his lip to hide another smirk as he shifts to lean his elbow on the table. “Might wanna make a list of dirty names in your notes app, babe.”
A scoff escapes your glossed lips. “That right?” you snort, fidgeting with a necklace resting on your collarbone. “You talk a lot of cocky shit for a random guy in a dodgy bar in the middle of nowhere.”
His proud smile is dazzling. Beautiful some might say. You definitely would say that. Among a lot of other things that would make a nun faint. “Only for sexy chicks like you, sweetness,” he replies smoothly, a bouncer having to separate the two drunk shouting men and escort them off the premises. A bunch of college kids overtake the pool table, making light fun of the almost bar fight.
“You say that to all the sexy chicks you find in bars?”
“Nope,” he grins, tapping his chest. “This one was straight from the heart.”
You tilt your head, examining him for another moment. “You got a room?”
“I got a car.”
You raise an amused eyebrow. “Is that the best you can do?” you muse. “I’m a very classy lady, you know.”
“Mm, I bet you are.”
A laugh louder than both of you expect falls from your lips, unable to maintain nonchalantness for a second. “That did not land the way you wanted it to.”
Dean only rolls his eyes, running a quick hand through his hair. “Oh please, don't act like you weren’t practically in tears the other day ‘cuz I didn’t let you finish,” he scoffs, unable to stop himself from the retort and going totally off script.
The laughter quickly drops from your face as you hiss under your breath. “You’re acting all cocky now in broad daylight like you don’t beg for me when I’m ridin’ you slow, baby.”
This forces a smirk onto his face, not even ashamed. “Alright,” he nods, his smirk turning predatory as he leans in to press his plush lips to your ear. His breath is warm and wet. “You make a good point but trust me when I say this—I’m gonna flirt with you for another hour, yeah? And then afterwards I’m gonna take you to my car and I’m gonna fuck you like you’re some slutty hookup in the backseat.”
When he pulls away, you look up at him with a pleased smile. “Promise?”
He hums in response, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His knuckles brush the side of your smooth face, memorising the feel.
A rowdy group of middle aged men have arrived at the bar a few seats away, harassing the bartenders and being a general nuisance. Dean takes this as his sign to stand from his stool, offering a teasing palm to you. The cuffs of his leather jacket brush the back of your hand as you accept his hand and slide off your seat. He guides you to a table near the back, a trail of smoke following you both from the lit blunt. He totally disregards the two women still going at it in the corner, his eyes all over you.
“So,” he announces after you both sit down. The table’s a little sticky and it smells strongly of hash but that’s the charm of a place like this. “You never answered my question on why you’re here tonight, sweetness.”
You raise an eyebrow, pausing for a moment to think of a flirty response. “Looking’ for a trouble that’s worth it,” you decide to say, the words feeling cheesy and silly but feed the role-play well.
Dean’s grin widens. He likes that. “Oh, I am so worth it,” he brags, assuming he’s the trouble. “You’ll be feelin’ me for months.”
“What makes you think I won’t forget about you in a week?” you hum, fingering your cigarette absentmindedly.
“You won’t,” is all he replies.
Your tongue darts out to lick your lips before taking another drag. “Desperate and cocky,” you note.
He scoffs. “Nah, I just know what I want.”
“And what’s that?”
“Those sexy lips of yours wrapped around my cock,” he smiles like his words weren’t totally vulgar and crude and disgusting and turned you the fuck on.
The table creaks as you lean forward, cleavage more visible from this angle and more importantly that bra he loves so much. “Sounds messy,” you state almost blandly as though you’re not shifting desperately on the chair for any sort of friction. Your tongue kisses the back of your teeth, trying to keep your composure.
That forever smirk on his face deepens like he knows what you’re doing—how you’re feeling. “I like my women messy.”
“Oh, so I’m yours now, huh?”
“Sweetheart, you were mine the second you walked through that door.”
Your expression breaks for a moment and there’s a split second where you think, fuck, I’m about to lose this game and tap out because Jesus fucking Christ, this man makes me feral. But then you remember how irritating his gloating is and quickly collect yourself. You would win this. And then afterwards you could let him ravish you and whisper all sorts in your ear.
Dean licks his lips. “Tell me to kiss you.”
You shake your head. “I barely know you,” you hum, finally leaning back in your chair with a soft smirk of your own.
His eyes narrow slightly but then he scoffs and smacks his lips lightly, pretending like he hasn’t got the craziest boner throbbing beneath the fly of his jeans. “Almost had you there.”
“Did you?” you hum, your legs brushing his beneath the table.
There’s a jolt and the table rocks. He hadn’t expected the touch, the way your shoe teases up his calf while you bite your lip like you’re doing absolutely nothing. Christ, he’s never been harder. It’s suddenly sweaty and hot and thick in the air. The background noise becomes altogether louder but more incoherent at the same time. Your foot caresses the inside of his thigh and he shudders, white-knuckling the edge of the table.
“Goddamnit,” he curses under his breath.
And the worst part about it is how disinterested you try to look. Still leaned back, cigarette balanced between your cherry lips as you pull out your phone to scroll, foot still nudging his inner thigh. One strap of your tank top slips from your shoulder. You don’t bother fixing it.
But there’s tells. The tiny ones anyone would notice if they looked at you close enough. The way your fingers tap your knee shakily. The way your thighs are pressed tightly together like you’re trying to curb the hurt.
And you are. Inside, you’re pulsing like hell. Hot and melted and borderline uncomfortable. You’re so wet, it wouldn't even surprise you if you left evidence on the chair once Dean inevitably drags you out of there.
The ache swells below your belly button, seizing your insides, drowning all sensible thought. You finish your smoke and grab another, unable to stop because if you did, you’d end up jumping into his lap.
Every time you moved your foot to tease him, your jeans would shift just right and the delicious friction would send jolts up your spine. He’d lick his lips again and fuck, a moan almost escapes you.
“You’re hurtin’ me, baby,” he rasps out, adjusting himself like he’s in pain. Your foot finally drops. He lets out a soft gasp, palm pressing against the zip of jean as though trying to relieve himself. It’s a sadistic cage, his cock begging to be released.
“You want me to be sorry?”
“I want you on your knees sucking me off,” he lets out, accompanied by a pained laugh. His gaze flicks down to the hand loosely hanging between your knees, inching up your thighs. “Hands on the table, baby. You ain’t cheating. You’re already grinding that fuckin’ chair like it owes you money.”
You smile low—dangerous. “You’ve rubbed your dick like five times already.”
He shrugs. “It’s hungry for ya.”
“For my mouth?” you hum. “Dean, you wouldn’t last sixty seconds if I got on my knees right now.”
He clicks his tongue. “That supposed to be an insult to me or a compliment to yourself?”
“Both,” you smile pleasantly. “I wouldn't mind as long as you make a mess all over my tongue.”
His hand slams down on the table—pure instinct. There’s a primal need coursing though him and he genuinely can’t take it anymore. “Baby, stop talking or I’m gonna bend you over the hood of my car and fuck you so hard the shocks snap.”
“I’d let ya,” you muse, thighs rubbing together slow and delicious. “But only if you crack first. Call it quits, babe.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, head in his hands trying desperately to compose himself. You lean further across the table, resting your chin in your hand and continuing to rub your thighs together. “Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, feeling your panties sticking and your toes curling.
Dean hisses, his entire body trembling. His cock twitches at the little hums she makes.
It’s not a shock when he breaks. It’s not dramatic when he stands abruptly. It’s not surprising when he grabs your wrist and yanks you out of your seat, the cigarette snub falling to the ground as he finally finally drags you out of that godforsaken bar.
He manoeuvres you in front of him, big hands curling around your biceps. His warm lips press into the shell of your ear. “You win, baby.”
The night air is cool outside but not cold. Dean had conveniently parked Baby under a shadowy bridge down the street.
You don’t even make it to the car before his lips are on you. Both of you are trembling like crazy, licking into each other’s mouths, teeth clashing messily. You're both stumbling forwards and back across the sidewalk, your hands exploring every inch and his mostly squeezing your tits.
And when your back finally hits the side of the Impala, he doesn’t even bother taking out the keys. He’s grinding into you and you're gasping into his mouth, desperate little moans lodged in the back of your throat. Your fingers lace into his hair, gripping tight. You’ve never been so turned on in your life. It’s tight and hot and uncomfortable and with each sloppy grind that edge gets so close you think you might actually cum your pants before he’s even touched you properly.
“Fuck, baby, just give it to me,” you gasp into his mouth, hands shaking as you fumble with his belt buckle. His hips buck into your hands. He lets out a loud grunt, hand gripping the car behind you tightly while the other snakes down to unbutton your own jeans, fingers slipping down to search for that ruined fabric. A choked moan leaves you both.
“Shit, you’re soaked as fuck,” he rasps, voice hoarse as his lips connect with your neck.
“Need you,” you gasp, grinding down onto his fingers. “Oh my god, I need you so fucking bad.”
He’s panting into your neck, unable to do anything as you finally shove his jeans and boxers down just enough to squeeze his cock out, hand immediately wrapping around it the warm thickness of it. “Ah- F-Fuck- D-Don’t- Shit.”
You don't even care that you're in the streets right now. You don’t even care when you shimmy your jeans and panties down to your knees so you can part your thighs enough for him to sink himself into you. Neither of you move when he finally gets inside of you, trembling like you’ve just been dipped in an ice bath. His forehead hits your shoulder, panting like a fucking puppy with his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises. Your nails dig into his biceps, biting down on your tongue to try curb that feeling of pleasure from tipping too early.
When he moves, it’s quick—sharp and snappy. The car creaks with every erratic thrust, moving slightly with you both. You try desperately to keep quiet but it feels so fucking good. “Don’t stop,” you gasp, head thrown back. “Oh god, please don’t!”
“M’not, baby,” he gasps back, lips latching back onto your neck.
Neither of you last much longer. You clamp down on him pretty quickly, unable to stop the moan of ecstasy when you finally get that release. The tightness triggers his own orgasm and then you both cum—together. Violently.
You’re out of breath when the high finally knocks you both on your asses.
“Holy shit,” you gasp, chest heaving as you fall limp against the car’s side, your thighs dripping. The reality of the cold outside air hits you like a wall and you shiver, feeling exposed. “What the hell was that?”
Dean’s face is still buried in your neck, his arms wrapping around you tightly. It takes a long moment for him to respond with words, his cock softening inside of you. “That… we need to do that pretending shit more often, holy fuck.”
You let out a low laugh. “Dean, ignoring the fact neither of us lasted thirty seconds there much less sixty, please pull out before someone walks by.”
He groans like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to think about doing.
“I’ll suck you off in the backseat,” you offer and that snaps him out of his reverie. His head lifts from your neck to look at you, face flushed, hair a wild mess, and lips all red and shiny.
“Promise?”
“Only if you return the favour.”
He grins widely. “Don’t even gotta ask f’that, sweetheart. I got you.”
casey's extra bit of thought ── i think i cooked with this one, i'm ngl. this is the first time i've posted something on tumblr but this ain't my first rodeo so hopefully y'all like it
hiii can we have clark and his shy girlfriend who’s never had a boyfriend before, so she thinks she has to be ‘sexy’ for him and how he reacts? love
cw: mildly suggestive, fem
“Can I come in?”
“I’m peeing!”
You’re inspecting a little bump on your leg, actually, that could be a zit but doesn’t really look like one.
“Yeah, honey, I just need to grab my laundry. I won’t look!”
You roll your shoulders. You’ve been getting used to this with Clark very slowly —how easygoing his love actually is. Doesn’t care if you’re peeing, if you’re naked and unready, if you forgot to shave. Doesn’t mind the way your stomach gurgles at night laying under his arm, or the smell of your hair in the mornings; that not-quite-sweat dampness, he loves it, burying his nose in your neck every time without fail.
And now. You could have your panties around your ankles with a soft tummy roll and he doesn’t care. It’s perturbing.
“Can’t wait two seconds?” you ask lightly, unlocking the door.
He’s vaguely apologetic. “Sorry, baby. Didn’t mean to rush you off the pot,” he says, moving you aside with a nice hand to your shoulder.
“Oh, what?” you ask, wrinkling your nose at his weirdest phrase to date.
“If you need to go–”
“Clark, stop. Stop, please.”
“Well, don’t be shy about it!” He pulls your slouchy sweatpants back up your hip and kisses your temple. Quick, chaste, and soft. “Got any laundry for me? I’m doing lights.”
Later that night, after you’ve showered and he’s washed up, his neck still the tiniest bit red from shaving, he sits at the headboard in his boxers with his legs crossed. He’s reading a paperback against his thigh, the pages bent back in one hand.
It makes your stomach warm. Zinging excitement all over your skin at the idea of being where his paperback is, under that same thoughtful stare.
You check your reflection in the full length mirror.
It is terrifying to want him like this, but you won’t be a fool. Clark can hardly be expected to match your mood if you crawl into his lap like a worm begging for a nice touch. No, you have to try to persuade him into amorousness. You check that your shift is falling nicely and move for the bed.
Clark looks up when you kneel, his face quickly taken by a smirk. It looks funny on him, missing any of the smugness you might see when he’s Superman against one of his boggling villains. He seems boyishly pleased before you’ve so much as opened your mouth.
“Are you busy?” you murmur softly.
“Oh, never too busy for you,” he says, rolling it around in his mouth as he places his book upside down on the nightstand.
“No? I don’t have to persuade you to put things down?” you ask.
He really couldn’t look happier. Like, he’s ecstatic rather than lustful, though this is often how it starts with him.
“Nothing in there could be as interesting as you are,” Clark says. He pats the bed in front of him. “Come here? There’s more than enough room for you.”
You cannot crawl sexily, won’t kid yourself into thinking so, instead walking carefully on your knees until you’re in touching distance, settling quietly, carefully.
“You’re such a treasure,” he says, more to himself than you as his fingers brush your knee. “Have you always worn stuff like this?”
“The shifts?” you ask, pinching the fabric between your fingers. “No, not really.”
“No?”
“No. I bought a couple when we first started dating…” You flush at the idea of telling him something like this and then tell him anyhow, because you might be the shyest thing he’s ever seen, but you’re also undoubtedly in love with him, and craving to have him in confidence is a constant. “It was exciting, when you asked me to be your girl,” —that exact phrase— “I went online that night to look at babydolls and, uh, new panties and things, I never had to before. I liked thinking about it.”
His fingers work further down your thigh. “Never had to?”
“No. You’re my first boyfriend. You know that already.”
Clark soothes away your puzzled tone with a big hand spread out over your thigh. Shaved again. He rubs at you searchingly, his brow slightly crinkled. “I’d have you in a sack, if you wanted that.”
You laugh.
He smiles. “I would. You could wear full briefs to bed.”
“Yeah, cos that’d be sexy. Me in my jammies, you’d love that.”
Clark smarts, indignant. “I would.”
You laugh again, wrapping your fingers around his thick wrist. “Sure.”
“Honey, I would. I’d love to see you in your pajamas. I didn’t realise you had pajamas, I– stupidly, I thought this was what you’d usually wear to bed.”
“I’m supposed to be sexy.”
You hadn’t meant to say it quite so abruptly. Clark wasn’t expecting it either, his lips parted enough to catch a slip of his tongue. Just as abruptly, his teeth snap and his mouth closes, both hands finding yours. “You are,” he says, his mouth such a serious line that your heart feels like it’s constricting in your chest for a moment. “Without trying, you are. With effort too, don’t get me wrong, I– I don’t think I’ve ever had so much blood in one place–”
“Clark,” you whine, unbidden.
“–some nights, your dresses, those lacy skirts and stuff, that’s all beautiful. You’re beautiful. But don’t think you have to dress up every night for my benefit, huh?” Your face goes so hot you can feel it in your ears, ‘cos his voice is like satin, talking to you like you need it gentle. “I’d just as happily have you in one of my old t-shirts. Or your jammies.”
“Why are you asking me about this?” you deflect.
He closes his hands around your wrists with a light squeeze. “You won’t let me in the bathroom when you’re in there most the time, but every night you stand in the door in one of these lovely things and I was just… wondering, I guess. I can be really awkward. I wanted to know if I was overstepping with the bathroom thing, but. Anyways. I have my answer.”
“What? What answer?”
“You have a complex. I’ve given you a complex,” he says decidedly.
“You did not.”
“I did. Clearly, I haven’t made it obvious how much I want you at all hours, in anything, and you assume you have to dress up to earn my affection.” Clark dips his head forward, a sweet, dark curl kissing his forehead. “Tell me you like the lingerie, at least.”
“I do.” You realise you can tell him more, and decide to trust him with a little more truthfulness. “I don’t love shaving my legs every night.”
“No?” His eyebrows rise. “Then don’t.”
“Yeah? You won’t care?”
“Of course I won’t.”
You hold your arms toward him and he does the same, taking your hips into his hands as you begin the melding ascent into his lap. Clark folds you into him nicely. “And you really don't care if I stop wearing the lacy panties?”
“Honestly? I assumed you were spoiling me. I had no idea you thought I’d care about them otherwise. Wear anything. Wear nothing.”
You press your nose to his neck, withholding a sound too close to a moan at his smell and general solidness beneath you. His arms are a vice around you that you’d rather die than lose. Especially now he’s letting you say goodbye to headrush-showers and the two hour delicates wash on cold. “Promise?” you murmur.
“I promise.”
Clark proves it with a gift just a day later: a five pack of granny panties and pair of pajamas two sizes too big, for your ultimate comfort. He still finds a way to get you out of them, though, citing an intrinsic sexiness about you that you’re more than happy to oblige him with.
toxic!dean winchester/toxic!girlfriend. biblically accurate dean winchester going daddy issues 4 daddy issues with his established gf. smutty drabble. i have nothing to say for myself. not edited cry about it womp womp friendly reminder, i take requests and my masterlist of all my fics is pinned to my page.
You don't remember how the fight started.
Maybe it's the product of too many drinks at the dive bar next to your motel, which is one clean towel away from paying by the hour. Maybe it's the fact there's always another beast to slaughter, a new monster to chase, a world to save from ending. Maybe it's the fact that you and Dean are too broken people with jagged edges that mostly fit together. That doesn't mean you can't feel the cut.
All you know is there's mascara streaking down your face, and you've got your finger pointed in Dean's face, your bodies inches apart.
"It all comes down to the fact you don't trust me!"
"I do trust you! I just think waltzing around like you have a death wish is a fucking waste of your life!"
"A death wish? So you can make the sacrifice play and it's no big deal, but if I lead, suddenly you're a caveman throwing me over your shoulder like I'm a damsel!"
"You're reckless—"
"You're an asshole—"
"Do you even hear yourself?"
"Sorry, I'm done listening to you. When you put John away and find my Dean again, let him know I'm happy to speak to him as long as he puts the leash away!"
"Don't bring my dad into this."
"Why not? He's already here! He's in everything we do!"
"You don't see me bringing up your skeletons! You think you're little Miss Therapy? Let's talk about your daddy issues next!"
"God, sometimes, I can't decide if I should knock you out or shut you up!"
"You've got a big fucking mouth!"
"Don't you like it open?!"
The fight ends the same way it always does.
One of you breaks.
This time, it's Dean.
Suddenly, he's kissing you so hard it hurts, his teeth nibbling on your bottom lip. You gasp, and his tongue works its way into your mouth, devouring you like sweet syrup from the vine. His body is hard, rigid muscle, sweeping all the lore books and papers off the motel table and throwing you onto it. He threads his fingers in your hair and yanks, pulling your head back to bare your throat to him. He kisses you, sucking hard little bruises into the column of your skin, in all those places that make your toes curl.
His knee slides between your legs, his thigh grinding against your cunt. Even through his jeans, yours, and your thin cotton panties, you're soaked and delirious from the pressure. He grunts against your neck, and your mouth falls open as moans fall from your lips. Desperate, pleading sounds.
"Fuck, baby," he groans. "You drive me fuckin insane."
You kiss him again, undoing his belt with one hand. He tears off your jeans and underwear in one move, freeing his hard cock from his zipper. He takes his boxers down just enough for his dick to spring free. You stroke his shaft in one long, slow pump, swirling your thumb across the pre-cum on the tip. He melts into your hand, gasping. Your shirt gets pushed up just enough to bare your tits, and he pushes your bra aside and grips your breasts in his calloused grip. His mouth lowers, sucking one nipple into his mouth and grazing it with his teeth. You whimper, urging him closer until he's lined up with your needy, wet pussy. He pinches your clit, rolling it between his fingers.
"This what you want, baby? Wanted me to fuck you stupid? Woulda done that without a fight." He clicks his tongue, teasing you with his cock. He slaps his length across your sensitive bundle of nerves, and you let out a sound that's half-moan, half-frustrated cry.
"I'msorryandiloveyoucouldyoupleasejust—"
He slides into you in one fluid motion, so deep it makes your teeth rattle, your belly bulging as he sheathes himself completely. Your pussy squeezes around him, your body shaking as you adjust to the pressure. You can feel him seated so deep that the head of his cock is kissing your cervix, and you gasp, shaking as you struggle to hold onto his shoulders, his back, anything to give you purchase.
He pulls back, snapping his hips back into yours, and pleasure is an electric shock pinballing through your body. He fucks you hard, unforgiving. The pace is relentless and desperate and angry, and at the same time, it's reverential. He kisses you with his hand in your hair, bracing himself against the table as he slams his cock inside of you over and over again. You feel yourself tracing the edge of oblivion, your body coiling with tension. You can't form words, just sounds, fragments of his name. When you cum, it's not gentle or quiet. You're not making love, you're fucking, and it feels so damn good.
You scream out his name, and he rocks into you one final time before he paints your cunt white with ropes of his seed. For a moment, he rests there, his cock still half-hard inside of you, buried so deeply your bodies are one, not an inch of space between you.
The first time Superman meets a telepath and nearly gets his secret revealed.
cw: 18+, smut, situationships, mutant telepath!reader, flirty teasing/banter, f!receiving oral, clark eats her out while talking to her through her mind-reading ability, movie content is mentioned, but not big spoilers (2.3k wc)
Jimmy was halfway rambling to Clark when you peer in from the receptionist area.
"You're here! Give me one second. Let me brief Perry and we'll go." He's fumbling around for his files, throwing a quick, "keep her company for me, Kent!" over his shoulder.
Clark is momentarily taken. You were radiant in a way that made everyone do a double take. Not particularly because of what you were wearing, but because you were carrying an easy, carefree warmth that seemed out of place in an office that was caffeine-run.
Definitely not the sort of girl anyone would assume Jimmy Olsen hung out with.
He offers you a tight smile, as he stands, about to introduce himself when your hand extends out, palm down, wrist tilted. A princess shake. Clark takes a second, and awkwardly grabs both your hand to shake your hand. The sheer size of him has you craning your neck all the way up, eyes widening a fraction.
"I've…heard that you're a pretty good help to Olsen." He begins, watching as you retreat your hand with an intrigued quirk of your brow. "Says you're something of a mind freak."
You frown immediately. Tucking your hair behind your ears and looking around for Olsen. It's clear he's lost your attention. "He calls me a freak?"
"No! Gosh no, something like, you know…a mentalist of sorts." The man seems flustered, and his attention draws to the commotion outside. You tip your head back, squinting to see a plume of smoke and shrieks from afar.
Your don't pay much attention to it. Except, you hear something.
(Crud. Doesn't look like a fire. Could be an explosion?)
You turn your head to look around, pin pointing the source of the thought. Then, another one —
(Need to get there before the second floor collapses.)
Clark's grabbing at his bag, not quite looking at you. And finally, he says out loud this time, "Uh — I have something to tend to."
"Like stopping that building from collapsing."
His eye twitches. "What…do you mean?"
(She can't possibly know, can she?)
"You're Superman." You affirm. With a bemused grin.
Clark hand snaps out around your mouth immediately. You're muffling your giggles against it before he's grabbing and pivoting you out of the bullpen and into the fire escape stairways.
He turns you into the the rusty & rain-scented stairwell. Cornering you close enough for your back to hit the wall. You're still muffling your laughter over his palm — not because you were scared, but because he was trying to hide what you already knew.
"Who sent you?"
You leaned back, licking a strip up his palm. Clark staggers back, in pure and utter shock, his voice increasing a pitch. "Woah what the — what the hay was that?!"
"You were smearing my lip gloss."
He looks at you in exasperation, shoulders stiff and wiping the remnants of pink gloss off on his slacks. But his gaze trails over you, and back to his hand. There's a variant of thoughts flittering through his mind, but you isolate one particular one.
"You think I'm pretty."
It doesn't register in his head fully, a busy mind it was, so he answers without thinking, "what? gosh — yes, that goes without saying." He gasps, snapping his head back at you when you announce the most loud thought in his mind.
"Stop that." Clark points at you accusatorily, "but wait — how on earth are you…"
It takes a solid second, before his shoulders go slack.
"You're…a mutant."
You grin with a shrug, "Jimmy doesn't know." Clark visibly winces when you 'answer' him. "He just thinks I'm reeaaal good at reading people." You're rocking on your heels, filling up with an intense curiosity for this revelation — this befuddled man, turning out to be one of the best discoveries of her life.
Clark wants to ask more. Head tilted, the words on his lips — but the roar of the building collapsing in the fire has his expression changing into something less Clark & more Superman.
"I gotta —" He groans. Running his hand through his hair while side-stepping you. Clark gestures at you with both palms, and then pointing between the two of you hastily while slow-jogging backwards.
"This — we, this isn't over!" He rasps, while sprinting full speed out of the corner.
The speed leaves your dress fluttering, a look of amusement etched onto your features.
Clark doesn't see you again for a few weeks.
Not that he was avoiding you. (Okay, well, maybe a little.) You had a habit of popping up in the weirdest places. Once, in the lobby of The Daily Planet asking concierge if people could claim insurance for super-hero related accidents. And the other, when he was mid-interview with the mayor and you were waving all perky at him, mouthing the words — "He's thinking about meeting his mistress."
You were airy, to put it simply. The sort of person who said whatever floated first into her head, or his. That was the problem, he supposed. You'd so brazenly slipped past the polite wall he kept in place for everyone else. After you were officially a civilian consultant for the paper you were around constantly. Which also meant you'd often catch him mid-thought.
It should annoy him. And gosh it had. Except it loosened something in him. Because with you, there wasn't a need for him to act the part. You got to know every one of his chaotic, burdened and messy thoughts — you didn't run away from it, you'd just leaned closer into it.
The first time the lines were blurred, it's raining impossibly heavily. And you're standing in his doorway, hair damp, clinging to his neck. Before he can even ask you what you were doing here, you're smiling.
"You're thinking about kissing me."
Clark groans, dragging his hand down his face. "I wasn't — you seriously need to stop doing that."
"You were. And now you're thinking about more. I'm down if you are." You skirt past him, leaving behind a trace of your rain-washed perfume, while you hop out of your strappy heels.
He exhales slowly, shutting his door behind you. "That's not — …it isn't a good idea." He mutters, softer.
"Yet you're still thinking about it."
It wasn't a bold declaration, or even something the two of you officially talked about. Sex just happened — once, and over and over again.
Enough times that you both had a slipped into an unsaid arrangement.
Krypto was missing.
Clark had been pacing his apartment since Lois had left. Muttering plans that were flimsy at best to himself. Jaws & shoulder tight. He's halfway to the door when a rustle from his couch has him spin.
There you were, shoes in hand, setting them to the side of his table. "How did you get past concierge — actually, no. Forget it. I'm not in the mood right now." Clark lets out a deep exhale, not wanting to let it show that he was just a little relieved to see you.
"Was that your girlfriend?"
His eyes narrow with a shake of his head. "What? Who, Lois? No. She's…someone close." Clark grabs around your elbow, and then pauses to think, looking at you offended. "And do you really think I'd be doing…what we were doing…with you, If I did have a girlfriend?"
You shrug slightly, letting yourself be walked closer to the door while his thoughts were loudly thinking about how you'd managed to sneak in and overhear his conversation with Lois. And then, he thinks about Kara's dog again.
"…I can help you, you know."
That seems to stop him in his tracks, and he studies you for a moment too long. "This isn't a game."
"When did I say it was? I'm offering because I can."
He almost considers it. But he shakes his head. "No." It was resolute. He backs away from you, arms folded and tense. "I'm not bringing you to Lex Luthor."
(I'm not putting you in danger like that.)
You don't point it out this time. Merely leaning back onto his counter tops, cheeks warming at that. You mirror his posture, folding your arms. "Superman." And you tone drops, a gently lilt to it, "Clark."
"We're perfect together. It's a shame you don't wanna accept it."
He takes in your words, and then his head lolled to the side in thought. But you don't hear a thing.
Clark steps closer, trapping you where you stood, before his palm curls around your hips to set you on the counter. His palm holds the top of he cabinet, so you wouldn't bump into it.
Then, his hold on you eases, turning his attention to dragging his thumb mindlessly along the edge of the tiles.
"I..don't need the added headache."
"Au contraire." You gasp out, melodramatically while you tip his jaw to face you. "If anything, i'm a head-ease. You don't even have to open your mouth." Clark's letting out a exhale when your fingers card through the back of his head as he steps between your thighs.
"They really let anyone be Superman these days. Not exactly man of steel right now. Man of kiddy-bedsheets, maybe."
He quirks a smile at that, and looks up at you. "You're…really just a goddarned Swooper."
"What the hell is a swooper?"
"Something…my parents used to warn me about when I was a kid. A scary lady that would swoop me up if I'd wandered out in the farm on my own in the dark — hey. Don't laugh."
He croaks in exasperation, cheeks flushing at the sound of your laughter. "I'm not!" You protest. Raising your palms in a mock surrender. You lean in, pressing a quick peck to his cheek. "It's endearing. I like it. I'm your swooper."
Clark groans. "Don't even joke about that. I've had nightmares over it." His eyes soften when he looks at you, letting your lips meet his again, and again. You mumble in annoyance when his glasses bump into you. Frowning, you slip them off his face.
"Ohhh lookit. It's Superman."
"Hardy har har."
He leans in and noses at your cheek, kissing down your neck. And back on your lips. Clark closes the distance,tugging you to the edge of the counter top. "I promise, I won't get hurt." You offer, catching his quick glance at you when he kisses down your chest.
"I can be places without being seen. Part of the…mentalist stitch." Clark thumbs at your cheek, kissing the apple. "I'm not keeping you around just so I could use you."
"You might just be the only man who doesn't."
Clark huffs out a laugh at that, taking a knee while he ruched your skirt up your hips. "What happened to not using me?" He looks up at you with a lopsided smile, kissing up your ankles before pulling your thigh closes to his edge.
"You're not exactly the one being used in this scenario." You jolt against his face when he kisses up your inner thighs, his thumb skirting the string of your thong. A soft content sigh leaves your lips, lifting your hips just enough for him to tug at your underwear down.
"For someone who refuses.. —mhh—…to cuss, your mind is sure…full of filth.." You mutter, and Clark drags his tongue over your soft pussy. Sucking at the bud. You whine louder.
"Why say things when I can just do them?" He mutters low into your cunt, tongue dipping into your hole with a teasing intensity. Your hand grips around his curls, nudging his face just a little closer. "Oh—shit." You curl your thigh over your shoulder, seeking the friction of his curls against it.
(Greedy little thing. Do you plan to suffocate me?)
You jolt when you hear him, letting out a huff of laughter. Looking at him with a glint in your eyes. "Isn't…Superman able to hold his breath for super long?" You're biting your lip when he drags the curve of his nose along your slit.
(So you did your research. Cute)
"Jesus…I-I can't believe I'm saying this but shut up." Clark laughs against your pussy, the reverberation of it having you clutch around his head to drag him back. He hooks his arms underneath both your thighs, burying his head into your pussy. The kitchen fills with an obscene mixture of noises, his sucks, grunts, and your moans that were only growing more intense.
"Clark —" You rasp out, hips already moving to grind on his face.
(Yeah, baby?)
"T-Talk to me."
You feel him smirk at that, alternating to a deeper suck, lapping at your clit until they lift from the counters.
(Always knew your pussy would be fuckin' divine.)
Your cheeks grow warmer at his use of a curse word for the very first time. Your other palm snaps to grip around the counter, your pussy instinctively pulses around his tongue.
(Clenching around my tongue like that, dirty girl.)
You choke out a strangled cry, and Clark notices your chest rise and dip at a faster pace. He adjusts you rougher, manhandling you tad until you're curling your thighs around his neck. Clark doesn't stop, despite you trying to squirm away, he lets you hump at his tongue, all up till' you're gasping. "Yes, god, yes!" Your hips arching in heavy, forceful jolts into his mouth at the final suck of your clit.
He continues his assault on your pussy, making eye contact with you while you gush into his mouth. And then, only then, does your body finally go slack. Falling lip against the cabinets. Clark pulls away slow, his hand holding you entirely up right while he rises. Cradling your jaw until they rest on his cheek. Your pussy throbbed in the wake of loss, letting your head fall to the safety of his chest.
"How's that for using someone?" He murmurs into the side of his head, as he lifts you on the counter. The slick of your pussy smearing against his chest with every movement.
