Part seven but can be read as a standalone. Takes place season four.
Synopsis: An argument leads to Richie finally confessing how he feels.
Warnings: slow burn, friends to lovers, su!cide mention, angst, grief, panic attacks, violence, drinking, breakdowns, blood, the bear type shit, making out, 18+, MDNI
Masterlist
The alley behind The Bear smelled like cigarettes, bleach, and cold metal. Chicago winter had settled deep into the city by then, the kind of cold that sat inside your lungs after too long outside, and the back alley behind the restaurant trapped it worse than the streets did. Wind cut between the buildings hard enough to sting exposed skin while the old security light above the back door flickered every few seconds, throwing weak yellow light across the dumpsters and stacked milk crates near the wall.
Inside the restaurant, the last of cleanup had finally ended almost twenty minutes ago. Tina had gone home muttering about everybody being idiots. Marcus left with two containers of pastries nobody asked for but everybody accepted at this point because it was Marcus. Syd had stood at the host stand for five straight minutes watching her over clean, carefully before finally saying goodnight in the soft suspicious voice she used when she knew something was wrong but also knew pushing too hard would make things worse. Fak had attempted to stay longer until Richie physically shoved him toward the front door while telling him to "go terrorize another building for a few hours."
Now it was just them. She stood outside in the alley wiping down a prep table that was already clean. Richie had been standing in the back doorway watching her for almost ten minutes. At first he tried convincing himself she was almost done. Then he tried convincing himself she just needed a second alone after a rough service. Then he tried lighting a cigarette and nearly burned his own fingers because he could not stop staring at the way her shoulders moved every time she breathed. She looked exhausted. Not regular restaurant exhausted either. Not the kind everybody at The Bear carried around like a personality trait. This looked deeper.
The panic attack earlier that week had scared the hell out of him in ways he still had not fully processed, mostly because seeing her fall apart had felt fundamentally wrong to his brain. She was the stable thing. The warm thing. The person who calmed everybody else down when they started spiraling. Watching panic completely overtake her while she clung to him in that hallway had rearranged something inside his chest. And now she was right back to doing this. Staying late. Cleaning things that did not need cleaning. Running herself into the fucking ground like she thought stopping for even one second would somehow make everybody leave her behind. Richie finally pushed away from the doorway.
"Can you stop for like five fucking seconds?"
She was startled slightly before looking over her shoulder at him. She still held the rag in one hand.
"I'm literally wiping down a table."
"Yeah," Richie said immediately. "I know. It's already clean."
She looked back down at the table, wiping the exact same spot again.
"Okay?"
"Okay, you've been out here for like an hour."
"I'm fine!"
She sighed softly, exhaustion already sitting inside the sound before she even answered him. Something in him snapped at that immediately. Not explosive anger. Honestly worse. Controlled anger. The kind he had been swallowing for weeks now every time she said that fucking phrase.
"See, there it is again."
Now she looked at him fully. "What?"
"'I'm fine.'" Richie laughed once, sharp and humorless while gesturing toward her with both hands. "'I'm fine.' You're always fucking fine."
"Can we not do this right now?" she muttered.
"No," Richie said instantly. "Actually no, because nobody else is gonna say shit."
That got her attention. The rag stopped moving. The cold wind whipped harder through the alley, moving strands of hair across her face while she stared at him with visible confusion mixed carefully with defensiveness.
"Say what?"
Richie gestured wildly toward the restaurant behind them.
"You run around that place every single day fixing everybody's problems like it's your fucking job to keep everybody alive."
"It's called helping people."
"No," Richie shot back immediately. "It's called driving yourself into the goddamn ground."
She scoffed softly then turned away from him again, tossing the rag onto the prep table harder than necessary.
"Jesus Christ."
Richie's jaw tightened. "No, don't do that."
She spun back around immediately.
"Do WHAT?"
"That thing," he snapped, pointing toward her aggressively now because once he started talking he genuinely could not stop anymore. "That thing where you act like everybody's crazy for worrying about you."
"I didn't ask anybody to worry about me."
"Yeah, well, too fucking bad!"
Silence crashed between them after that. Heavy silence. Both of them heard how loaded that sounded. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest now, defensive in a way Richie rarely saw from her. The cold had turned her nose pink. Her eyes looked tired. There were still shadows beneath them from barely sleeping all week. And somehow she still looked more worried about everybody else than herself.
"What is your problem?" she asked quietly.
Richie laughed once, sharp and frustrated and mostly directed at himself.
"You wanna know my fucking problem?" He stepped closer. "My problem is watching you have a panic attack three days ago and then come right back in there acting like nothing happened."
"Are you serious right now?"
"YES, I'm serious!"
"It was one bad night!"
"No it fucking wasn't!"
Now she looked angry too. Good. At least anger was honest. "Everybody in that restaurant is losing their fucking minds, Richie!"
"Yeah," he fired back immediately, "and everybody in that restaurant isn't pretending they don't need anything from anybody!"
"Because nobody has time for me to fall apart!"
The words exploded out of her before she could stop them. The second they landed between them, she regretted saying them. Richie went completely still. His expression changed like somebody had physically hit him. Then quieter, way quieter than before, he asked:
"Who told you that?"
She immediately shook her head hard. "Don't."
"No, seriously," Richie said, stepping closer again. "Who the fuck told you that?"
"Richie, stop."
"Because that's bullshit and you know it."
Her eyes filled immediately with tears she clearly did not want him seeing.
"I don't have energy for this right now."
"Yeah, I know," Richie snapped. "Because you don't got energy for fucking anything anymore."
She looked away from him completely now, blinking rapidly while wrapping her arms tighter around herself against the cold. Richie ran both hands through his hair aggressively before pacing two steps away and immediately back again because standing still suddenly felt impossible.
"You had a panic attack," he said, voice rougher now. "You scared the fucking shit outta me, alright? And the next morning you were right back in there taking care of everybody else like nothing happened."
"Because if I don't then everything falls apart!"
"No it doesn't!"
"YES IT DOES!"
"No," Richie shouted back, emotion finally fully breaking through now. "No, YOU fall apart!"
That shut her up instantly. The alley went dead quiet except for both of them breathing too hard. She stared at him like she had never heard anybody say something like that to her before. Richie's chest hurt. Because he knew that look. He knew exactly what kind of person created someone like her. He knew what it meant when somebody believed so completely that their worth only existed in relation to what they could do for other people.
"You think if you keep fixing everything," Richie said, voice quieter now but infinitely more emotional somehow, "if you keep everybody happy, keep everybody fed, keep everybody standing, then maybe people'll stay. You got people in there who love the shit outta you," Richie continued, voice cracking slightly now despite how hard he tried holding it together, "and you walk around acting like you gotta earn your spot every single fucking day."
"You don't understand," she whispered.
"No," Richie snapped, louder than he had been the entire conversation. "YOU don't fucking understand!"
The words echoed hard against the alley walls. She flinched slightly. Richie saw that too and immediately hated himself for it, but he was too emotionally cornered now to stop. He paced away from her fast, dragging both hands over his face before turning back again almost instantly. She stood frozen near the prep table crying quietly now, tears slipping down her face while she watched him like she genuinely had no idea what was happening anymore. Richie pointed toward her helplessly.
"You got no idea what you do to people."
"Richie."
"No," he interrupted immediately. "No because I'm serious, alright? I'm serious and I can't keep doing this shit."
His voice was moving too fast now. Emotion outrunning his thoughts. He could feel himself spiraling and could not stop it anymore.
"I can't keep standing there watching you kill yourself for everybody else while acting like you don't matter."
Richie laughed once nervously, pacing again because standing still felt physically impossible now.
"Fuck." His hands shook slightly when he shoved them into his jacket pockets. "You walk into a room and everybody breathes easier. You know that?"
She just stared at him. Tears streamed silently down her face now while cold wind moved through the alley around them.
"Carmy trusts you more than anybody," Richie continued, voice rough and uneven now. "Tina calms down when you're around. Fak follows you around like a lost fucking puppy. Sugar calls you before she calls anybody else. Eva asks about you constantly."
That one visibly hit her. Richie saw her mouth tremble immediately afterward.
"And me?" he said softly, almost laughing at himself now because he could not believe this was happening like this. He looked away for a second because the vulnerability of this physically hurt. "You're the first person I wanna talk to when something happens. Good or bad, doesn't matter. Every single time something happens, I think about calling you."
Richie shook his head again, overwhelmed and terrified and too deep into this now to stop himself.
"And when you're upset," he continued, voice cracking harder now, "or tired, or somebody hurts you, it like..." He pressed a hand flat against his own chest, frustrated and emotional because he genuinely could not explain the feeling correctly. "It fucking kills me."
Silence swallowed the alley after that. Richie breathed hard while staring at the ground for one terrible second before finally looking back at her.
"Fuck it."
The words came out almost under his breath. Then he looked directly at her. Completely raw in a way Richie almost never allowed himself to be. "I'm in love with you, alright?"
She stopped breathing. The words came out rough and uneven, like he physically had to drag them out of himself.
"I'm in love with you and I think I've been in love with you for a real long fucking time."
The second he said it, Richie started pacing again immediately because standing still after that felt impossible.
"And I know that's probably selfish and shitty and bad timing and maybe I shouldn't even be saying it," he rambled quickly, hands moving wildly while panic and relief and terror all collided together inside him at once, "but I can't keep watching you stand there acting like you gotta earn people caring about you when you are..."
He cut himself off hard, emotional enough now that his voice nearly disappeared completely. "You're the best part of my life."
That was what finally destroyed her. Richie kept talking because once emotional honesty started spilling out of him, it came violently and without control.
"And if you don't feel the same, that's okay," he rushed out immediately, terrified now that he had actually said all of this aloud. "I swear to God, it's okay, I just needed you to know because I feel like I'm losing my fucking mind half the time..."
She grabbed his face and kissed him mid-sentence. It happened so fast Richie barely had time to process it before her mouth crashed against his, cold hands framing his face while years of restrained tension snapped apart all at once. The shock of it made a rough startled sound leave his throat against her lips, but the surprise only lasted half a second before instinct took over completely and he kissed her back hard enough that she stumbled into him. Richie's hands found her waist automatically, gripping tight through her coat while he pulled her flush against him with enough force to make her gasp softly into his mouth. That sound nearly destroyed him. He kissed her harder after it, desperate and messy and completely incapable of pretending he had any self control left anymore.
Because Jesus Christ. It was her. Who had been sitting beside him for years stealing fries off his plate. She sat with him after Mikey died while he chain smoked on her fire escape at three in the morning because neither of them knew how to survive grief yet. She tucked herself into every broken part of his life so naturally he had stopped noticing where she ended and where everything else began. And now she was kissing him like she wanted him just as badly. Richie's brain genuinely could not process it fast enough. He backed her against the prep table without realizing he was doing it, one hand braced hard beside her hip while the other slid up into her hair. She made another soft sound against his mouth when his fingers tightened there, and the noise punched straight through his chest. Neither of them kissed carefully. There was nothing cautious about it anymore. Not after years of almost touching. Years of glances that lasted too long. Years of late nights in the restaurant standing too close to each other while pretending neither of them noticed. Years of loving each other sideways because they were too scared to ruin what they already had.
She kissed him like she had been waiting for permission. Richie kissed her like he had been starving. Their teeth knocked together once because neither of them could slow down enough to care, and she laughed breathlessly into his mouth for half a second before Richie kissed her again immediately, deeper this time, one hand sliding from her waist up beneath the collar of her coat just to feel warm skin under his palm. His entire body felt lit up from the inside out. Every place she touched him burned. Her fingers tangled hard into the front of his jacket while she pulled him impossibly closer, and Richie swore softly against her lips because there was suddenly nowhere near enough space between them. He wanted more. More contact. More air. More of her. Every second she kissed him seemed to make the need worse instead of better.
His hands shook slightly where they held her waist. She slid one hand up into his hair then, fingers running over his buzz cut while she kissed him harder, and Richie physically groaned into her mouth before dropping his forehead briefly against hers like he needed one second to survive the intensity of it.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered breathlessly.
She looked just as overwhelmed as he felt. Her lips were swollen already, cheeks flushed pink from cold and adrenaline and kissing him, eyes bright with tears she had not fully cried out yet. Richie stared at her for one dangerous second before kissing her again because he genuinely could not stop himself now that he knew what she tasted like. This kiss slowed slightly. Not less intense. His hand slid carefully along the side of her neck while he kissed her deeply and slowly enough to make her breathing turn uneven again, and the soft sound she made against his mouth nearly unraveled him completely. Her hands softened against him too, one still tangled in his hair while the other rested over his chest like she could physically feel how hard his heart was beating through his jacket.
Because Richie had imagined this before. Of course he had. He had spent years trying not to think about her this way while secretly thinking about her constantly anyway. He had imagined kissing her in stupid impossible moments he immediately forced himself to stop having. But nothing he imagined came close to this. Nothing came close to her kissing him back like she loved him too. The realization hit him so hard he actually pulled back for air. His forehead stayed pressed against hers while both of them breathed hard into the tiny space between them. Richie kept one hand buried in her hair while the other gripped her waist tightly enough that she knew without question he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.
"You kissed me," he said weakly, still sounding genuinely stunned by it.
She let out a shaky laugh through tears. "You said you were in love with me!"
"Yeah..." He stopped and laughed breathlessly at himself, eyes closing for a second while disbelief washed visibly across his face.
Richie kissed her again before either of them could fully recover from the last one, like the second he stopped touching her his brain caught up and panicked all over again. His hands stayed locked around her waist while she laughed breathlessly against his mouth, the sound disappearing into another kiss almost immediately because Richie clearly had no intention of letting her get very far away from him now that he finally had her.
"Richie," she tried softly between kisses, but he only shook his head once before kissing her again harder.
"Nope."
She laughed again, hands sliding into his hair while his mouth moved warm and slow against hers this time, less frantic now but somehow even more intense because he was actually letting himself feel it. Every kiss carried years inside it. Every touch felt loaded with things they should have said a long time ago. She could feel how overwhelmed he was. The slight shaking in his hands every time they slid against her waist. The way he kept pulling her impossibly closer like some terrified part of him still thought she might disappear if he loosened his grip for even a second. The soft rough sounds he kept making under his breath whenever she kissed him back harder. It made her chest ache.
"Richie," she tried again, quieter this time.
He kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then immediately came back to her lips like he physically could not help himself.
"Nope," he repeated against her mouth. "No talking right now."
She smiled helplessly into the kiss because the truth was she understood completely. She felt half insane herself. Her whole body buzzed with adrenaline and relief and years of buried feelings finally tearing their way to the surface all at once. Still, she pulled back just enough to look at him properly.
"Richie."
"What?" he muttered against her lips.
"I need to say something."
"You can say it later."
"No, I wanna say it now."
Richie groaned softly like this was genuinely inconveniencing him before dropping his forehead against hers dramatically. "You're killin' me here."
She slid one hand slowly along the side of his face, her thumb brushing through his beard while his eyes stayed fixed on her with an intensity that still made her stomach flip violently.
"Please hear me," she whispered.
Richie exhaled slowly through his nose before nodding once, though his hands stayed tight on her waist like he physically could not let go.
"Alright," he murmured. "I'm listening."
She looked at him for a second and immediately felt herself getting emotional all over again because she had imagined this moment so many times over the years and every version fell apart eventually. Either he did not feel the same, or she ruined their friendship, or timing destroyed it before it ever had the chance to become real. But now Richie stood in front of her looking at her like she hung the fucking moon, and suddenly all the things she had spent years trying to hide felt impossible to keep inside anymore.
"I think..." she started softly before laughing nervously at herself. "I don't even know where to start."
Richie's mouth twitched despite himself. "You could start with tellin' me you're also in love with me before I pass out."
She laughed through tears again, shaking her head slightly. "You're so annoying."
"Yeah, yeah, sweetheart, keep going."
She swallowed hard, emotion thick in her throat now. "I think I loved you before I realized that's what it was." she looked down for half a second before forcing herself to continue. "I knew it was bad when I started looking for you first every day."
Richie's hands tightened slightly at her waist.
"When I got here," she said quietly, "everything felt so loud all the time. I didn't know anybody. My grandparents were gone and I was grieving and scared and I felt... honestly I felt completely alone."
Her eyes flicked back up to his.
"And then there was you."
Something in Richie's expression softened instantly.
"You made me feel safe before I even knew you," she admitted. "Which is insane because honestly you were kind of terrifying at first."
Richie barked out a startled laugh.
"Wow. Alright."
"No, you were!" she laughed softly. "You yelled constantly, but then I learned that is just how you would communicate. But then I started noticing things. You always walked me home if it was late. Even before we were really close. You'd pretend it was because the neighborhood sucked, but you never let me walk home alone. You remembered every little thing I said. You'd bring me coffee exactly how I liked it without asking. You'd save me food before everybody else destroyed it."
A soft smile pulled at her mouth.
"You always made room for me. And after Mikey..." She stopped for a second, emotion catching hard in her chest before she forced herself through it. "After Mikey died, everybody was drowning. You especially. But somehow even when you were falling apart too, you still took care of me."
Richie shook his head immediately. "We took care of eachother."
"Yeah we did," she said firmly.
Her eyes filled again.
"You made sure I ate. You sat outside my apartment with me when I couldn't sleep. You called me every single day for like three months because you said silence was dangerous."
Richie looked overwhelmed hearing it all said back to him.
"You made Chicago feel like home," she whispered.
The alley stayed completely quiet except for the wind moving softly around them. Richie stared at her like he was trying to process every word individually.
"I think I knew I was really in love with you the first time you made me laugh after Mikey died," she admitted softly. "Because I remember looking at you and thinking... oh, this is bad."
Richie let out a shaky laugh under his breath.
"Oh my God."
"I'm serious," she said, smiling tearfully now. "I remember thinking I was completely fucked."
"You hid that shit real well."
"I had to!"
Richie laughed harder at that, forehead dropping briefly against her shoulder while she smiled into his hair.
"You had a wife," she whispered more quietly now. "And a family. And I loved Tiff. I loved Eva. I felt horrible about it for so long."
Richie pulled back enough to look at her again immediately. "Hey."
"No, I did," she admitted. "I felt guilty all the time because every time you walked into a room I noticed. Every time something happened you were the person I wanted to tell first. And when you were hurting, it hurt me too."
"And then after the divorce..." she laughed weakly. "Honestly I think that's when it got really bad."
"Bad?"
"Richie," she said softly, almost exasperated by him now. "You're my favorite person in the entire world."
That hit him so hard she physically watched it happen. His eyes closed briefly like the words hurt in the best possible way.
"I tried dating other people," she continued quietly. "I tried so hard to move on from it because I genuinely thought you'd never feel the same."
Richie immediately looked offended. "How?"
She laughed through tears again. "What do you mean how?"
"How'd you think that?"
She stared at him like he was insane. "Richie, have you met yourself?"
He looked even more confused somehow.
"Sweetheart, I've always loved you, I'm sorry it took me so long to realize that's what it was."
That made her laugh hard enough she had to lean into him again. Richie wrapped both arms around her instantly, pulling her tightly against his chest while kissing the side of her head.
"I'm serious," he muttered into her hair. "You really had no idea?"
She looked up at him. "You hid it well too."
"No I did not."
"Yes you did!"
"Sweetheart," Richie laughed incredulously. "I almost had a fucking heart attack every time you went on dates."
She laughed so hard she nearly doubled over against him while Richie grinned helplessly down at her like he could not believe this was real. Then her expression softened again. Richie brushed hair gently back from her face.
"What?"
"I think some part of me always hoped."
His entire face changed at that.
"Hoped for what?"
"I think I hoped every time you took care of me." Her voice softened further. "Every birthday. Every bad night. Every time something happened and you showed up before I even asked."
Richie stared at her silently now.
"I hoped when you held me during that panic attack," she whispered. "Because nobody's ever looked at me like that before."
Richie's hands slid slowly up her back while she spoke, holding her closer with every word.
"You looked terrified," she admitted softly. "Like seeing me hurt physically hurt you too."
"It did."
The answer came instantly. No hesitation at all. Emotion moved visibly across her face at hearing it.
"And I remember hoping," she whispered shakily, "'Oh, mayeb this is real, maybe he feels the same."
Richie made a rough emotional sound under his breath before kissing her again immediately, softer this time but somehow infinitely more intimate because now there was no uncertainty left between them at all. She melted into it instantly. Richie kissed her like someone overwhelmed by relief, one hand cradling the side of her face while the other held her tightly against his chest. When he finally pulled back again, both of them were breathing unevenly.
"You got any idea," Richie murmured against her mouth, "how close I came to telling you like a hundred different times?"
She smiled softly. "Me too."
"I wanna hear it, never hold back again." He says.
He kissed her again immediately after that because apparently now every strong emotion inside him translated directly into needing his mouth on hers, and honestly she was perfectly okay with that.
The drive to her apartment felt completely surreal. Richie kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other tangled tightly with hers across the center console like he physically could not stop touching her now that he finally could. Every couple minutes he looked over at her and started smiling all over again, this almost disbelieving grin that made him look younger somehow. She honestly did not think she had ever seen him this happy before. Not fully. Not without something guarded sitting underneath it. Neither of them could stop smiling.
It kept happening in waves too. One of them would glance at the other and suddenly they were laughing again, quiet breathless little laughs like neither of them could believe this was real. At one point Richie looked over at her at a red light and just stared for a second before shaking his head.
"You kissed me." He says
She leans her head back and laughs. "I was there I remember."
"No seriously," Richie laughed. "You fully attacked me back there."
"I did not attack you."
"You grabbed my face."
"You said you loved me!"
"Yeah, and then you almost killed me."
She laughed so hard she had to cover her face with her free hand while Richie grinned beside her like the happiest idiot alive. The city lights moved across the windshield in soft streaks while the heater blasted warm air through the car. Richie's thumb kept brushing absentmindedly over the back of her hand, slow repetitive movements like touching her had already become instinctive. It should have felt awkward. It should have felt strange somehow after years of friendship suddenly turning into this. Instead it felt terrifyingly natural.
Like something they had both accidentally been moving toward for years without admitting it. Richie pulled up outside her apartment building around twenty minutes later, but neither of them moved immediately. The car sat idling quietly at the curb while snow drifted lightly through the glow of the streetlights outside. She looked over at him. Richie was already looking at her. Then both of them smiled again immediately.
"This is insane," she whispered softly.
Richie laughed under his breath. "Yeah."
He leaned across the console then, one hand sliding gently along her jaw before kissing her again. And somehow every kiss already felt different. The first ones had been desperate. Years of tension snapping apart all at once. Messy and emotional and overwhelming. This one felt softer. Richie kissed her slowly like he finally had time to feel it now. His hand stayed warm against her face while she melted toward him automatically, one hand sliding into his jacket to hold onto him.
He tasted like cigarettes and winter air. When he pulled back slightly, his forehead stayed pressed against hers while both of them breathed softly into the tiny space between them.
"You have any idea," Richie murmured quietly, "how hard it is not to keep kissin' you right now?"
"Nothing is stopping you."
That immediately made him kiss her again. Richie smiled against her mouth this time, and she felt it happen before she heard the quiet little laugh he breathed out afterward.
"You're trouble," he muttered.
"You literally started this."
"No, sweetheart," he said softly while brushing his thumb beneath her jaw. "I think this started a long fuckin' time ago."
That hit her right in the chest. She looked at him quietly for a second before her expression softened into something more nervous.
She hesitated for a second, fingers twisting slightly together in her lap now. And Richie noticed that too. Immediately.
"What?" he asked more gently.
She looked down briefly before finally forcing herself to say it.
"I know this is probably a little soon," she admitted softly, "but I need to know something before this goes any further."
Richie's entire expression shifted instantly. Not annoyed. Not uncomfortable. Completely focused on her.
"Okay."
She swallowed hard. "I'm here," she said quietly. "Like fully. One hundred percent all in."
Richie stared at her silently.
"And I need to know you feel the same before this turns into something bigger."
The vulnerability in her voice nearly wrecked him immediately because she looked scared now. Not scared of him exactly. Scared of loving someone this much. Richie reached for her hand immediately.
"Of course I'm all in with you." The answer came so fast it almost overlapped her question. Richie shook his head slightly like he could not believe she even had to ask. "I'm so fuckin' in with you it's insane."
Relief moved visibly across her face. Richie softened immediately at the sight of it and brought her hand up to his mouth without thinking, pressing a kiss against her knuckles while keeping his eyes on hers.
"But," he added after a second.
She smiled faintly. "But?"
Richie nodded seriously now. "We're gonna do this right."
Something warm flipped through her chest. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Richie said, sitting back slightly now while still holding her hand, "I'm taking you out tomorrow."
She blinked. "Tomorrow?"
"Yeah." Richie looked almost offended she sounded surprised. "What, you think I'm gonna finally get the girl I've been in love with for years and not take her on an actual date?"
She laughed softly.
"What are you doing tomorrow?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"Good."
Richie nodded decisively. "I'm pickin' you up."
"And where are we going?"
"Dinner."
She smiled helplessly. His expression turned dramatically serious now.
"If I'm gonna ask you to be mine it cannot happen in some shithole."
She burst out laughing immediately. "You are unbelievable."
"I'm serious."
She looked at him warmly for a second before quietly saying, "I'm already yours."
Richie actually stopped moving for half a second. Completely stopped. Then slowly, almost helplessly, he smiled, not his loud cocky grin, a deep smile.
"Yeah?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah."
Richie looked down for a second, covering his mouth briefly with one hand like he physically needed a moment to survive hearing that. Then he kissed her hand again.
"Okay," he murmured softly. "But let me treat you."
"Okay."
Richie leaned over and kissed her one more time before finally forcing himself to pull away enough to get out of the car. The cold hit them immediately once they stepped onto the sidewalk, but now Richie stayed tucked close against her side like he had unconsciously decided that was simply where he belonged. His hand rested warm against her lower back while they walked toward her building, and every few seconds he looked down at her and smiled again like he still could not believe this was real.
"You're staring," she laughed softly while they climbed the front steps.
"Yeah," Richie said easily. "I earned it."
She rolled her eyes while laughing again. God, she felt giddy. Actually giddy. Like a teenager. Richie opened the building door for her dramatically and gestured grandly with one hand.
"After you, sweetheart."
"You are laying it on thick right now."
"And is it workin'?"
"Honestly yes."
They climbed the stairs slowly, still half attached to each other the entire way. By the time they reached her floor, Richie had kissed her twice more against random hallway walls because apparently now every time he looked at her for too long he needed his mouth on hers immediately afterward.
By the time they reached her apartment door, she could barely think straight anymore. Richie had one hand braced beside her head against the wall while kissing her slowly enough to make her dizzy, and her fingers tangled tightly in the front of his jacket while her entire body buzzed warm beneath her skin. When they finally pulled apart again, both of them were breathing unevenly. She reached into her bag for her keys. Or attempted to. Her hands shook so badly she dropped them immediately. Richie looked down. Then back up at her. Then he started laughing.
"Oh my God," he grinned. "Your hands are literally shaking."
"Shut up."
He laughed harder while she glared at him through obvious embarrassment.
"You're makin' fun of me right now?"
"Little bit."
She tried grabbing the keys again and fumbled them a second time. Richie physically doubled over laughing. "Oh my God."
"Shut UP."
She smacked lightly at his chest while blushing furiously, and Richie finally took pity on her enough to gently take the keys from her hands.
"C'mere," he laughed softly.
She crossed her arms dramatically while he unlocked the door for her. "This is humiliating."
"No," Richie grinned while pushing the door open. "Honestly this is great for my self esteem."
She shoved his shoulder lightly. "You're an asshole."
"Yeah yeah."
Richie stepped closer again immediately afterward though, smiling softer now while brushing hair gently back behind her ear. "You're beautiful."
That made her blush even harder somehow. "Stop looking at me like that."
"How?"
"Like you're obsessed with me."
Richie barked out a laugh. "Sweetheart, I got terrible news for you."
She groaned while covering her face briefly with both hands. "This is horrible."
"No," Richie said softly, pulling her hands back down gently. "This is pretty fuckin' great actually."
The hallway felt warm and quiet around them now. For a second neither of them spoke. Then Richie leaned down and kissed her one more time, slow and lingering and soft enough to make her chest ache. When he finally pulled back, he stayed close enough that his nose brushed lightly against hers.
"Sleep tight," he murmured. "I love you."
Her entire face warmed instantly. Not because she was surprised. Because hearing it out loud still felt overwhelming in the best possible way. She smiled helplessly.
"I love you too."
Richie's expression softened so completely it almost hurt to look at him. Then he kissed her again immediately because apparently he still had absolutely no self control where she was concerned.
✦Read on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦
✦summary: Dean's refusing any help to get over his sex curse, no matter how many women you find for him. If only he'd just tell you why✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, sex pollen, angst, pining, Dean being a dummy (it's okay we love him), big emotions (sex pollen does that), just the nastiest smut (praise kink, soft!dom Dean, finger sucking, fingering, some car sex, dirty talk, oral f!receiving, sex pollen appropriate stamina, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, creampie), love confessions during sex, light fluff at the end✦
✦wc: 10k✦
✦author's note: voted for my the people! this might be the horniest thing i've written ever like i got possessed plz enjoy✦
This room is going to suffocate you.
Outside, there’s a chilling breeze that bites at your ears, and you had to turn the heater off after an hour of Dean whining about it. You’re wearing a few layers and thick, fuzzy socks that slide on the floor. When you look at your fingers, they’re developing a purplish tint under the nails, and you’d think your nose was bleeding if you could feel it at all.
But you’re burning alive. Deep in your stomach with shame, and an arousal you’re not allowed to indulge. It’s wrong, right now, to have flushed cheeks and sweat gathering under your clothing. A tingling heat that’s hidden under the collar of your shirt, and restless fingers as you work, itching to touch something.
Yourself. Just a rub between your thighs for a little pressure of relief to help you focus.
Dean. Lying on the bed, moaning lewdly and humping the sheets like you’re not even in the room.
He’s apologized fifty times. He apologized when you left that old, moldy house and he started staring at you and palming himself in the car. Apologized when you’d been walking inside, and he’d doubled over in pain on the side walk. He’d grabbed your hip for support, and while you’d been trying to figure out if he was okay, his hand had slipped up to your inner thigh. Apologized when you went to get him some ice—he’d said he was warm, you’ d been worrying about a fever—and you had to come back to find him lying in your bed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and groans slipping from his lips.
At least he hadn’t been touching himself. He’s managed not to do that at all, which you’d be impressed by if you weren’t so worried.
Sam says it’s a pretty basic sex curse. Maybe a pollen, from that mold. Nothing you need to worry about finding a magical cure for.
“We’ve seen these before.” Sam had said. “It’s run-of-the-mill. Dean knows what to do.”
Run of the mill.
Simple.
Sam had said it like you’d be clear in an hour. Nothing fancy required.
Dean gets laid, the fever goes down, everyone’s good.
And it might’ve been simple. You might’ve been done an hour ago, if Dean just got it over with and left when he was clear. You would’ve sat in your bed, running the sheets between your fingers while you read. Trying desperately not to think about Dean only a door over, about the sounds creaking through the wall as he railed someone else into oblivion, about how he’d look.
Probably just like this. Wrecked and hungry, his eyes blown out and skin slick with sweat. Every muscle in his body straining, hair stuck to his brow, mouth hanging open as he’d hover over some lucky girl, showing her a heaven even angels didn’t get to experience.
Your heart would’ve silently ached, a wound you’ve been letting fester opening wider and wider. Your hands would’ve tugged nervously at the sheets, trying to gather whatever he’d left over like a twisted little souvenir for your perverse brain.
The brain that won’t stop being in love with him, no matter how much logic you offer to counter it. You’ve spent nights staring at the ceiling, acting like love was a debate. Like if you reasoned with yourself enough, all the blood in your body would simply stop flowing in a song of his name. Your heart would shift into a new rhythm, no longer a war drum trying to call for him. Your eyes would stop looking for tiny bits of evidence he loved you too, in just as much silence as you love him.
He’s about ten years older than you. He opens doors for you, and that can be a secret desire thing. He’s not emotionally available. He talks to you, about his dad and complicated fights with Sammy and his past, and that has to mean something. He’s got anger issues. He’s stubborn, he’s reserved. You have issues too, and you’re more stubborn. He’s fucked up- You’re fucked up, and he’s also sweet and loyal and handsome and the best kind of stupid a man can be, where he’s a dumbass that never pretends to be incompetent. He’d probably be possessive. You’d like to be possessed. There’s no future there. Yet.
You’ve always lost the debate. You stay in love with Dean, because your heart wasn’t even kind enough to give you a crush. A brief and intense high of adoration and lust would’ve been manageable. You would’ve recovered.
Instead, it’s love. Not even love with a half-life, weaning off with just a little time. Deep, long love.
The kind of love that has you looking at him now, and crudely thinking that he’s being a bit of a pussy. It’s not a fair thought. He’s cursed, has a fever of a hundred and two, and his body is probably trying to convince him to do things that he’s not on board with.
But you live like that every day, and you don’t whine about it. You’ve felt like if he didn’t touch you now you’d die, you’ve gone sick with your own perverse thoughts about what you’d let him do to you, you’ve been delirious with adoration until Sam clears his throat, and mutters that you’re staring again. Maybe the mold should’ve crawled into you, or however this works.
You wouldn’t have been such a massive bitch about it.
You would’ve had nasty motel sex with a stranger an hour ago.
You wouldn’t have made Dean sit in a room with you while you pillow humped, forcing him to look for a sex partner to break your back.
You would’ve been home by now.
But Dean wants to be a little fucking bitch.
“You’re being a bitch.” You say it plainly, because maybe it will snap him out of whatever the fuck this is.
Instead he just chuckles, twisting to give you an amused look. “Ouch, sweetheart- Shit-“
The movement looks like it made his dick brush against something, and now he’s back to cowering in the sheets. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, visibly pained, and what’s wrong with you that he’s never looked so hot-
“You’d be a bitch too.” He mutters, groaning as he rolls back onto his stomach. “I feel like I’m dying-“
“You’d stop feeling like that, if you’d just pick someone to fuck.”
“I’m tryin’-“
“Not hard enough.”
“Trust me, I’m plenty hard enough- Fuck-“
You throw one of his pillows at his face, and he makes a strangled noise like you hit him with a bullet.
“You’re gonna attack a dying man-“
“I can do whatever I want, when I’m helping you find a fuck buddy.” You stick your tongue out at his back, then return your attention to his phone. “How about Miranda? She’s thirty-six, she’s got really nice hair, and- Oo-“ You scroll a little further down the page. “She likes boats! Those are like water cars, you guys could bond over that.”
Dean laughs again, shaking his head. “Boats aren’t water cars.”
“They are. Think about it.“
“They don’t have a big engineering overlap, I don’t know shit about boats-“
“Then you can just fuck her stupid, you nerd.”
Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you hover your thumb over the screen, fully ready to subject yourself to the worst torture possible for Dean’s stupid, cursed sake.
“She looks nice.” You mumble, praying he doesn’t hear the exhausted, hopeless pain in your voice. “I think you’d like her.”
Dean grunts. “No. Next name.”
You sigh, and swipe left. Adding Miranda to the long, long pile of rejected applicants.
It’s been like this for two fucking hours. Dean lying in your bed, you cross-legged in his, absolutely no progress on curing the curse. He barely even looks at you anymore. He’s been facing the opposite wall since you sat down, burying his face in your pillow every time he moans, trying to hide the roll of his hips under the sheets and failing miserably.
The tingling pain between your legs is almost unbearable now. You’d call Sam and ask if the pollen was transferable, if you weren’t terrified of the answer being no. There’s no way it’s not just Dean anyway. His thick arms stretching up to grip the pillow, his broad, muscled shoulders and back bare, the fact that sometimes when he humps fast and rough, the sheets ride up and you swear you see the tip of his cock. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong, to be getting off to him like this.
But it’s your own personal hell, to have this responsibility. To have him right there, and not be allowed to touch him.
You’ll deal with your shame later in the shower, where you can wash it off and maybe cry from a few different places over your body.
Later. When he’s not dying, and doing absolutely nothing to help you save him.
“Hannah.” You read out the next profile, pulling your knees to your chest. “She’s got curly hair, really nice brown eyes. Looks like she’s a nail artist. That could be nice.”
Dean snorts. “What, you think I’m gonna have her get me a manicure after?”
“No, I just-“ You take a long breath. You’d rather have a living Dean that doesn’t love you, than a dead Dean, who also doesn’t love you.
Dean starts to twist—he’s going to try and look at you again—and you clear your throat.
“It might be nice to look at. Aesthetically. Or- arousing.”
He mutters your name, but you push on.
“For a handjob. Nice nails, going- Up and down your- Um- Your dick-“
Dean lets out the loudest moan yet, and your jaw snaps shut. That sounded like your name. He was probably just trying to warn you to shut up, but that still sounded like your name-
“Sorry-“
“Stop talking.” He snaps, and you nod.
Without him asking, you swipe left on Hannah. He seems to have forgotten about her, and you have no desire to let her and her perfect nails anywhere near his dick.
It takes a while for Dean to request the next candidate. Long minutes of him just panting and grunting, burying his face in the pillow and thrashing in the sheets like he’s having a nightmare.
You see the head of his cock again. It’s thick looking and red and shining with pre-cum. Angry and hard and Jesus fucking Christ-
“Emma!” You shout to the room. You need this to be done. “She’s a nurse, that can be a kink thing-“
“Stop.”
You sigh, turning down the phone screen. “Dean-“
“No. Don’t want Ella-“
“Emma-“
“Don’t fuckin’ care. We’re not doing more of this- Shit.”
“Are you just swearing, or is that an adjective-“
“Sweetheart.” He’s almost growling, a hand slipping out from the sheets to fist the mattress. “Stop. Talking.”
You close your mouth, bowing your head as shame floods your body. You’re trying to help. You’ve given your whole night just to help the man you’re hopelessly in love with have sex with someone else, and you’re tired. Tired of doing this to yourself, tired of him shooting everyone down like suddenly he’s got the highest sexual standard in the world, tired of acting like it’s not killing you and tired of watching him like this.
He’s in so much pain. You can hear it straining in every word, tensed in every movement. You’re not allowed to touch him, but the last time you made him check his own temperature, it had gone up again. With how he’s looking, how he’s muttering to himself under his breath, you’re willing to bet it’s gone up another handful of degrees.
Dean’s going to die, if he doesn’t deal with this. And if he dies, you’re not going to deal with it.
You don’t want to think about what you’ll become, if he goes. You might be the one that turns into a ghost, haunting this goddamn hotel room and growing up the walls like that mold. A shell of a person, caught in a million what-ifs, her heart ash in the wind with his body.
Dean wants to be done with this.
You’re not done with him.
You swipe right on Emma.
For an hour, you let him keep moping and groaning. You flirt with Emma for him, because you’re the best friend in the world, and pretend you can’t see him trying to move a pillow between his legs to offer extra pressure.
“Dean.” You say softly, and he grunts.
“Baby, I need you not to talk-“
“You can take it out.” You mutter, keeping your focus on Emma’s texts. “If you need that. I’m a big girl, I- I won’t mind.”
That’s a lie through more than just your teeth. If he starts touching himself in front of you, all the poetic fawning about how your love is killing you won’t be dramatic anymore. Your heart will beat right out of your ribs, your head will get so light you’ll float away, your need for him will become so consuming you’ll either fall to your knees and open your mouth for him to use, or simply just explode.
But if it helps him. You’ll do anything to help him, even if it’s searing the most sinful, impossible image into your head for the rest of your life.
Dean with his cock in his hand, head thrown back, beating himself right next to you. Maybe moaning under his breath, thrusting up into his fist, accidentally looking at you as he cums, mouth hanging open and eyes hooded as thick white ropes paint the sheets-
“No.” He grunts, and you blink.
“It’s okay-“
“No. I‘m not doin’ that to you.”
You swallow, heated shame rushing through you. “I- I could leave the room-“
“No, don’t-“ He almost shouts your name, flipping over suddenly.
Looking at you.
His eyes are almost black with lust, his face red and slack, expression desperate. He hisses—the movement likely too much—but still reaches out a shaking hand, like he’s going to try and grab you.
“Don’t go, just- Fuckin’-“ His words trail off, eyes locked on your face, and another moan escapes his lips.
You push up on your knees, fear clenching at your heart. “Dean-“
“’m fine-“
“You’re not fine-“
“I’m- Son of a bitch-“ His eyes widen on yours then slam shut. His hand curls into a taut fist, face pulling in pain, and that’s enough.
“Fine. Don’t masturbate, see if I care.”
He says your name, low and rough, and you shake your head.
“You’re not fine, you fucking idiot. You’re dying.” You push to your feet, grabbing his phone from the bed.
Emma’s very nice. Nice in the kind of way that’s going to make you hate her, and you feel sort of bad. She was doomed to your loathing from the moment she swiped right.
But she’s going to help. She’s going to save Dean, and you’ll offer her grace for that.
Dean’s eyes had opened, when he heard you moving. He’s looking at you like a lost street dog, opening his mouth to say something that only comes out in a panting groan of your name.
Whatever protests he has, you won’t hear them. He’s not allowed to die.
“Get up.” You snap, tossing his clothing onto his face. “Get dressed. I’m starting the car in ten minutes, and if you’re not there, I’m coming back and you’re having sex with me.”
You don’t look over your shoulder to see his reaction. The sounds of torment leaving his chest are bad enough.
It hurts. It cuts deeper than a blade, the idea that he detests the idea of sex with you that much. You’re good at sex. You’ve gotten raving reviews, you’re batting a hundred, flawless reports and a hundred percent customer satisfaction rate, even if you don’t really enjoy most of it yourself. Most people you have sex with don’t manage to make you cum, and when they do it’s a tiny little shudder through your body that you forget about in five minutes.
Dean witDean would be lucky to have sex with you. You’d worship him. You’d get on your knees and let him use you until he was leaking out of every hole. You’d let him fuck himself back into you, you’d let him throw you around, you’d do anything-
It’s probably a good thing your threat works. Dean stumbles out of the motel right at the nine-minute mark, pallid and flushed all at once, hunched in pain and wearing a massive raincoat over his jacket to hide the boner.
You never would’ve forgiven yourself, for taking advantage of him like that. It’s better like this, no matter how much it hurts.
You smile when he gets into the car. “Nice fashion statement-“
“Shut up.” He grumbles, glaring out at the road. “Where’re we goin’.”
“A bar.”
He makes a sour expression. “Why.”
“Because you have a date. With Emma the nurse.”
Dean goes dead quiet. He tenses next to you—your elbows brushing for a split second, before he recoils like your skin is coated in toxins—works his jaw, then shakes his head.
You sigh. ‘Dean-“
“No. I told you, I’m not doin’ that.“
“Yes, you are.”
“No-“
“Yes!” You slam the brakes harder than you mean to, as you approach a stop sign.
You expect Dean to snap about you being careful with his baby. Maybe try to make a joke about how maybe the frustration is rubbing off on you, or argue about how this is his dumb choice to make.
And it is. But he made the wrong choice, and you are not letting him die.
He mutters your name, and it’s the same way he said it earlier. Soft. Almost pleading.
You take a deep breath, and twist to look him in his pretty, glazed and dilated eyes.
“You’re going into that bar. You’re going to flirt with Emma. If she asks if you have a fever, you tell her you work construction or something, and you’d just been at a shift. You run hot. Nothing for her to worry about.” You drum your fingers on the wheel, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You’re going to tell her she’s pretty. You’re going to call a fake uber, and I’m going to drive you to the motel. You’re going to fuck Emma until you’re cured, and then we can go home. Understand?”
Dean’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth, a glint in his eyes like he’s going to argue. You don’t give him the chance.
“No. You’re doing this. If you don’t, you’ll-“ You cut yourself off, pressing your lips in a tight line. You won’t cry. You won’t.
Dean says your name, and he has to stop doing that. It’s too gentle. Too close to something real.
“You’re not allowed to- To go.” You look out at the empty road, praying the night is hiding the glossy tears, pricking at your eyes. “I can’t- I won’t- You’re not allowed to.”
You raise your chin, your breathing too shaky to speak for a moment. The silence hangs in the car, even the sound of Baby’s engine not enough to drown out your thoughts.
“Okay?” You snap, trying to sound stronger than you are.
Dean lets out a low sound, but nods. “Okay.” Then, under his breath. “For you.”
You pretend you don’t hear. There’s too much weight in those words, and you don’t have the time to pick them apart, don’t have the energy to ask him what the fuck that means.
Instead, you just give yourself the easiest out. Dean does love you as a friend. You’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s doing it for you because you’re the one demanding he go have sex.
What a horrible friend you are, making him get laid so he doesn’t die.
You huff a dry, pitiful, laugh to yourself. Your drink swirls in its glass, untouched and mocking. You ordered it when you got here, about thirty minutes ago. Made Dean take a possibly dangerous dose of Advil and Tylenol to make him lucid, then hidden yourself in a booth on the other side of the bar. Where you can see Dean and Emma, but only Dean can see you. He’s supposed to give you a thumbs up, when he’s about to call the ride. Right now, he seems so engrossed in her that you’re worried he’s going to forget.
Emma’s pretty. Just as pretty as her pictures. She lit up, when she spotted Dean, and you’d felt a sickening, loud hatred take root in your chest.
Everyone should be happy to see Dean, but none of them are happy like you’re happy. You know him. He’s the love of your life, and your joy is born of that, not just seeing a pretty man. You love seeing him because you know you’re going to be safe. Because he’s going to smile and the world is going to be alright, you’re going to talk and he’ll listen and look at you like there’s no one else in the world, he’s going to make jokes and you’re going to laugh.
But he’s making Emma laugh right now. She’s got one of those high, insufferable giggles, and you’re being needlessly mean but you hate her. You have a giggle like that. It comes out for Dean all the time, and it has a little snort on the end that you hated until Dean casually mentioned that he liked it, and you’ve felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.
It doesn’t really matter though, whose laugh Dean likes more.
Emma’s the one going home with him. You’re being left here.
You focus on ignoring their laughter and voices from the bar. You can’t drink, but you sulk and focus on the music floating through the bar. Your fingers drum on the table, pull at your sleeves, shred three napkins before gripping the cold of the glass like a lifeline. Your vision is going unfocused with envy. Every second you feel the wound in your heart tearing open, an infection of jealousy taking root, and you might actually be about to throw up-
Dean grunts your name, and your eyes shoot up.
He’s standing outside your both, hands in his pockets and a deep scowl on his face. Emma’s not with him. Or at the bar.
“Where-“
“She left.”
Your mouth falls open. “She left? I- What the fuck happened-“
“I told her to. Wasn’t gonna work out.”
“Dean, you-“ Your voice cracks, every thought in your head getting louder. He’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying. “You promised-“
“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t fuck her? What the hell was wrong with her that somehow doesn’t meet Dean Winchester’s if it’s got a hole standards?”
Dean flinches, and it was a low blow, but right now you don’t care. He’s going to die. Why doesn’t he fucking care that he’s going to die and leave you.
“Come on.” You snap, slamming a few bills on the table and shooting up. “We’re chasing her. You’re apologizing.”
He frowns. “No, I’m not-“
“Then we’re going back on the dating app, and finding someone else.”
“I don’t want someone else.”
You roll your eyes, shoving the bar door open and marching to the car. You have Emma’s number. You’ll do the apology yourself if you have to.
Dean’s stumbling after you into the parking lot, and you can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder every few seconds. Just to be sure he hasn’t hurt himself. He calls your name, voice pained, and you freeze. Turn slowly, your arms crossed over your chest.
“I’m not doin’ this.” He snaps, stalking towards you in uneven steps. “You can bitch and whine about it all you want, sweetheart, I’m not fucking that girl.”
“I’m bitching and whining?” You laugh, the sound crude even to your ears. “I’m not the one who decided the best time to become a fucking celibate was when he got hit with a sex curse. You’re the one acting like a fucking child here-“
“I’m not acting like a child-“
“Then you’re acting like an idiot!” You scream, taking a large step forward.
Dean goes rigid. Takes a long step back, like you’re poisonous. It just fuels the burning, exhausted fire, kindled by every bit of fear, of love, of fury that he’s putting you through this with almost no remorse.
“It’s not like you have to marry her!” You shout, barbed wire tightening around your throat. “It’s just sex! Fuck, you don’t even have to look at her, it’s- I don’t understand why this is so fucking hard for you all of a sudden, it’s not like you’re some virgin fucking pussy-“
He mutters your name, a low warning, and you ignore it.
“I’ve spent all day trying to save you, Dean! I was going to be your- Your fucking sex chauffer, and I haven’t been complaining, but you can’t do me one fucking favor and have sex with a pretty girl?”
You take another step forward, and this time he isn’t fast enough. You jab his chest, and he stumbles back like you shot him, eyes panicked and wide on yours.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You shriek, shoving him again. “Do you want to die? Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you hate me, Dean? Is that what this is?”
He rasps your name, and you shake your head.
“I’ve been trying so- So hard to save you. I- I told you that I can’t- If you-“ Your words are getting choked, and the pain is too heavy to just shake off. “You’re not allowed to go! I told you, I won’t let you, but you- You fucking hate me-“
You try to shove him again, hot tears burning down your face, but this time Dean’s ready. He catches your wrist, and you try to pull back but he’s got more strength left than you thought.
He squeezes his hold on you, stalking forward. A fire lights in your core, at the intensity of his gaze. Unyielding and hot, searing into you as your back hits the Impala. He towers over you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he takes in your open mouth and slack expression. You don’t know how you expected him to react, but it wasn’t this. This makes your knees weak, your heart hitting a dangerous pace at the top of your chest.
You can smell his cologne, smell his. A salt, deep musk that’s just Dean, that might as well be a drug for how it’s making you freeze. Your free hand moves to press flat against his chest, but you don’t push.
He grunts, his muscles rippling like you just threw a rock into water. He seizes up, head bowing, and there’s nowhere for you to hide from him.
Dean’s tongue darts over his lips, and your breath hitches.
“Don’t do that.” He grunts, and you just nod.
Lean a little closer, until the heat of your breath is fanning over your cheeks. Your eyes flutter, and when you risk meeting his gaze he looks almost predatory. The hunger in his eyes sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together, and it’s hot, so hot-
“I don’t hate you.”
You blink at him. You’d forgotten about that. “Dean-“
“I don’t.” He snaps. “Don’t fuckin’- Never think that, alright? I don’t hate you.”
“Then why are you doing this to me?” You whisper desperately. “Why couldn’t you just go have sex with Emma-“
He shakes his head. “I don’t want Emma.”
“Then let me find you someone you want, please-“
“No.”
“Why-“
“Cause I don’t want any of them.” He hisses, your foreheads bumping as he leans further down. “I don’t want some random fuckin’ chick you pull for me, I don’t want to fuck her, don’t wanna touch her, hell, I don’t even want to goddamn look at her.”
You take a shaking breath, a haze overtaking your head. “Dean, you need someone-“
“You think I don’t know that?” He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel it.
His cock, straining through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. You bite down a moan, completely still in his arms, trying to make him understand with just your eyes. It’s not fair for him to do this to you. He doesn’t understand, this is all you’ve ever wanted and he’s just taunting you with it-
“I can feel it, sweetheart.” He mutters, rolling slightly against you, making that fire in your core threaten to sweep you away. “I feel myself dyin’. My muscles are hurting like I ran a mile, I’m sweating through ten damn layers, think the fever is getting me so bad I might be about to go fucking crazy. But I didn’t even notice ‘till you started getting all worried. You know why?”
It takes you a second to realize you’re supposed to answer. You barely shake your head, before he’s squeezing your wrist, leaning down to whisper in your ear.
“’Cause of you.” He breathes, voice soft and dangerous. “I always feel like an animal when I see you. Spent the whole car ride back from that damn house wanting to hump your leg and didn’t think twice. You just do that to me, and you got no fuckin’ idea.”
You gasp slightly, turning your head to look him in the eyes. They’re hooded, almost feral on yours. You’re so dizzy, you’re worried you might be walking through a dream.
“De- Dean-“
“You can keep looking for some random girl for me, if it’s gonna make you feel better. But I won’t fuck ‘em. I can’t.” His lips ghost over yours, and you lean forward.
“Dean-“
“Sex barely even works for me anymore, baby.” He mutters, tongue flicking over his lips. “Nothin’ does. I get kicked out of bed ‘cause I call your name. So just fuckin’-“ He squeezes your wrist again, drawing slowly back. “Stop. If you wanna give me a dying wish, cut it out and let me go in some damn peace.”
You gape at him as he pulls away, his grip going slack on your wrist.
Dying wish.
He still thinks he’s allowed to die.
“What- What if you fuck me?” You say, so quiet you barely even hear yourself.
Dean’s head jerks up, and he says your name with a harsh, unforgiving snap. “No. I’m not askin’ you to do that just because I’m some perv who can’t get it up-“
“You’ve got it up.” You smile at up, pressing your knee up into his crotch.
He groans, doubling back down so you’re caged against the Impala again. “Baby, don’t fuckin’- I’m not bending on this shit, alright. I’m not gonna be some pity fuck-“
“It’s not a pity fuck, I’m saving your life-“
“I told you, no-“
“Do you not want to have sex with me?” You challenge, and Dean gives you a pleading, wrathfully frustrated look.
“Don’t ask stupid questions, course I wanna have- Fuck-“ He groans, eyes fluttering as his brow presses against yours. “Yeah. Yeah I want to. But- I won’t ask you to. So no.”
You swallow. It’s probably the fever making his tongue so loose. He’s so hot it almost burns to be this close, but that might just be Dean.
It’s always just Dean. And he has to know that.
“What if I want to have sex with you?”
Dean grunts, shaking his head. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it-“
“I mean it.” You fist your hand in his shirt, dragging him a little closer. “Do you?”
He stares at you again. Scans over your face like he’s looking for one clue that you’re just indulging him, that there’s a single doubt running through your head.
There isn’t. Your breathing is uneven, but your heart is going too fast for it to be anything else. You’re flushed with an unending, arduous hunger to just have him, however he needs you.
Slowly, testing the waters, Dean slides a hand onto your neck. You raise your chin, holding his gaze. He squeezes slightly, and you lean into him, tugging on his shirt for more.
His thumb moves up, dragging over your lower lip. You part your lips, and his nostrils flare.
Dean pushes his thumb slowly between your lips, and you close them obediently around him. Your eyes flutter as you suck, letting your tongue circle around the thick finger, tilting your head and letting your eyes flutter. He pushes a little deeper and you moan. Your hand flies up to grab his wrist, holding him against you, and Dean groans. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night, shining with something like awe.
You smile, grinding up into his torso and humming with pleasure.
Dean mouth hangs slack.
“Jesus fuckin’-“
He cuts himself off, pulling his thumb out with a pop and grabbing your jaw. You giggle happily for a second, and Dean swallows the sound, crashing his mouth against yours.
You’ve pictured this kiss a million times, a million ways, almost every night since you met him. Somehow, this is better than any slow, fairytale kiss with swelling music and sunlight hitting both your faces like a spotlight.
Dean’s not taking his time. He’s kissing you like you’re the last thing he knows, the only thing he’s ever wanted. Like a man who’s been starving himself, finally allowed a feast and wasting no precious seconds on manners. It’s urgent and forceful, words he can’t say being pushed down your throat with his tongue and spit. You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers digging into his chest through his shirts, your head spinning as you neglect breath just to taste a little bit more whiskey and salt on his tongue. But nothing you throw at him Dean can’t seem to double.
You yank at his shirt, and he pulls your hair back. You try to grind up again, and he grabs your leg, hiking it over his hip. You grab his face, trying to kiss harsher, give more, and Dean slams down like a tidal wave, dominating your mouth with unforgiving need.
A moan escapes your throat, your body going limp in his arms, and he grunts. Ruts up into your core once, making your legs spread in a shameless invitation.
Dean grunts, yanking back like someone pulled him on a leash.
He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb finding its way back to your cheek. He smears a bit of spit over your cheek, and you tilt your head into the touch.
“You’re sure-“
“Yes.”
He nods tightly, takes a heavy breath, and leans away. “Get in the car.”
It’s a short, curt order. You don’t think twice before you obey.
You scramble into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the keys and slamming them into the port like you’re about to enter a car chase. Dean’s barely in the car before the engine is rumbling and you’re reversing out of the spot, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. It’s happening. It’s happening.
“Easy, baby.” He chuckles, the sound raspy and sending more shivers through your body. “You that eager-“
“Yes.” You snap, and Dean hums.
A light, almost taunting hand lands on your thigh. You glance over and find him palming at his crotch, his eyes wholly black and mouth hanging open. It’s an animalistic expression, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and when you murmur his name he barely seems to hear.
His fingers dance up the inside of your leg, and you take an unsteady breath, spreading your legs wider. A deep, rumbling sound leaves Dean’s chest, those infernal fingers curling on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. Little electric shock rush through your body, and that’s just through the jeans.
“Dean.” You whisper, not even managing to make your voice firm. “I- I’m driving-“
“So look at the road.” He growls, knuckles brushing against your groin.
You bite your lower lip, and nod. It’s not worth arguing with him, and if you don’t think you can focus, you’ll just pull over. You told him you were sure. Told yourself that whatever he gave you, you’d be happy.
You just didn’t expect him to be borderline feral. The palming you could deal with. You expected.
This is different.
Dean scoots further, and you’re about to mumble something about a seatbelt when his lips brush the curve of your neck. You inhale sharply, gripping the wheel for dear life. Dean hums, his tongue flicking over a pulse point. His fingers start to crawl up to your abdomen, his mouth getting more insistent on your neck.
He nips at a pulse point before sucking on his, his tongue flat on your skin and a low sound leaving his chest when you lean back to grant him further access. He kisses a sloppy line up your throat as his fingers dance on your stomach, and you’re starting to get a little dizzy.
“De, be- Be careful-“
You cut yourself off with a breathy gasp, as his mouth latches behind your ear and he pulls down your zipper. He bites softly before sucking another bruise, popping the button open and slipping his hand into your pants.
“I- Fuck-” You tip your head back, hopelessly trying to keep your eyes on the road, and this is not a safe way to drive. You really should be shoving him away, but there’s no one on the road.
And with how he’s barely even speaking—just touching—you’re a little worried it might take extra effort to drag him out of the haze of the curse and push him away. He seems to be blinded to anything that isn’t you. His mouth drags back down your jaw as his fingers brush over your clothed pussy, and your whole body shakes.
He hums, leaving open kisses on your cheek and hairline. “Sensitive, sweetheart. Been a long time?”
You flush, and Dean starts to gather the fabric of your panties best he can through your pants. He drags it up, bunching it around your pussy, and another moan slips out from the pressure.
“Answer me-“
“Maybe.” You mumble, forcing yourself not to grind into his hand. “You- You know I don’t do that-“
“Do what?” He presses the fabric deeper between your pussy lips. “Don’t fuck?”
“Dean-“
“How long’s it been.” His words are hot against your neck, demanding and possessive. “Who touched you last, baby, who shoved their fingers in this pussy-“
“I- I don’t remember-“
“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls your panties tighter against your clit. “’Cause they don’t’ fuckin’ matter, sweet girl. No one else is ever gonna touch you like this. I’m gonna make you soak my fingers, my face, my cock, and it’s gonna feel so good in that smart, pretty mouth,” he kisses the corner of your lips, and only the wheel in your hands stops you from turning and claiming his mouth again. “That’s always fucking teasing me, it ain’t gonna remember a single word but my name. You want that, baby? Wanna be my perfect fuckin’ slut?”
Jesus Christ, this is worse than the not speaking. If this is a dream—because you’ve had them like this before—you never want to wake up.
He yanks his hand away, leaving your underwear bunched up in your cunt, and slaps your pussy over the jeans. Your mouth falls open and you lean forward, lightning surging through your whole body.
“Oh my- Dean-“
“I told you, answer-“
“Yes, I- Yes, please-“ Your words fall off into a moan, as Dean shoves his hand back against you, this time dragging the panties away and plunging two fingers deep into your pussy. “Dean-“
“That’s right.” He mutters, crooking them deep against a sensitive spot. “That’s my girl, you’re so fuckin’ wet- This all for me?”
“Mmm- Mhm-“
“Fuck yeah it is.” He starts his attack on your neck again, only speaking between kisses, his fingers scissoring inside your pussy. “So damn tight, know you’re gonna take my cock so good, bet you taste like heaven- Fuck, I wanna taste this pussy, wanted to taste it for years-“
His own words fall into a moan, and for a second you think he’s just out of dirty talk, but he’s still mumbling incoherently against your skin.
Then you risk another look at his body, and the hand that isn’t in your pants has pulled out his cock.
And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Thick and long, but not painful looking. Throbbing and twitching as he jerks himself, the tip leaking and slick with pre-cum. It takes effort to look at the road and not just stare at the rock-hard, veiny marvel of a specimen between his legs.
You don’t know why you’re surprised. Dean’s a specimen himself.
He’s somehow already figured out how to finger you in such a confining position. His wrist has twisted, letting his thumb drag lazy circles around your clit, his fingers giving shallow, rough thrusts that make his fingers taunt your g-spot. Never really fully touching it, but sending shivers through your whole body.
“Oh- Oh-“ You have to take deep breaths to keep your head clear, your whole body winding tight with the arousal he’s pulling out of you, more and more every second. “Dean-“
“Shh.” He grunts, biting right under your jaw, and you squeak. “Just feel it. Sweet fuckin’ pussy, gushing around my fingers-“
You moan, loud and lewd, his deep voice not doing anything to help you keep it together.
It’s a miracle you make it to the motel. It’s a shit parking job—you’re definitely over the lines—but you’re both alive.
You barely shift the gears before Dean’s pouncing on you like an animal. Whatever the ride was, he still seemed to be showing restraint. Now that you’re safe, all bets are off.
A squeal leaves you, as he flips your body. Pressing your back to the window and prowling over your body, slamming his mouth over yours and kissing until you’re slumping against the glass. Your hand flies up to grab the back of his neck, your hips rolling up to where his knee is pressed between your thighs. Your eyes dart down when you pull apart for a single, ragged breath—Dean pulling your lip between his teeth, and kissing your nose and cheek like breathing is really no longer his concern—and you whimper at the sight of him, still erect and hanging out of his pants.
Dean drags your chin back up, searing his lips over yours, and you melt. He’s a good kisser. And you knew that, but it’s not like anything you’ve felt before. It’s like you’re trading souls, like he’s trying to brand you with wandering hands and lips.
When you pull away again, your dizzy from the pleasure and force of him. You whine at the loss as he leans away, but Dean just squeezes your waist and smirks.
You hear a rip, as he claws your pants and underwear down your legs. You don’t get a chance to adjust before he’s shoving your knee up against the bench, dragging the other one over his shoulder as he ducks between your legs.
“Dean- Shit-“ Your breathing gets shallow as his breath fans over your pussy. “We- We’re supposed to be doing things that are- Like blowjobs-“
It’s so hard to argue with him when he’s between your legs. The sight alone is almost enough to tip you into a frenzy. His shining eyes looking up at you, his full lips grazing your inner thigh, leaving teasing kisses everywhere but where you’re aching for him. You run your fingers through his short, soft hair, trying to get his attention. He just makes a low sound like a purr, and presses his mouth over your clit.
You almost fly out of your skin. He’s making out with the sensitive nerve like they’re your mouth, his tongue dragging and pressing, his hands on your thighs kneading with every suck and graze of his teeth. All you can do is cover your mouth and try to stifle your moan.
Dean withdraws, and you make a strangled sound of frustration. He can’t just do that, it’s not fair-
“No doin’ that.” He grunts, dragging your hand from your mouth. “Wanna hear it.”
You nod weakly, but still try one more time to remind him who this is about. “Dean, it- it’s supposed to be stuff that’s good for you-“
“This is good for me.” He mutters, letting go of your thigh over his shoulder to let his fingers drag back over your fluttering pussy. “Look at you.” He mutters with pure awe. “Responsive, wet little pussy. Bet you’d like it when I do this.”
He pushes one finger knuckle-deep inside you, and you yank on his hair with delight.
“Yeah, you do. How about,” he drags it out, then shoves it back in, and your head tips back against the window, eyes screwing shut.
“Dean, Dean, please-“
He groans, adding a second finger and repeating the slamming motion. Once, twice, a third time. His tongue flicks against your clit on that last one, and your eyes roll back in your head.
“Dean-“
Another deep sound, another flick, and you’re seconds from begging like a whore when he snaps.
Dean wraps his mouth back around your clit, resuming his ministrations from before with twice the fervor. His fingers pick up their pace, wet sounds filling the car as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.
The curse seems to have it’s full hold on him. He’s borderline feral. You’ve never had a man who eats pussy like he’s having a five-star meal, like it really is good for him. Sometimes he just pulls his fingers out and drags his tongue down your cunt, angling his head to press his tongue deep inside you and working his jaw until your toes are curling. His nose bumps your clit and his stubble scrapes your thighs, his free hand squeezing your thigh as he devours.
“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You let out a vulgar, lustful sound as he drags you further forward against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through your body. “Dean- God, just like that-“
He drags his mouth back up to your swollen, neglected clit, and those two fingers pump back into your hole. It’s somehow better and worse, and a shriek rips from your mouth as he spanks your pussy, then resumes his rhythm.
“Dean, please- Please, fuck- please-“
You’re already babbling, the tension in your lower abdomen so tight it’s almost painful. Your body is shaking with the stimulation, and Dean’s working you like an instrument. He finds every hyper-needy spot that makes you moan his name and playing it like a professional. You’re kept right on the edge for what feels like a million years, his fingers and mouth switching in and out, begging and begging as he turns you into an empty-headed, drooling wound-up mess.
Then he finally lets you over the edge.
Dean pushes his fingers right against your g-spot, and rubs. Your body seizes up, eyes crossing as his tongue flicks against your clit, and the heat built up in your gut explodes.
You shake as your orgasm rips through your pussy, your spine, every nerve in your body glowing with a deep, sex-addled bliss. Your clit is swollen between Dean’s lip as he drags you through it, your pussy gushing around his fingers and fingers yanking at his hair.
“Fuck, yes- Yes-“ You moan, legs locking around Dean’s head, and he groans against your pussy.
When it pulls another lewd sound from your chest, he does it again, slowly easing his fingers out and starting to clean up the mess between your thighs. He licks and hums, the sensation making your oversensitive body spasm every time he finds one of those spots.
It’s not certain you’re going to be able to walk to the motel room, when he finally pulls away.
But there’s a gleaming light in his eyes, that makes you think it’s really not going to matter.
Dean’s a wreck. His face is flushed, chest heaving, cock still hard but coated in a white stain that tells you he’s not close to working off the curse.
“Oh, you’re gonna be so mad about that when you’re better.” You mumble, seeing the stains on his precious bench, and Dean chuckles.
“I’ll get over it.”
You giggle, and Dean leans over you again, kissing you slow and deep. One orgasm seems to have cleared his head for a seconds, enough that he’s gently rubbing your bare, tender pussy, a soothing touch that’s really only working you up more.
“Love that sound.” He mutters, and you frown against his lips.
“Wha-“
“Your laugh.” He sucks on your upper lip, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Love it so much. Don’t think I’ve told you that before.”
He hasn’t. It somehow makes you flush more than any of the dirty things he’d been hissing in your ear before.
“You’re telling me a lot of new things.” You manage to mumble, and he huffs in amusement.
“Blame it on the curse.”
You giggle again, and his face shines like he won a prize.
“Son of a bitch,” his eyes are already darkening again, voice getting thick with the curse-driven hunger. “I love you, you know that?”
You can only gape at him. He must not have said what you thought he said. “What?”
“You heard me.” He presses his brow against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I love you.”
He rasps your name, and you blink away tears.
“Dean, if it’s just the curse-“
“It’s not. It’s-“
He slides his mouth against yours and this is the romantic kiss you always pictured. Slow and devoted as he takes the time to memorize you, to bask in the glow of your heart as you shine with love beneath him.
“You know it, right?” His voice is gravelly, his body pressing firmer over yours. He’s going back under. He can probably feel it. “That I mean it?”
He’s still asking—almost begging—you to tell him that you know.
“I know.” You mumble. “I- I love you too.”
Dean goes rigid over your body, and you blink up at him, as nervous as a doe in headlights. Just like the kiss, you’ve dreamed of saying it. Pictured it somewhere romantic, your makeup perfect and the breeze running through your hair. Dean falling to his knees after, kissing your hands before sweeping you off your feet.
Instead you’re lying in the car, cum staining your tangled legs, everything in you ruined from being eaten out by the sinful mouth that haunts your dreams. Dean’s hovering over you, tongue darting over those same lips—shining with your arousal, making your thighs rub together under him—and your holding onto his flannel, both your clothing stuck to your skin from sweat.
He doesn’t fall to his knees. He just looks at you like he’s not sure it’s a dream either.
At least he still sweeps you off your feet.
Dean moves like a machine. You’re not even sure what’s happening until you’re being hit by the wind, dragged down the bench by your ankles and wrapped in one of his jackets to preserve your modesty. His dick has been hastily shoved back into his pants—the fly still fucking down—and you’re about to tell him you’d at least like your underwear before he’s picking it up and shoving it into his pocket.
“Dean!” You gasp, and he just grunts, sweeping you fully into his arms.
“Mine.” He mutters under his breath, looking around the parking lot like he’s still trying to orient himself. “I- I gotta, fuck-“
Gently, you reach up and turn his chin in the direction of your motel room. “Over there, De.” You mumble, and he nods tightly.
He’s fully back under. You don’t bother to struggle or try and convince him that you can walk, because you’re not even sure you could. It’s not worth distressing Dean over anyway.
Despite his fever soaring and gaze being fogged by the curse, he manages you gently. When you get into the room you’re tossed on the bed and pinned back down for his mouth to work you open again, but the brusing grip is full of care, his mouth worshipful on your pussy. After that he’s rising over your body, ripping clothing like it’s a personal offense on his sensibilities and descending over you with another feral growl.
Your legs are shoved apart, but he rubs a hand over your calves almost reverently. Staring at your glistening, abused pussy with a look of pride and affection, gaze slowly dragging up your flushed breasts and thoroughly marked neck to meet yours.
You give him a honeyed, coaxing smile. You’re his to take, if he wants it.
He makes a low sound from his chest, and starts to kiss up your body. You gasp when his lips wrap around one of your peaked nipples, sucking gently until your grinding up into him. His hand splays over your stomach, gently guiding you back down, and you whine desperately.
“Patience.” He hums, kissing over your breast before switching to the other nipple. “Gonna take care of you. Fuck- You’re so beautiful, so fuckin’-“
Dean moans to himself, and you whimper his name, yanking on his hair.
But there’s no rushing him. He plays with your tits until he’s had his fill—when they’re swollen and you’re arching into every touch—then works back down to your pussy. Tasting your arousal, soaked and messy and almost shamefully dripping down his hand when he touches you.
He doesn’t seem to mind it at all though.
“Messy girl.” He grunts, twisting one finger inside of you. “Think you’re ready for some cock, aren’t you. Gonna take me, princess? Show me how much you love me?”
You blink at him through tears, on the brink of screaming his he doesn’t let you cum again soon. When you nod it’s like a bobblehead, and you only remember his orders from before at the last second.
“Yes.” You gasp. “Yes, Dean, please-“
Again, he moves.
You’re almost a ragdoll in his arms. A ragdoll that he moves like you’re threaded from gold, tossing you around and gripping your hips so hard you’ll have a handprint in the morning, but kissing over every hickey on your neck and muttering words of low, tender praise every second.
“Good girl.” He mutters as he drags his cock between your pussy lips. “Good fuckin’ girl, already cockdrunk and stupid for me, aren’t you. Love taking you like this, looking at you all pretty and dumb-“
You whine, head lolling to the side. Dean slides two fingers into your mouth and you suck on them like candy, taking anything he’ll offer.
He growls, dick catching on your entrance, and you shiver, looking up at him under fluttering eyes.
Dean drags you up like you weigh nothing, slowly sitting you down on his massive cock, and every thought but his name is driven from your head.
He’s thick. So think you almost don’t think you can take it, but your whine of protest is only met by cooing, filthy praise in your ears and careful circles around your clit. You don’t know how he can still be so far into the curse and able to restrain himself from rutting you like a beast.
Probably because it’s Dean. That feels like explanation enough.
It takes a moment for him to bottom out, and when he does you’re sure you’ve never been this full. He’s hitting places inside of you that you hadn’t known existed, dropping you into a pool of pleasure that makes your breathing stuttered, your nails scratching over his shoulders as you try to keep yourself from floating away.
Dean kisses you, hot and deep. You moan against him and he grabs your hips, starting to roll you up and down on his cock. You can tell he’s experimenting again, trying to figure out where he hits the deepest, working you open until you’re riding his cock smoothly your head falling back as pants of his name leave your mouth.
It’s paradise. Your toes are curling with every twitch of his cock inside you, every rush of heat when he slams extra hard and hits your cervix. It takes him takes him some time to decide how he wants you , and you’d laugh at what he settles on if the air wasn’t being fucked from your lungs.
Dean cums while holding you in his lap, his thrusts getting short and a groan of your name falling from his mouth when he ruts up, his cock pumping hot release inside of you and your own orgasm rolling through your body like an electrical storm. But then you’re being picked up and flipped around so your back is pressed to his chest, his arm locking around your neck and his hand returning to your clit as his fucks up into you. Then you’re moved forward onto the mattress, Dean turning your face so he can hear your moans and keeping your ass into the air as he slams from behind, his balls slapping against your clit and bringing you back up to the edge.
You’re in his lap again, folded under him with your knees to your chest, rolled on top of him so he can play with your tits and watch you ride.
Every time he cums, you’re thrown into a new position and held there until you both fall back over the edge. You’ve never been wrecked like this before, your head empty, pussy drenching his cock as he spills and claims every spot on your body.
“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he growls into your ear from below you, dragging his fingers down your inner thigh, gathering his release on his fingers. “So pretty, bouncing on this cock, my pretty fuckin’ baby-“
“Dean.” You whine, scraping at his chest. “Dean, feels so good, so fucking good-“
“I know.” He coos. “Made for me, getting so fucking stupid on my cock- Open.”
He slaps your cheek lightly, and your lips part. Dean feeds you his cum, other hand rubbing up and down your spine, and you grind down onto him with need.
“Good girl, fuckin’- Christ you’re so good-“ His thrusts get shorter, brutal and uneven. “You’re mine, this sweet pussy is mine, gonna- Gonna fuckin’ worship you, fuck-“
He drills up into you, taking his hand away to bounce you how he likes.
You both cum, Dean calling your name and throwing his head back, watching you under hooded, still hungry eyes.
There’s a second to catch your breath, as he palms your breast. Pinches a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, watching how you arch into his touch.
“You like that?” He grunts, and you hum.
“Feels good.”
“Damn right it does.” He grabs the other one, working them in tandem.
You whine his name, looking at him under pleading lashes.
Dean groans. “Fuck, baby…”
He’s hard again, and you’re being moved into another position.
By the time he finds one he wants to keep, you’re a disaster of a woman. Making sounds that are supposed to be his name, boneless below him and still trying to chase more, even as your body turns into a raw, live nerve.
Dean’s got you under him again, his body pressed over yours, cock plunging in and out of your pussy at a lazy, torturous pace. You’ve been like this for what must be an hour, maybe a day, maybe fifty years. Tears of pleasure are stained on your cheeks, there’s a wet sound with every thrust as his cum leaks out of your stuffed hole, and Dean’s praise is becoming more and more lucid.
“I love you.” He mutters, and you moan, turning your head to try and kiss him.
“Dean…”
“I know.” He mutters. “I know, baby, but you’re doin’ so good. Feeling better, almost done, just gotta-“
He kisses over your face, finally capturing your lips as he starts to rut, pounding into your swollen g-spot over and over.
You barely have the energy to arch up, when you cum. You breathe out his name, pussy clenching as you feel that last bit of his cum squirt into you, and a wet, hot feeling floods your pussy as your vision goes white.
“Love you.” Dean’s still muttering as you float through the haze, his lips pressed over yours. “Loved you forever, never- Never thought-“
His voice cracks, and you know the curse is over. He’s not getting hard again inside of you, not trying to chase more.
Just pressing his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tight, words muffled against your skin.
“Thank you.” He mutters. “Thank you for- For sayin’ it back, even if that wasn’t-“
“It was,” you breathe out. He needs to know. “I love you, Dean. Have for longer.”
He chuckles, squeezing your body, and you smile into the air.
You find the strength to thread your fingers through his hair, and he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your sensitive skin. You shiver, whining softly, and he chuckles again. Both of you too fucked out to move. You’re not sure you’re going to be able to walk in a straight line for a month.
But it was worth it.
Holding Dean here, so peacefully, was more than worth it.
✦End note: please tell me if you enjoyed it i think i started my own ovulation so. oops.✦
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✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
prophecy in prose ⭑ dean can’t keep it in his pants with sam still awake, so he pulls you out for ice and makes a show against the snack machine.
vessels ⭑ dean winchester x reader (f)
celestial count ⭑ 1701 ℘ essence ⭑ smut (mdni)
what even angels whisper about ⭑ explicit sexual content, exhibitionism kink, public sex in a motel hallway, unprotected, dirty talk, risk of being caught, slight come play
another job, another town, another rundown shitty motel.
this one was at full capacity, so you, dean, and sam had to share a room—two beds. okay. done before.
the air hangs thick with stale cigarettes and that cheap pine cleaner that never quite covers the damp. the carpet is worn thin under your boots, and the air conditioner rattles like it’s fighting for its life.
you drop your duffel by the chair, kick your boots off—the sound too loud in the cramped space. sam already claiming the bed closest to the door, his long legs stretched out, a dusty lore book cracked open on his chest like sleep is a suggestion he refuses to take.
dean takes the other bed. his eyes find you the moment the door clicks shut—that half-smirk tugging at his mouth, the one that always means trouble. the kind you crave, even when your brain screams caution.
his leg bounces restless under the thin sheet, and you catch the way his hand drifts low, adjusting himself when he thinks no one is looking. your stomach tightens because you know that look. you know what it does to your body—the slow heat building low, even as you tell yourself: not here. not with sam two feet away, flipping pages like the case is the only thing that matters.
the lamp between the beds casts everything in a sick yellow glow. you lie back on your mattress; the sheets scratchy against your bare thighs, your tank top riding up just enough to catch dean’s gaze again. he doesn’t hide it this time. his eyes drag over the strip of skin at your waist, and you feel it like fingers. the ache between your legs already starting to pulse—soft, insistent. you turn your face to the ceiling, trying to breathe steady, but your pulse is loud in your ears.
minutes crawl. sam mutters something about sigils, his eyes never leaving the book. the air conditioner clunks off, leaving only the buzz of the lamp and the heavy sound of three people pretending they aren’t aware of each other.
dean sits up suddenly—the mattress creaking. “this room’s a fucking oven,” his voice comes out rough, edged with that impatience he gets when the hunt adrenaline hasn’t burned off. “ice machine’s down the hall, right? i’m not sleeping like this.” his stare locks on you—direct, no subtlety at all. “come with me. don’t want to wander this dump alone. you never know.”
sam grunts without looking up. “whatever.” he turns another page like the whole conversation is background noise. but your heart is already hammering because you hear what dean isn’t saying. the real reason. the way his eyes flick down to your mouth, then lower. the invitation is so not-subtle it makes your cheeks burn.
you hesitate for half a second—your mind whispering bad idea, sam will notice, sam will hear—but your body is already moving. sliding off the bed, slipping your flip-flops on. the cool plastic between your toes. “yeah, okay,” you manage. the words come out too breathy.
the door shuts behind you with a soft click, and the hallway air hits different—cooler, damper. the long stretch of faded wallpaper and thin carpet stretching out under the fluorescent lights that buzz overhead like they’re alive and watching every step. the big window at the end frames the parking lot perfectly: cars scattered under the same harsh glow, a truck idling at the far end, someone stepping out, stretching their legs. the possibility of eyes on you sends a shiver racing down your spine, but you keep walking. dean’s shoulder brushing yours, the heat of him cutting through the chill.
halfway down he stops—turning so fast you almost bump into him. his hands find your waist, backing you against the snack machine. the cool metal ridges press into your back through your thin tank; the rows of chips and candy rattling softly behind you.
“ice was just an excuse, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth already close to your ear—breath hot and ragged. “sam’s never gonna sleep, and i’ve been hard since the car ride. couldn’t stop thinking about you.” his hips roll forward, pressing the thick line of his cock against your hip through his sweats. the proof right there—solid, insistent.
you glance sideways at the window. the parking lot staring back. headlights sweeping across the asphalt every few seconds. “dean, someone could see us. right there.” the protest slips out, but your hands are already fisting his shirt, pulling him closer. the words feel weak against the way your thighs press together, chasing friction.
the push and pull inside you is dizzying. you hate how much you love this—the danger, the exposure, the way it makes dean’s touch feel like the only real thing in a life that keeps trying to take everything else.
he chuckles low—the sound vibrating against your neck. “that’s the point, baby. the thought of them watching you fall apart for me.” his fingers slip under your tank, palms rough and warm, sliding up to cup your breasts. thumbs brushing your nipples until they tighten, almost painfully. you gasp—the sound too loud in the empty hall.
he kisses you then—messy and urgent. tongue sliding against yours, teeth nipping your lip. the taste of him: salt and mint and pure need. you kiss back just as hungry, your fingers digging into his shoulders.
“fuck, you’re soaked already,” he groans when his hand dives into your shorts, pushing the fabric aside. two fingers sliding through your slick folds, circling your clit once, twice—the pressure perfect and immediate. your hips jerk; the machine shakes behind you. the fluorescent light above casts everything in sharp, unforgiving white—making every detail too bright: the flush on your chest, the way your lips part, the bead of sweat sliding down dean’s temple.
“dean, please,” you whisper. the words break, messy. “what if someone—”
but he doesn’t let you finish. just yanks your shorts and panties down to your ankles in one motion. the cool air hitting your bare pussy makes you shiver. he shoves his own sweats low enough—his cock springs free, heavy and flushed, the tip already glistening. he strokes himself once, eyes locked on yours. “gonna fuck you raw right here. no rubber, nothing. just you taking every inch while the whole lot watches.”
you nod because words are gone. the leg he lifts hooks over his hip. the head of him nudging your entrance—hot and blunt—then he pushes in. slow at first. the stretch burning so good, so full. just the thick drag of him filling you completely. your nails dig into his back—hard enough to leave marks.
“so full,” you breathe. the fragment slipping out, broken and honest. “too much. perfect.”
he bottoms out with a groan, forehead dropping to yours for one second. the tenderness there—soft and real in the middle of all this heat. “you okay, baby?” he whispers, the question too open, too vulnerable. it makes your chest tighten even as your walls flutter around him.
“yes. more,” you manage. and he gives it. the rhythm starting deep and steady, then building—harder, faster. the snack machine rattles louder with every snap of his hips; the wet slap of skin on skin echoing down the hall—obscene and loud under the buzzing lights.
outside, another car pulls in. the engine rumbling closer. you freeze for a split second—eyes wide on the window—but dean doesn’t stop. if anything, he fucks you harder. one hand gripping your ass, holding you open; the other sliding between you to rub your clit—fast and firm. “let them look,” he growls against your throat. “let them see how pretty you look creaming on my cock.”
the pleasure coils tight and vicious. your thighs start to shake. the fluorescent light blurring above you. the short, sharp sentence hits you again. “harder,” you gasp. and he delivers—pounding into you so deep it steals your breath.
the orgasm crashes—sudden and violent. ripping through you white-hot and overwhelming. your vision spots; your mouth opens in a silent cry. nails raking down his back. he follows right after—hips stuttering, burying himself to the hilt with a low, broken groan. the heat of him spilling deep and raw inside you. the sensation so intimate it makes tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
for a moment he just holds you there—arms wrapped tight, breathing hard against your neck. the roughness fading into something softer. his lips brush your temple—gentle, almost reverent. “god, i love you like this.” the line comes out too honest, too awkward in the afterglow. it makes your cheeks burn even as you cling to him.
the mess of him starts to drip down your thigh—warm and sticky. he pulls out slow, careful—using the hem of his shirt to wipe you clean. tender in a way that twists something deep in your chest.
you tug your shorts back up—legs shaky. the hallway feels brighter now; the risk settling heavy in your stomach. but the ache between your legs is already humming again—soft and insistent. you grab a bucket of ice on the way back because you have to at least pretend.
the keycard beeps too loud when you slip back into the room. sam glances up from his book, eyebrow raised. “no ice?”
dean shrugs—easy as ever. “machine was slow.” but his eyes flick to you with that secret little wink. the air between the three of you suddenly thicker.
you crawl into bed—the sheets cool against your heated skin. but sleep stays far away. the buzz of those hallway lights still echoes in your head. the feel of dean still inside you. the memory of the parking lot. the possibility of eyes on you.
it all swirls into this quiet, unresolved pull—low in your chest. you want more. you want him again. right now. you want the safety of four walls, but the danger calls to you like it always does with dean.
and you lie there staring at the ceiling—the faint ache a personal little reminder that nothing in this life ever really settles. not the hunts. not the rooms. not the way your heart keeps reaching for him, even when it knows better.
SUMMARY: Cursed objects are always pesky little things, unpredictable and dangerous. But coming across a very powerful aphrodisiacal piece of jewelry while you're actively struggling with your unrequired feelings for dean might just be the worst experience so far.
WARNINGS: okay here we go. porn with plot. pining. light angst. fluff. self-esteem issues. reader is in katniss everdeen's level on misunderstanding signals. shameless smut. sex pollen (kinda). multiple orgasms. masturbation. oral sex. fingerfucking. unprotected piv. creampie. shifting dynamics. blood kink (subtle and not so subtle). light choking. lots of spit. im sorry. love confessions. fluffy ending. that might be all.
𓏲ּ𝄢 PLAYLIST 𓏲ּ𝄢
“I swear I’m gonna throw up.”
“Come on, Dean. It’s not that bad.” You roll your eyes, softly kicking an angel Christmas ornament out of the way, being careful not to break it.
“I’m choking, sweetheart.” Dean grasps his throat dramatically, clawing at his skin and making his voice thinner. “I can’t breathe. Oh no, there’s the light at the end of the tunnel. I leave everything to Baby.”
“You literally have nothing to leave. You don’t even have a will! You’ve been legally dead like—five times.”
Sam snorts somewhere behind you, still making his way through the giant pile of heart-shaped chocolate boxes by the door of the warehouse.
Calling it a warehouse is a dishonor, though, considering all the walls are pure white marble and every corinthian column holding up the insanely tall ceiling is made of rose quartz. There’s no windows, lamps, or candles, and still the room glows in a golden-pink hue. The whole place buzzes with magic, like you’re walking into a giant ancient altar. You wonder what kind of cherub has enough money or power to build a place like this.
You’d gotten a heads up from Castiel a few days ago about what Dean relayed as “a disturbance in the force” around Stockbridge, Massachusetts. You’d driven here last night, stopping a few towns over so Dean could get some sleep before making your way into town.
You’d spat all kinds of speculations about what the disturbance could be—another horseman, Lucifer himself, maybe even God—just to find a glowing, castle-like building on a field just out of town instead.
Deciding that walking in without any idea of what you’d be facing was a terrible idea, you decided to do some research first.
But somehow, none of the locals are able to see the warehouse even though the thing looms over the town, glinting bright pink under the sun, blinding and imposing even from the town square.
You tried talking to some hipster girl outside an artsy cybercafé, the small hill where the shop was located giving you a perfect view of the building between all the valentine’s day decorations hanging from the light posts.
When she claimed to have never heard of such a place, you stood right next to her and pointed directly to the marble cathedral, forcing her gaze away from Dean and toward the horizon. Suddenly the owlish heart-eyes she was making disappeared, and fog settled over her irises. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, her whole body tensing. Then she blinked, like she was just waking up from a heavy nap, and turned back to Dean as if nothing happened.
“Nah, the only church in town is down the street. Baptist, I think, but the nuns are pretty chill.” All three of you gaped as she twirled a strand of carrot-dyed hair with her finger, not even acknowledging you or Sam or the fucking magical castle right in front of her eyes. “Maybe I can show you the way? I know the perfect scenery route.”
You wanted to suffocate her with her woolen beanie, maybe scoop her eyes out with those stupid, huge non-prescription glasses. Instead, you gave her a polite goodbye and stomped your way down back to the town square, dodging inflatable cupids and heart balloons. Sam and Dean followed suit a few seconds after.
You continued asking around, but every time you directed someone’s gaze to the warehouse, they got the same hazy look in their eyes. Some of them continued to talk after like Hipster Girl, some of them scurried away as soon as they snapped out of whatever spell they were under, one poor high school boy ended up throwing up into the pink rose bushes of the local park.
“So, are we thinking witch?”
You were back in the Impala, officially declaring interviews useless around noon. Sam and Dean were in the front seat, munching on some hotdogs while you picked at your pink-dyed cheese fries in the backseat, chewing on heart-cut pieces of bacon as you thought back on Hipster Girl’s eyes, the opaque fog, the slight tremble of her lower lip.
Her biting down on said lip when Dean used some cheap line, the twirl of her orange hair, the way Dean’s grin turned sharp at the sight of it—
You needed to focus.
“Probs. There’s definitely some kind of incantation over the building, but I don’t know any witch powerful enough to cast magic over a whole town.”
Your voice was dragged, low and dull. Sam threw you a concerned look over his shoulder, you didn’t meet his eyes. “Deity, then?”
You shrugged without a word. The brothers shared one of their looks, and you knew it wouldn’t be too long until one of them—most likely Sam, because Dean is allergic to any kind of emotional talk—cornered you about what’s been going on.
The truth is as embarrassing as it is hilarious, if you were anyone else and not the one living it.
Valentine’s day is tomorrow, and it’s been driving you insane.
All Dean seems to talk about is the festivity, and how eager he is to dive into the first bar he finds and “comfort all those poor, heartbroken, smokin’ girls.” You threatened him with your knife, “shut up or I’ll gut you open and feed you to some poor street dog.” He only got louder.
Evading the man you’re in love with while he talks about fucking other women doesn’t work very well. Every tune in the radio is a love song, every movie in the staticky motel TVs is a rom-com, every diner you enter has a new Valentine’s milkshake. Everything is a reminder of the day of love, and while you’re usually indifferent to dumb capitalistic holidays, this year it feels like salt in an old, festered wound.
Dean doesn’t love you, not like you love him.
It’s the end of the fucking world, you’re hunting down the Devil, and still Dean can’t find it in himself to see you as anything other than the poor hunter girl they had to aid years ago and who they’re now stuck with. The man who’d sleep with anything that moves and has good tits, can’t fathom to look at you twice.
Sam brought you back Valentine’s themed gummies when you stopped at a gas station this morning instead of your usual ones. You sneaked off to the restroom and flushed them down the toilet.
You’re being petty. It’s Armageddon time, you’re entitled to some pettiness.
You continued your research after lunch, but the whole town turned out to be incompetent. No records of the building or its construction, no local folklore or legends, no precedents of supernatural activity.
Feeling restless and ready to break some skulls, you proposed to just walk in and see it for yourselves. Dean was all for it, but Sam forced all of you to grab some witch-killing bullets and a few extra guns first. By mid-afternoon, you were walking through the rose-tinted glass door of the place.
You were expecting an evil lair, a palace of some kind, maybe an actual place of worship, but what you found instead was a storage room.
“What the—” Sam cursed when he ran into the mountain of chocolate boxes he’s still trying to put back in place, sprawling them all over the ground.
There were similar piles all around the shiny bronze flooring. Teddy bears, cheap costume angel wings, more Valentine’s decor. The place was flooded with pink, red, and white knick knacks. Some objects were propped up on pedestals—an expensive-looking vase, many marble statues of little angel babies and naked torsos, a half-eaten apple for some reason. Ballet music was playing from somewhere, there were romantic and erotic paintings everywhere but none were actually mounted on the walls, and the air was thick with the smell of rose petals and peaches.
Which brings you back to the present, with Dean pretending to die from sweet, stuffy air while you all sort through the mess in search for something that gives away your cupid’s identity. After the fiftieth baby angel scented soap you’d accidentally stepped on, you’d just assumed it’s a cherub.
“Can’t wait to get out of this place. If any chick tomorrow smells like roses I might throw up all over her.”
The little glass swan you’re holding cracks under your fingers, you leave it on top of a velvet box before it breaks.
“Have we ever heard of any angels that can bewitch a whole town?” You ask Sam, desperate to change the topic.
You move to the back right corner of the warehouse, where a bunch of books are arranged in a neat pyramid. Maybe this cupid keeps a diary, who knows?
“I don’t think so, and cherubs are supposed to be pretty low-ranking. I’m not sure one of them would be able to manage something like this, but we should ask Cas.”
You nod, glancing up at Sam as he finishes with the heart boxes and moves to look through a stack of what looks like discarded love letters, judging by the glittery ink and tearstains on the old paper.
Your eyes sweep the room and find Dean, who’s searching a honey-colored vanity in the far left corner. There’s a bunch of beauty products already laying carelessly on top, expensive blushes and mascaras and a million lipsticks. Dean keeps going through the cabinets, pulling out everything he finds. He picks up a perfume bottle and sniffles it, immediately grimacing. So much for feeling dizzy.
He glares down at the bottle like it personally offended him, looking goddamned adorable under the pinkish glow, the golden flecks of his eyes sparkling.
You focus back on the book pyramid and grab one at random, flipping it open with your chest heavy and your throat dry. Dean fits right in with the collection of beauty surrounding you, always the prettiest thing in the room. You, on the other hand, are more like a dark cloud in a perfect blue sky.
The stupid flutter of your heart is immediately halted as it stops completely.
You picked up a porn book. Not a magazine, it has a hardcover and there’s text all down the right page, but the left page is pure porn. Three pictures, like a collage, all featuring the same couple. A girl on her knees, sucking some guy’s dick. The same dick now between her tits, a hint of a smile on her lips. The guy now with his head buried under her skirt, her head thrown back in ecstasy.
Regrettably but almost unconsciously, you flip to the next page. A guy, bright eyes hooded and pretty mouth parted, desperately humping a pillow. The book slips from your hands, landing wide open on the ground. You scramble to pick it up and snap it closed.
Ignoring the brothers’ questioning looks, you leave the book back on the pile and grab another one.
One by one, you open at least ten different erotic books. There’s one with a skinny blond guy being impaled in a dick way too big to feel good. There’s one with two girls making out in the mud. There’s one with a girl in a cowboy outfit riding a tied-up guy. Your cheeks flush at that one.
You’re not a prude, nothing close. Inside you, there’s this thing. It writhes and snarls and wants. It makes you feel sick, it makes you feel high, it makes you want to explode. Sometimes, you let it out—muzzled and on a leash, but peaking its head through the bars of its cage. Most of the time, though, you keep it locked away.
It feels too dangerous, perverse. It’s scary, just how feral it can be.
It cannot be healthy. You’ve grown used to nothing in your life being healthy.
You sort through the pile, no longer taking the risk of picking at random. Anything with the words “sexy,” “steamy,” or “adult” gets thrown away right away. Any slightly suggestive title gets turned around so you can inspect the information in the back cover. The books that look innocent enough get inspected further. Some of them are in other languages—some Italian and French, many of them in Greek. Anything you can’t read gets discarded.
Even then, most of the ones you open are explicit. Some are supposed to be clever little “hidden” books, some simply take whatever innocuous topic they name on the front page and turn it unnecessarily sexual. You read through half a cooking book before finding a recipe for cum cupcake frosting (ew), you find a porn version of The Wizard of Oz that makes you giggle, you find a mechanic’s guidebook that soon turns into a playboy mag.
You’ve started to open the books halfway through, just to skip any buildup bullshit, and quickly regret it. Because there, spread across both pages, is a black Chevy Impala. Not a ‘67, but a similar model. And on top, laying across the hood in a too-cliche pose, is a guy. He’s completely naked, lean muscles glinting in the sun of whatever arid place they shot this in, fucking up into a girl whose face has been cut out of frame.
The guy has dirty blond hair, a little too dark. His eyes are a shade closer to lime than forest, and his skin is paler than the gold that haunts your dreams. Still, there are freckles all over the bridge of his nose and shoulders. His nose is straight, his lips are full, and his jaw is sharp. It’s too fucking close.
His eyebrows are drawn together, his mouth almost pouty as he grips the faceless girl’s thighs desperately. His feet are propped up on the front bumper, and he looks almost in pain as he thrusts inside the girl’s pussy. His chest is lined with scratches—deep, angry red that he sure seems to enjoy. It might be just you, but his lips seem to be holding the shape of a plea, his eyes teary and his whole body taut.
His cheeks are red, the left one more than the right one. There’s bruises on his neck and down his chest. He looks hurt, he looks blissed, he looks so fucking horny.
He looks like Dean.
The beast wails, your thighs press together, you feel so violent that you could spontaneously combust. It terrifies you every time—how hot your blood burns, how feverish it makes you, how wrong it feels.
Not pretty, not delicate, not sensual. Just ugly, destructive, all-consuming hunger.
“Hey,” Dean says your name, way too close. “Look!”
You shut the book closed so hard that the smack echoes through the warehouse, the blow making your bones shake. You turn around to face Dean like he caught you with your hands inside a corpse’s innards. You almost wish he had, you’d feel less dirty.
“Hi.” Your voice is too high, your eyes too wide. Dean frowns.
“You okay?” You nod, bobbleheaded, hiding the book behind your back. Dean’s eyes shift down to it, forest green that’d look beautiful all teary. You squirm. “You sure? What’s that thing?”
“Just a true crime book about ‘crimes of passion.’ It’s a little graphic, so I got a little shaken up. I’m fine now.” You wave your hand dismissively, Dean still looks suspicious. You clear your throat, kicking the beast until it whimpers and hides, and you smile. “You wanted to show me something?”
“Right.” Dean shakes his head, his mouth still twisted as he pulls something from the pocket of his jacket. “I found this, and I thought you’d like it.”
He extends his hand toward you, holding up some kind of bronze arm cuff. Three thin copper wires swirl in pretty spirals, braided carefully and embedded with pearls and crystal charms. Two flowers rest at the ends, rose quartz petals and iridescent centers. The whole thing sparkles like it’s covered in fairy dust.
“It’s gorgeous, Dean.” You delicately pick it up from Dean’s hand, thumbing at the smooth pearls and cold metal. There's something engraved behind each petal, you can vaguely make out a few Greek letters. “Where did this angel get all this stuff?”
“Dunno, but I guess they won’t miss one thing.”
You blink up at Dean. He’s glowering down at his dirty biker boots, a hand scratching behind his ear. “You want me to keep it?”
Dean shrugs, and the question seems to grab Sam’s attention, the younger boy shuffling closer through the lovey mess.
“We don’t come across beautiful things too often. You deserve beautiful.” The words seem sour in his own mouth, like they’re spilling out without his permission. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears.
No, I don’t. Not really.
You’re glad when Sam chimes in.
“I don’t think it's a good idea to take stuff, guys. We’re still not sure it’s a cherub, and we don’t wanna upset anything.”
Dean glares at his brother, and you sigh dejectedly. Sam is right, and so is Dean. You don’t get many beautiful things. You don’t get quartz bracelets or Dean Winchester under you. That’s just your life.
“There’s nothing in these books,” you murmur, none of this helping your already bad mood. “We should keep looking, find some kind of sigil or rune so we can confirm what we’re actually dealing with.”
With your shoulders hunched and your soul weary, you start to walk toward the vanity to put the arm cuff back. You’ve only taken three steps when Dean stops you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist firmly.
When you face him, his eyes are downturned and a little pleading. Too close, too fucking close.
“At least try it on.” It takes you a second to figure out what he’s talking about, too lost in visions that make you want to take a dive into Hell.
“De—”
“Come on.” You don’t understand why he cares so much, but his grip on your wrist tightens. “When will I—any of us get enough money to buy something like that?”
You hold your breath, Dean’s fingertips, so callused from his pistol, gently tracing circles over your pulse. You deserve beautiful.
You nod, barely-there jerk of your head. Just this once. “Fine. But I’m taking it off before we leave.”
Dean seems satisfied enough, letting go of your arm before shoving his hands on his pockets, feigning nonchalance. You can see the mask slipping on, the armor he’s built from scar tissue and barbed wire through the years wrapping around him. You don’t understand how you were so fooled by his facade before, it’s so obvious now.
Dean pretends to be cool, you pretend to be sane. Neither of you call the other out.
Slowly, you slide your right hand inside the cuff, being mindful not to break it or damage it somehow. It feels like something you’d break, too lovely for your reverse Midas touch. The bronze is cold against your skin, and the wires feel too loose all the way until they reach your mid arm. Like magic, the bracelet seems to resize itself, wrapping around you just tight enough not to fall, but not digging into your skin. Your whole body tingles.
“What do you think?” You extend your arm toward Dean, giving him a bright beam.
He stays silent, something flashing on his face right before he grabs your shoulders, spinning you in place.
You end up facing a giant mirror, gentle swoops and little doves engraved in the golden frame. Your eyes latch onto the jewelry on your arm, and it looks indeed beautiful. The flowers are delicate against your flesh, soft and too pretty to be yours. The sentiment appears to have extended to the rest of you.
Because when you find your own face in the reflection, you look… cute. Hard edges eroded by the soft lighting, fairy dust shimmering in your eyes and lips. It’s not a physical change, it’s still just you, but glowy. Every sweet feature enhanced, every detail you hate washed in a new light.
It feels nice. It’s been too damn long since you felt anything other than contempt towards yourself.
Dean is behind you, looming over your shoulder, and he looks even more gorgeous than the arm cuff. He looks like an angel—not the real, douchy ones. Cartoon movie angel. He looks divine.
Almost instinctively, you lean back, craving the contact more than usual. Dean’s chest is there to hold you up, like it always is, and both of you exhale loudly. As if the same weight had been lifted off your shoulders.
You can’t help but shiver when his breath brushes the side of your neck. You need to get a grip.
“Guys, I think I found something.”
Sam stands just behind the vanity, throwing you a double look over his shoulder when he finds you pressed together. Your cheeks flush harder than before, and you clear your throat at the exact same time Dean takes a step back. The distance hurts, but everything always seems to ache with Dean. You both walk over to Sam without looking at each other.
There’s another pile of miscellaneous things at Sam’s feet, and for a moment you wonder if he only wanted to separate you from Dean in an attempt to save you from later heartache. But then you take a look closer.
The first thing you see is a deck of tarot cards. Next to it is a baby blue crystal ball, a few boxes of incense, a bunch more candles. But then you see the sword, shadows swimming along the blade like lost souls. And the Book of Shadows, and the glowing bow, and the suitcase full of little vials.
And the hexbags.
“Shit, you think it’s actually a witch?”
“Not quite.” A voice comes from behind you, sweet like the summer breeze and pitchy like the song of birds. “But you’re getting warmer.”
All three of you turn around at the exact same time, Sam and Dean with their guns in hand. You tug your knife out from your belt, your fingers brushing your lower back. Your skin feels more sensitive than usual, you ignore it in favor of surveying your new companion.
Your white-knuckled grip goes slack around the handle of your blade.
Sitting on top of a nearby pedestal, smooth as the statues around him and dazzling as everything else in the room, there’s a kid.
He looks around eighteen or nineteen, his eyes big and angelic. His lips are pouty, bright pink and glossy. His whole body is glossy, that after-sex glow that makes people look holy. His hair is light blond and messy around his face, but in a deliberately sensual way, and he’s wearing an oversized white button up that barely covers his chest, hanging off a shoulder and showing his delicate collarbones.
He’s blinking at the three of you naively, but the curl of his lips show a hint of provocativeness.
“Who the fuck are you?” Dean steps forward, still pointing his gun at the boy, but even he sounds breathless.
The boy laughs, low and velvety, and it really is a sight to behold. Perfect teeth, pink tongue peaking out, smooth bare thighs dangling from the black plinth. He’s not the kind of man you’re usually into, you like them pretty but a little damaged. Still, because your whole body is tender and your stomach feels weird, you can’t help but ogle a bit.
It’s only fair, you’re almost certain the brothers are doing the exact same thing.
“Put that down before you hurt yourself, big boy.” The kid lands on the bronze floor gracefully, giving Dean an up-and-down look that drags you out of your enchantment slightly. He bites his lower lip, picking up a little dove figurine from a nearby table, spinning it between his fingers.
You’re always highly suspicious that anyone who sees Dean wants him. This time there’s not an ounce of doubt.
Suddenly he locks his eyes on yours, and a fuchsia glows on his irises.
Of course, someone like that could not be human.
His lips grow into a mocking sneer, and he takes an animated step toward you.
“Don’t get any fucking closer.” Dean blocks his way to you, his broad shoulders shielding you. It’s always hot when he gets protective, today is a little overwhelming. “What the hell are you?”
You turn to Sam, and you find him already staring at you. Silently, the two of you try to put it together while Dean distracts your Adonis.
Clearly not a cherub. You can almost hear Sam’s voice in your head, easily reading the subtle twitches of his face.
That’s certain, I don’t think angels can look like—that. Sam looks like he wants to snort, but he keeps his face perfectly still. Not a witch, either.
You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. Porn books, pagan artifacts, every romantic thing to ever exist.
“No wonder you kids are famous, look at you!” At some point, the boy had glided closer. The barrel of Dean’s gun is pressed to his sternum, he doesn’t seem concerned. Dean looks agonizingly unable to pull the trigger. “Those pretty faces, those eyes!” He cups Dean’s cheek with his free hand, tilting his face down even as Dean flinches but finds himself unable to move away. “I’m surprised Zeus hasn’t given you the Ganymede treatment.”
Greek smut. Greek letters in the back of petals. Greek gods.
“Holy fuck.” You gasp, dragging the god’s glowing pink eyes away from Dean. Only then is he able to scamper backwards, stumbling against your side. Roses, Valentine’s day, erotic overload. “Lord Eros.”
The boy giggles, absolutely delighted. Shit.
Sam slumps at your side, finally recognizing who you’re up against. This isn’t good. This can’t be good.
“I see you’re the smart one! Such beauty as well.” Eros purrs, licking his lips slowly. It makes you squirm, both uncomfortably and for a different reason that makes you want to vomit. You must be worked up from the books. Your whole body feels swollen and vulnerable. “If anyone was to find my little vault, I’m glad it’s you.”
“All of this is yours?” Sam asks, lowering his gun.
“I’m bad at throwing things away.” The god shrugs, twirling a blond curl on his delicate finger. “What can I say, I’m sentimental. I like to keep mementos from every mortal I meet.”
He says the word with such lascivity that it sounds like a slur.
“Eros. Which one is that again?” Dean seems to have shaken off the god’s enchantment, sharp eyes now squinted and focused. He’s given up on his gun, though. You tuck your knife into your waistband.
It’s not like any simple weapon will kill the ancient god of desire.
“Cupid, for the Romans.” Eros groans loudly at Sam’s words.
“Romans, they were so fucking boring.” The boy huffs, lips setting on a deeper pout, looking more like a bratty twink than a god. “Had such a hard-on for bloodshed and war, ugh. The Greeks knew how to have fun, they had hard-ons for each other.” He sighs, looking off into space, reminiscing of better times.
You hope he’s not getting a hard-on.
“Okay, so you’re like—a supercharged cherub?” You send Dean a shut up look, but he ignores you.
“Don’t you ever compare me to those guys!” Eros’ voice is still saccharine and melodical, but now he sounds all whiney as he squeezes the little dove in his hand until his whole hand is white. Dean’s shoulders relax. Oh no. “They’re disgusting little things who can’t tell love from lust! Them and their Christian puritanism, ugh!”
You can see Dean choosing his retort carefully, you try to give him another warning. Your breath stutters at the way the corner of his mouth tilts up, and you end up choking on the words. The arm cuff feels warm against your skin. Every inch of your being feels hot.
“Careful there, princess, you’re gonna break a nail.”
Eros goes perfectly still, Sam and you close your eyes in defeat at the same time.
“I would be really careful, Dean Winchester.” His voice has changed, now thick like melted candy. And poison, definitely poison. “I may like you, but you are still simply a mortal. Do not mess with forces you are too feeble-minded to comprehend.”
“Dean,” you finally whisper, your hand moving to grasp his wrist. A piercing chill washes down your spine. What the fuck is wrong with you?
“Am I supposed to be afraid?” He continues to mock, even when Sam is throwing daggers at him over your head. “What, you’re gonna shoot me with your little heart arrows?”
“Dean.” This time it’s Sam who speaks. Your throat feels too dry to do so, goosebumps rising all over your skin. “He’s not just any god. His father is quite literally the god of war.”
Eros scoffs, rolling his now magenta eyes. He moves closer, until he’s just a step away from the three of you. You can’t handle the smell of peaches and cream coming from him, overwhelming and dizzying from up close.
“Yeah, Daddy always scares people. Him and his big spear.” The god smacks his lips, staring at Sam until he recoils in his place. “But it’s not him who you should fear. Daddy likes to play tough, but he’s simple-minded. Unambiguous, methodical, and so fucking boring. Now, Mommy… that’s who you should be afraid of.”
His eyes scan you one by one, staying on you for just a moment too long before moving to Dean. Then, he grins, leaning so close that his little button nose brushes Dean’s crooked one.
“But you already are, aren’t you?”
You’re not sure Dean knows who Eros is talking about, but he still winces.
“We're not here to antagonize you.” Sam intervenes. You’re still too busy fighting your own body to do anything. “We just wanted to make sure everything was in order.”
“And it’s not.” Dean raises his chin, his obstinacy and stupidity implacable. Eros takes a little hop back, his grin only growing. “You have all of those people in town under a spell. We can’t have that just because you wanna be a little bitch about souvenirs.”
Dean and his fucking bravado. It’ll get him killed one day. Maybe today, while you’re too damn defective to act.
You try to talk to Eros, take back Dean’s words, but another weird lightning strike flashes in your gut, and all that comes out is a faraway babble. Eros’ eyes flare.
“You’re more incompetent than I expected, Dean Winchester. But you’re also more… complex.” He looks from Dean to you a few times before settling on you. More specifically, on your arm. “Nice bling you have there.”
Shit.
Panic claws at your throat. Of course, your luck can’t get any worse.
Immediately, your hands fly to the scorching cuff, trying to rip it off. It doesn’t budge, only getting tighter and hotter around your flesh the harder you tug, charring your fingers.
“What did you do?” Dean snarls.
When the sharp metal starts to dig on your skin deep enough to break it, you give up. The bronze wires go back to resting gently around your arm as soon as you let go, reverting to warm and delicate.
“I didn’t do anything.” Eros’ sing-songs, you fight to keep your breath even. “You did. It’s not nice to take what’s not yours, you know?”
Dean and you stare at each other, terrified. Hot flashes, ache between your thighs, wet.
You double over, hands holding your lower stomach. Every cell in your body howls, your mouth waters, your legs tremble, and you can’t hear anything. For a moment, you’re sure you’re dying.
“—me! I took it! Kill me!”
Dean’s voice sounds underwater. Sam is yelling your name. Eros’ cackle is piercing. It brings you back.
“I’m not gonna kill her, silly! What a waste that’d be.” The air around you shifts. Suddenly, a finger is tapping on the quartz flowers. Your knees falter. “I’m the god of desire, baby. I’m here to make people feel good.”
“Wait, wait,” you cry, trying to straighten up. You only manage to take a step toward Eros before you fall to the floor, knees smashing against bronze. “Fuck!”
You remember when you were younger, around seven or eight, and you used to throw yourself to the floor. Letting your knees give up, at any given moment, giggling all the way through. The thud of bone against tile, the slight ache, the bruising. You did it, over and over again, until your skin turned all shades of purple. And then you’d run and proudly show your mother how pretty the marks bloomed.
Disgusting, from the very start.
“Fuck!” You repeat, but this time it’s in the shape of a long, lewd moan. Sam and Dean freeze. You curl further into yourself, panting like a thirsty dog. “Stop, stop, please! It feels—”
Your words are so breathy that you’re not sure anyone can understand you. Your eyes are glassy as you crawl back from the amused god, the world turning technicolor as the pressure builds. Your back hits something, a wall or pedestal or table, and you pull your knees up to your chest.
“I’m gonna—ah.” You bite down on your tongue to try and swallow any more humiliating noises, screwing your eyes shut. Your head drops back, slamming against whatever’s behind you. The dull, less sparkly pain is enough to return some clarity to you. “It hurts, please. Please, stop.”
“You think it hurts now?” Eros kneels by your side, and you’re able to half-open your eyes. Slowly, the wave retreats, like it’s melting back into the ocean. Not a release, but a promise. Your body ends up achy with the frustration of dropping so suddenly, boneless and exhausted. “The flashes only get stronger and more frequent, child. And you just wait until you’re in your fifth orgasm.”
“You son of a bitch!” Dean charges for Eros, but the god dodges him with the swiftness of a small and lean body against Dean’s broad shoulders and heavy feet. “Take that shit off of her, or I’ll cut your fucking dick off.”
Eros giggles, pinning Dean in place with glowing pink eyes. Once again, the god invades his personal space, and the sight of them so close—Dean’s muddy jacket against the pristine white of Eros’ shirt—makes you buzz all over.
“That’ll just hurt you more than me, handsome.” The god winks, salacious. “Oh, in another life, in another life.”
It’s a furious, voyeuristic kind of prickle. Jealousy mixed with allure.
The stupid cuff is making you horny for shit you’ve never found hot before.
“How about I make you boys a deal?” Only then you notice Sam standing right beside you, teeth bared like a guard dog. You’ll have to buy him a new book as soon as this is all over, maybe one of those protein bars he likes so much. “You help her survive this, I move back to rural France and let your little town free. How does that sound?”
“Survive this? So it is gonna kill her.” You don’t think you’ve heard Sam this furious before.
Did the cuff affect your perception of reality? Or does the fairy dust glow affect others? Because the Winchesters would never be this concerned about you otherwise. Why are they so angry?
They probably don’t want to deal with this when the apocalypse is around the corner. Once again, you’re dead weight on their already sinking ship.
“No, but it’s gonna get… nasty.” Eros cracks up like he just made the most hilarious joke.
A pause, the tide starts to go out. And then, “How do we help?”
Another wicked giggle, a migraine lingers in the back of your skull.
“You’ll figure it out, eventually. At least I hope so.” The god is still glued to Dean’s chest, and he runs a sharp nail down the slope of his jaw. “You’re either gonna stop fearing Mommy, or you’re gonna despise her. Either way, I’m in for a fabulous show.”
With that, he vanishes in a cloud of glitter and peaches.
Sam and Dean start to talk, but your bones are lead and your head is pounding. Everything’s sore, like you just ran a marathon or got your guts rearranged, so it’s easy to let your eyes flutter close when the needles on your skin melt down to a faint gooseflesh.
“...we gonna do?”
“...ake her back…somewhere safe, so she…”
“...don’t know w…”
“...research in the car. Come on.”
Reality fades in and out, your mind a sluggish mess of tangled bodies and gory memories.
Aphrodite and Ares. Love and war. Beauty and violence—Eros’ whole deal.
“I’m gonna pick you up, okay?” Sam’s voice has gotten closer. At your lack of response, he repeats your name. “We need to get to the car, and you can’t walk, so I’ll carry you. Okay?”
You hum absentmindedly, a small part of you still present enough to feel hurt over the fact that Dean won’t carry you.
It makes sense, you wouldn’t want to touch something as gross as you either.
Before your mind can slip again, arms slide under your knees and back. A second later, you’re airborne.
You gasp, holding onto Sam’s shoulders tightly. The sudden movement wakes you up completely, and you’re able to take in the brothers’ impassive expressions as they stomp out of the warehouse, leaving behind perfect marble and immaculate crystal. It’s a relief to see it all get smaller the farther you get.
Dean’s shoulders are taut, his face hidden by the way he walks slightly ahead of you and Sam, but you’ve learned to recognize when he’s upset like a sixth sense. You must make a noise of some kind, because Sam is shushing you under his breath and murmuring gentle reassurances just for you.
“We’re gonna find out how to get the cuff off. You’re fine, we won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re safe with us.”
“I know.” Sam relaxes a little at that, his touch on you growing more confident and less vacillating. And maybe—just maybe—you were wrong, and he actually cares. It would be nice to have a friend, you hang onto the idea. “I trust you.”
He gives you one of those beams that bring out his dimples, fringe falling onto his eyes as a gust of fresh air hits your face. The smell of soil and grass is comforting, no more roses or cream. You’re safe.
For now, that evil part of your brain reminds you.
Shut the fuck up.
Of course, peace doesn’t last long. The path down the field to the road out of town is long, cobblestone surrounded by yellow grass, and it all starts again soon enough.
The bronze heats up, your skin grows sensitive, a weight on your chest grows. Your tongue feels too slick against your teeth, your thighs are pressed too close together, the necklace around your throat is pushing deliciously against your windpipe. The ocean roars, preparing.
“Sam.”
Your voice is low and whiny. You’ve never sounded like that before. You squirm and Sam’s arms around you tighten, probably to stop you from moving so he doesn’t drop you. But his fingernails dig into the meat of your legs, and his chest is lean and warm against your side, and you can’t do this right now.
Sam has never been more than a possible friend, a little brother that you love wholeheartedly. But your body is on fire and the pain feels good and he smells too much like Dean—
“Sammy,” you repeat. The nickname makes both brothers stop marching. “Sammy, I need—I need you to stop touching me. Right now.”
“What?” Sam sounds confused, but you can’t make out anything aside from the white fog clouding the edges of your vision. Sam’s hands spam, your back arches involuntarily, biting down on your cheek so hard you taste iron. It’s building. Up, up, up.
“Stop touching her.” Dean’s somber voice is faint through the rush of blood in your ears and the scream of your brain. “Sam, fucking let her go!”
“But—”
Dean makes a guttural noise, it doesn’t help. “Stop touching her or I’m gonna fucking kill you!”
Just like that, you’re plummeting.
The world spins, air roars all around you, there’s more screaming. Then, pain.
Hard concrete under your hands and knees, stinging on your skin, warm crimson dripping. It should be awful, it should stop the heat between your thighs and uncoil your gut, but it only makes it worse.
Someone yells your name and you make a little agonizing noise, curling onto yourself on the dirty ground, arms wrapping around your middle like you can contain the blazing bomb ticking inside of you. The cuff rasps against the pavement, you want to cut off your arm.
“You told me to let her go!”
“I didn’t mean drop her, you fucking brute!”
The drag of tiny rocks against your flesh, the rush of adrenaline from falling, the metallic smell of blood—you gasp desperately.
You’re sick. You’re so fucking sick, and now Sam and Dean can see it. The beast has been unleashed and you’re left begging it to please, don’t do it. You’re a monster that wants too much, that wants wrong. Perverted and broken and wrong.
You knew it. Apparently the gods did as well.
Divinely, intrinsically sick.
Breath by breath, second by second, you claw your way back from the edge. The heat gets more bearable, the fuzz goes back under your skin, the fog dissipates. The space between your legs is still throbbing, dripping and scorching, but now you can shift your knees without feeling like you’re gonna fly off your body.
Someone calls your name again, and you finally notice that you’re still lying on the pavement, rolled into a little ball. Slowly, you force yourself to seat up, heaving for air.
The wave has passed.
“I don’t think—” Your voice is hoarse, you hope you weren’t being too loud. “I don’t think you should touch me anymore.”
You feel like a kid again, tiny and weak on the floor while the two men stare down at you. You keep your eyes on your bloody hands, ashamed, just like you had when your mother had caught you looking at a Heath Ledger magazine cutout for too long. You can feel the judgement in her eyes, her ugly words of immorality, the shame. Shame, shame, shame.
“Son of a—” Dean cuts himself off with a bark, your eyes gloss over, shrinking further into the curb. “Come on, sweetheart, get off the ground. Baby’s right there, you can do it.”
Your eyes flicker up to find the Impala, parked just a few feet to your right. You almost, almost made it. It only makes you feel worse.
Taking a deep breath that makes the fabric of your sweater brush against your breasts—your stiff, oversensitive nipples feeling it even through the lace of your bra, fuck—you rise to your feet. The first step you take is shaky, and you stumble forward a little.
Both brothers extend a hand, instinctively wanting to hold you up, but they stop themselves before they can graze your skin. It’s humiliating, being this fucking helpless. The spite helps you straighten up and make your way to the car.
“That’s it, sweetheart, you’re okay.” Dean murmurs before closing your door, once you’re already laying down across the backseat. “You’re gonna be okay.”
You’re not sure if he’s trying to convince you or himself. Either way, you cling to the words and close your eyes.
༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚
The car ride is hellish.
You’d decided to rent a small house instead of a hotel, expecting to work this case for a couple of days. It has two rooms and a small kitchen, secluded enough that no one would catch you working spells or burning bones.
It’s a blessing. You can’t imagine having to deal with this in a motel room. At least here you can scream your head off if you want to and no one will call the police.
But it’s also a curse, because it meant you were trapped in the Impala for a while, with the roaring of the engine making your bones vibrate and everything smelling like earth and gunpowder and DeanDeanDean.
“I can’t find anything on, uhm, aphrodisiacal jewelry.” Sam’d said about ten minutes into the drive, already having gone through at least five articles in his laptop with miraculous wifi. “I’ll have to take a closer look at the cuff later, okay?”
You gave him a noncommittal grunt, an attempt at agreement.
You hadn’t talked since the last wave. Either from exhaustion or shame, not even you were sure. But all you’d been able to do was hug yourself like a baby, eyebrows drawn with the effort of fighting the beast, who’s slowly waking up again.
Still, you felt Sam’s gaze on you, firm and unyielding. Without another choice, you blinked your eyes open.
How’re you doing? He asked you with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
How do you think? You glared, Sam chuckled. Fucking fantastic.
I don’t know who’s gonna suffer more: you, Dean, or me having to witness it all.
The heat all over your body was momentarily replaced by confusion. Dean?
“I fucking hate when you two do that.” Dean grumbled, hitting the breaks at a red light a little too hard. You almost fell down into the footwell. “Fucking demonic, like the creepy twins from The Shining.”
Dean. Sam rolled his eyes before retorting something to his brother out loud, his eyes leaving yours.
Dean.
Your stomach flipped. You closed your eyes and didn’t open them again until you reached the house.
༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚
You find it in yourself to be grateful that the tide only starts rising once you’re already out of the car. In the old colonial house everything smells like cockroaches and old lady, and Dean is far away from sight somewhere in the kitchen. It at least makes it easier to waddle into your room without collapsing.
Eros was right, it slowly starts getting worse. Your skin feels completely raw, like someone plucked all your feathers and left you to roast over a bonfire. You don’t understand how it is supposed to feel good. It’s just torture.
Your legs tremble as you crawl into bed, breath choppy and muscles on fire. Your clothes feel too coarse against your tender flesh, scratchy and heavy and wrong, so you rip them off with frenzied hands.
It’s only once you slide your panties down your legs that you notice how ruined they are. The thin fabric completely soaked through, translucent and sticky with it, some even trickling down your thighs.
The cold air of the room against your naked pussy feels like both a punishment and a relief. You break down in goosebumps, legs giving up as you fall face first on the mattress, completely bare except for Eros’ cuff and overpowered by the terrible ache seizing your body.
Suddenly, musk, coffee and motor oil hit your nose. With a strangled moan, you tilt back your head and find one of Dean’s shirts lying over your pillow, wrinkled and dirty and oh.
He’d been late this morning, scrambling all over the house while you and Sam waited outside. This is his sleeping shirt, some old band merch that he barely washes. He probably just threw it over his shoulder when he came to check the salt lines in your window.
When you’re questioned in purgatory, once this stupid curse kills you, you’ll claim that you tried. You tried really, really hard to ignore the shirt. But the smell of Dean is so strong, the fabric so smooth unlike your clothes—and it might just be your overheated body, but it still feels warm and worn against your cheek.
The beast takes over once more, and you bury your face against the frayed neckline.
Finally, you have your first orgasm.
There’s barely any buildup, no warning or omen. One second you’re drowning in Dean’s shirt, the next one you’re drowning in pleasure. And oh, there it is. Pleasure at last.
All the pain transforms, shifts, blooms. Your hips jerk against the blankets, the fabric bunching up between your thighs and brushing over the puffy lips of your cunt, making you hiss at the overwhelming friction. Your hands fist the shirt, pulling it closer to your face, until you can taste it on your tongue and down your throat.
The wave becomes a tsunami, washing all over you and dragging away any resemblance of suffering. It’s all white-hot delight, long and infinite. You keep humping the mattress until your clit pangs with oversensitivity, and even then you can’t help but rut your hips in gentle circles as you make your way back from elysium.
This time the fall isn’t as awful. The ocean settles, the wave retreats, and you’re left drained but blissed. The shirt is soaked with your spit and the blankets soaked with your arousal. The room smells like sweat and sex and madness. The beast is roaming free, your mind is empty of any shame, you’ve never felt more alive.
Why have you been denying this to yourself for so long?
Someone calls your name from outside the door. You almost fly off the bed. “Can we come in?”
“No!” You yell before clearing your throat. “Wait—wait a second.”
“...We can come back later.”
“No, No.”
You quickly bundle Dean’s shirt and the blankets up in a little ball, throwing them inside the closet before pulling on clean underwear and a big sweater, long enough to hit mid thigh. You chuck one of the extra comforters Dean had brought you last night “just in case you get cold,” onto the bed, being mindful to open a window before sliding under it.
“Come in, it’s okay.”
You brush your sweaty hair off your forehead as the door opens, finding some drool on your chin. You wipe it off before either Sam or Dean can see, still a little too high on the afterglow to care all that much.
The Winchesters stand very still by the door, an old book in Sam’s hands and some water bottles in Dean’s, both looking around the room like they're expecting to encounter a murder scene. They’re not too far off.
“Hey, so—” Sam takes some steps closer to bed before he halts, finally glancing at you. Dean is still immobile on the doorway. “Oh. Oh, wow. Uhm—”
You frown, lucidity returning, worried that you’d missed some crucial evidence in the rush of it all. “What?”
Sam is speechless, gaping like the townies after you’d forced them to look at Eros’ warehouse. He blinks a few times before his eyes return to his book, rubbing a hand over his face. Dean makes a little noise in the back of his throat, like a gutted stag.
The bliss starts to turn into tar.
“Nothing, just—wow.” Sam’s voice is high, because the kid is a great liar when it comes to the big stuff, but he can’t handle a white lie to save his life.
“What?” You repeat, harsher, squirming self-consciously.
“Are you feeling better?” Dean interrupts roghly, pushing his brother aside to make his way toward the window. He looks mad, you can’t judge him.
“Yeah. I mean, it’s still working.” You point to the arm cuff, scarlet prickling on your cheeks. “But the wave’s passed.”
“Another one?” You nod at Sam’s question. He scribbles something in the margin of his book. “That’s around five minutes earlier than the last one.”
“Great.” You huff, drawing your knees up to your chest under the thick comforter. “So Eros wasn’t bullshitting. They get more frequent and more intense the longer I wear it.”
“It was more intense?” Sam questions as if he’s conducting an experiment, you feel like you’re under his microscope. “How come?”
You splutter, the red of your cheeks worsening as you feel both brothers’ eyes on you. “I’m–I mean–I don’t–ugh.” You hide your face against your knees, your voice muffled. You wish you could just perish right now, but you also know that if you want Sam to find a cure, you need to tell him as much as you can. “It…toppled over. Like, all the way.”
“Huh?” One second, two more, and then: “Oh.”
Dean curses under his breath, sharp and angry. You lift your head just in time to watch him storm out of the room, your heart shattering all over the carpet as he slams the door behind him.
Sam gives you his classic puppy-eyed look, it doesn’t make it better. You hate his pity, you hate that everyone knows how pathetically in love you are with Dean, you hate that they all feel sorry for you. You hate that Dean will never feel the same.
Sam whispers your name, you shake your head.
“Just do whatever you need to do,” you murmur, sinking further into the bed. “Before I get sick again.”
Because no matter how good it can feel, how high it can take you if you give into it, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s sick.
Now you remember why you don’t let yourself have this, not in this way. Because it’s degenerate, nauseating and depraved. You shouldn’t desire like this, for this. Blood shouldn’t taste good and sweat shouldn’t smell good and Dean shouldn’t feel good.
He doesn’t deserve to be the victim of your obsession, not when it’s so clear it repulses him.
You allow Sam to take a closer look at the bracelet, answering all his questions with an emotionless tone and letting your mind wander far away, where neither pleasure nor pain exist and you’re free of this carnal torment.
By the time Sam shuffles out the door, you’re half asleep already. He doesn’t dare to touch you again, but you can feel him giving you one last comforting look before locking you up in your room, like the monster you were always destined to be.
Falling onto the waiting arms of Morpheus is easy when every bit of you is spent and fuzzy. The breeze comes through the window, soothing whispers of leaves and sunlight. But in the distance, you can faintly hear Eros’ cackles, haunting you.
༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚
You haven’t seen Dean in a day.
The rest of yesterday was spent drifting in and out of sleep, your body so unaccustomed to this amount of exertion that it could barely handle being awake for more than a few hours.
Hours that were spent with you rolling around bed, riding wave after wave. At first you only dared to hump your pillows, ignoring the call of Dean’s shirt from the closet, a siren song begging you to falter.
It was enough, for a while. It felt safe, instinctual, less depraved.
But then, when your thighs were sore and trembling, threatening to give up under you, you started to use your fingers. Rubbing small circles over your clit, sliding lower until your folds parted, dipping into the warmth of your entrance. You’d scarcely ever done this, always so afraid that someone was watching, that someone would condemn you for it—you forgot how good it could be.
You had to bite down on the sheets as your digits rammed inside of you, curving up to press against that gummy spot just as your thumb found your clit. Your other hand fondled with your breasts, pulling on the perks of your nipples and making you throw your head back.
Still not quite what the curse wanted, but it got the job done.
Not too soon after that, the fantasies started.
Dean, always Dean. Over you and under you and next to you. Between your legs or draped over your back or shoving you to the floor. Burying his face in your pussy or pushing your head down on his cock. Calling you pretty as he kissed all over you, calling you dirty as his hand wrapped around your neck, calling you both as he came so deep inside of you, you could feel him in your throat.
You’ve wondered if you started hallucinating at some point, because his voice in your ear was so clear and real. His name was always on your tongue, whispered or stifled or bloody, canines biting down on your arm deep enough to draw blood just to keep it down.
Baths were hard to get through, especially when you had to take so many. Around every three hours, you were disgusting enough that you couldn’t stand not jumping in the shower, sticky with sweat and spit and arousal. But your skin was too raw for the decent water pressure of the house, the tiles were too cold, the water too hot, and you couldn’t stand looking at yourself in the mirror.
But then you’d discovered the handheld shower head.
It’d been a miracle. Your cunt was starting to get too sore from the direct friction, your fingers were cramping and your insides were bruised—every orgasm brought tears to your eyes, and not the good kind.
But the water was perfect, gentle enough not to hurt, intense enough to satiate the beast.
After a two hour “shower,” you were able to sleep through the night.
Sam had checked on you periodically, always knocking loudly on the door before coming in, leaving water and food on your bedside table before updating you on his research. Sadly, he hasn’t found much.
He still looks shocked every time he sees you, having to take a second before walking into the room. You don’t ask, he doesn’t explain. There’s a reason you’ve been avoiding mirrors—you don’t want to see what your disease has done to your body.
You must look like an obscene mess. Or maybe Sam is just being a little Victorian-Man about it.
You’d ask Dean, but Dean hadn’t shown his face at all. Not to say goodnight, not to nag you about salt lines and devil’s traps, not to make sure you’re not dead.
You knew that once he saw just how rotten you are, you’d lose him. It still hurts like a rusty nail to the brain.
Sleep wasn’t perfect, still plagued with dreams of debauchery and perversion, but it was replenishing.
After your first orgasm of the morning, you were able to take an actual shower, brush your teeth, and get dressed up in something other than oversized cotton shirts, ready to be reintroduced into society.
You’d learned a lot more in your confinement other than how many ways you can make yourself cum. You’d learned that the period between waves only gets shorter after a set of three or four, and that you have about five minutes after it starts before it gets unbearable. You learned that ignoring it only makes it more painful and more abrasive, and that trying to stop it is useless.
You also learned that you weren’t made to stay in one place only.
You’re already going stir-crazy, after one day of being locked up. If the curse is going to kill you, you want to see the sunlight at least one last time.
“I’m going out.” You announce to Sam, rushing into the kitchen and grabbing the first piece of food you can find. “I’ll be back in exactly—” You glance down at your watch, where you’re timing your next wave. “Twenty-five minutes.”
“You’re what?”
You almost spit out the piece of bread you’d jammed into your mouth, not expecting Dean to still be here. His voice brings back memories of phantom praises and degradation and naughty orders. You have to physically shake them off before the tide rises early.
You turn around, finding Sam sitting on the dinner table, eyebags under his eyes and a million books surrounding him. Next to him, Dean is sipping on a cup of coffee, looking tired and upset, still in his pajamas and looking like he hasn’t left the house at all.
They both flinch a little when you face them. Your cheeks redden with embarrassment, you don’t let it deter your initiative.
“There’s a corner store less than a mile down the road,” you explain, munching on the rest of the bread before moving to grab your jacket. “I’m just gonna go buy some ice cream and I’ll be back.”
“The fuck you are!”
That makes you pause, just a few feet away from the door. Dean gets mad at you, sometimes. He gets irritated or grumpy or annoyed, but he never talks like that to you. With that much fury, with that much scorn.
“Excuse me?”
Dean is by your side in a second, arms crossed, wearing a scowl so deep that his face might just be stuck that way forever. “Go back to your room.”
You raise an eyebrow, and Sam winces somewhere behind you.
“Is that an order?” Dean only shrugs, because he never knows when to back down. You’re seething. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Because how dare he. Talking about fucking other girls and abandoning you when you’re like this and not wanting you. How dare he, break your heart into pieces so small, you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to put it back together. How dare he, fusing your souls together in an everlasting way, just to take them both with him.
How fucking dare he.
“I’m the guy who has to deal with your mess while you’re in there—whatever.” If you were less furious, you’d notice the flush creeping down his neck. “So go back to your room, and let us work.”
“You have to deal with my mess?!” you shout. Dean recoils, it sobers you up. Your voice lowers to a still livid but collected tone. “You were the one who insisted on me wearing it in the first place!”
Something akin to guilt crosses his face before it goes back to disdain, and he grumbles something unintelligible that you don’t care to dissect. Time is running out, and you need to go.
“Why are you even here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be out getting passed around like a blunt?”
It’s depressing, the way your own words make you ache. And Dean has the audacity to look offended.
“That’s got nothing to do with this.”
“It does if you’re getting in my way!” Your clock beeps. Twenty minutes. “So why don’t you go find a bar or some glory hole, and leave me alone.”
“Because I’m stuck here, reading about fucking hellistic magic shit, for you.”
“Hellenistic.” Sam corrects unhelpfully, both of you ignore him.
“No one’s asking you to!” You run a hand through your hair, tugging on the roots harshly. Because you’re just so, so tired. You close your eyes, taking a few slow breaths. “Go! You’re free, Winchester. Leave! I’m not getting in the way of your fun, so don’t get in the way of mine.”
The kitchen is completely silent as you stay still, eyes screwed shut and lips trembling, and for a second you’re almost sure that the brothers left. But then, “Is that what this is about?”
You’ve never heard Dean like this, voice bitter and broken. Your eyes flutter open, meeting his, and he looks like you just shot his puppy. At your attention, his mask hardens like concrete.
But his facade is faltering, and so is yours.
“You want to go find someone? Have some fun?”
Oh.
You’ve thought about it—someone else’s hands on your burning flesh, their fingers and tongue and cock, helping you ride the tide until you’re all placid sweet water. You could find some poor bastard too desperate or too foolish to notice the rabid foam in the corner of your lips, someone willing to take mercy on you, someone who can give you what you need.
Nonono. That’s all your mind could chant. Wrong. Thisiswrongsowrong.
You feel nauseous, ready to vomit all of your insides. No.
“Maybe,” you answer instead, because you’re half delirious from Eros’ magic and the cuff is warming up again. Dean grimaces, gaze dropping to the floor, and the bomb that explodes inside of you is pure wrath. “What, Winchester? Is it so fucking impossible to imagine anyone could want me? Do I disgust you so much that you can’t handle the idea of someone fucking me?”
Now Dean looks like he’s about to hurl.
“Guys—”
“That’s not—ugh, you can be so…” Dean covers his mouth with a hand, like he’s physically trying to swallow back his words.
“No, no. Say it.” You step closer, even when the proximity is like sulfuric acid in your brain. He still won’t look at you, so you shove him back, craving a fight almost as much as you crave his love. He stumbles, just a few inches, because he just has to be built like a freaking wall of bricks. “Say it, Dean.”
To his credit, Dean holds himself together way more than you expected. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t throw shit around, doesn’t even try to push you back. He simply exhales, loud and forced, and lifts his face with calculated resolve.
“You’re going back to your room, and we’re gonna keep researching. That’s the end of it.”
Dean’s tone is demanding, your watch beeps, your pussy throbs.
It doesn’t help how infuriated you are.
“You’re not my dad, Dean, you can't just tell me what to do!” You shove him again, harder, and the way his muscles don’t budge under your palm does nothing for the twist of your gut.
“I’m not letting you go outside right now,” he spits out your name, his faux tranquility shattering. His next words are spoken through clenched teeth. “Not when—when you look like that.”
A gunshot. Right to the right of your heart, blood oozing and lungs punctured. Fatal.
It’s not a surprise that Dean isn’t attracted to you. Being faced with the excruciating reality of it is still cataclysmic.
“Fuck you, Dean.” It comes out in a half-choked sob. You attempt to push him again but your touch is weak, a barely-there brush of your hand before you take a few clumsy steps back, tears burning on your eyes and needles prickling your skin. “Fuck you! I fucking hate you, I—”
You spin on your heels, ready to lurch for the door. It’s too late for the store, and there’s nowhere else to go in this deserted little town. The next wave is too soon and it’ll last too long and it’s too cold outside to take a walk—
Dean calls your name, a desperate plea you’ve heard so many times before in midnight fantasies, and then his hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you back from the doorway.
But you’re burnt-out and woozy, so the firm tug makes you lose your balance. Once again, Dean’s chest is there to catch you, huge arms around your body and immovable frame holding you up. His breath is on your neck, and he’s so warm and firm behind you and you can’t—
White. For a long moment, everything goes white. Your whole body feels like an exposed nerve, as if you’re made of pure lighting. It’s better than Dean’s shirt, It’s better than the showerhead.
It’s Dean, finally.
You enter another dimension, where everything is syrupy and glorious. There’s the faraway but familiar sound of knees against tile, the faint crawl of sickness, someone shouting your name. But it’s all filtered by the colossal ecstasy that Dean’s touch brought you.
It feels like it lasts hours, maybe days. An infinite spiral of gut-wrenching climax, a rollercoaster speeding up until you touch the sky, clouds on your fingertips and dew between your legs.
When you come back to yourself, you’re once again on the ground. Your knees are sore, your throat is dry, your underwear is soaked. Spasms still travel through your body as you try to catch your breath, gasping violently and pawing at the legs in front of you for support.
Worn fabric against your palms, scratchy and warm like the hand that just catapulted you out of the stratosphere.
“Dean.” This time you say it outloud. Dean makes a wounded noise, you can’t help but cling to his legs. Begging, praying for forgiveness. Like a sinner bleeding on an altar, like a sacrifice watching the executioner sharpen his knife. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry. Fuck, I’m—”
Tears, streaming down your face like a broken dam. Your words melt into a bundle of sobs and wails, your whole body shaking with the force of them. If Dean didn’t hate you before, he for sure hates you now.
Now that you’ve dragged him into the mud with you, imposed your disease on him, forced him to be part of your depravity.
“Sweetheart…” Dean whispers, kneeling down and trying to reach for you.
You slither back, kicking your legs and shaking your head so hard it makes you all dizzy. “No, No. Don’t touch me! I’m sick! I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sick and I’m sorry.”
With a click of his tongue, Dean fists your ankle, dragging you across the floor and right into his body with just a yank of his arm. A loud moan escapes your lips.
His arms are like iron around you, caging you against his chest and not letting go, no matter how hard you trash around.
“Shhh. Shhh, sweetheart. I got you, you need to calm down. I got you.”
You want to keep fighting, to kick him in the gut and punch him in the eye and protect him from yourself. But you’ve been locked inside your room for a whole day, dealing with the rabid beast inside you all by yourself, yearning for the tiniest bit of comfort.
Comfort like Dean’s bare arms against yours, like his voice—his real voice—murmuring sweet nothings in your ear, like the vivid smell of him instead of the washed off remains on old fabric. It’s impossible not to take.
Because you’re selfish and ugly and starved.
“I’m sorry,” you repeat. I’m sorry for clinging to you like this. I’m sorry for cumming just from your body pressed against mine. I’m sorry for wanting you. “I didn’t mean to, I swear.”
“I know, sweetheart. I know.” He sounds sad. Why does he sound fucking sad? “It’s the cuff, I know. I—I’m sorry.”
You can’t help but tug him closer, fingers gripping his shirt and digging onto his ribs, your nose buried on his sternum. Your legs are intertwined, his hands are rubbing up and down your back, he’s everywhere.
“Why? I’m the one who’s fucked up.” You’re not even sure Dean can hear you, your voice so tiny and broken. A chair scraps against the floor somewhere behind you, you hide your face further into Dean’s chest. “Hell, you didn’t consent to that at all, I’m so sorry.”
A moment of silence. Sam, who you’d forgotten about entirely, clears his throat. “I’ll take the Impala and go get that ice cream. Text me when I can come back.”
Dean nods silently. You tilt your head back until you can see Sam over your shoulder, hazel eyes already searching for yours.
You’ll be okay?
Probably not.
Sam chuckles, shaking his head.
I’d beg to differ. A little sparkle in his irises tells you. Good luck.
With that, he leaves. You’re left staring at the door, wondering how this all would’ve gone if you had just left for good. This morning, yesterday, months ago. Maybe you should’ve never been here.
“You didn’t either.” You turn back to Dean, confused. He watches your face for a second before dropping his gaze to your hands on his shirt, a bitter laugh leaving his lips. “You didn’t consent to this, either.”
“What?”
“Sweetheart, I—goddamn it.” He huffs, one of his hands leaving your body to rub over his face, rough and angry. Without thinking, you pull it away from where his pretty skin was already turning red under the punishing touch. You hold his palm in yours, cradling it against your chest. “You’re cursed and in pain, and I’m just a selfish bastard taking advantage of it. I’m the one who should be sorry.”
You blink a few times, tears still wet on your cheeks and slick still sticky on your thighs, wondering if the last orgasm left you with severe brain damage. Because what the fuck is he talking about?
“Dean…” you murmur slowly, trying to search for his eyes. He avoids you like the plague. For some reason, it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. “All I’ve done is drag you and Sam into my—problem, over and over again. I’m the one infecting you with this, the one staining you. How on earth are you taking advantage of it?”
So many things flash on Dean’s face at the same time. Shame, loathing, mortification, resignation.
“You really have no idea what you do to me.” For the first time in ages, you feel cold. Frozen in time, only Dean’s words keeping you grounded. “I’ve got a handle on it most days, but when you’re right here, moaning so sweetly and writhing so prettily… shit, baby, even the strongest man would falter. And you have the audacity to look like that.”
It hits completely different now.
“What are you saying, Dean?” You squeeze his hand, tight enough for his fingers to turn white.
He utters your name, low and husky—an imprecation, a psalm.
“You know damn well.”
“No,” you whisper, leaning closer to those beautiful green irises that’ve haunted you for so long. “I have no idea.”
“I want you, sweetheart.” He whispers back, almost inaudible. The beast starts to roar, maniacal. “I’ve been wanting you for years. I’m the one who’s truly sick.”
A million things pass through your mind. Why, how, when. If it wasn’t for the constant throbbing of your body, you’d pinch yourself to make sure it’s not just another vivid dream.
“But you never look at me?”
“What?”
“You never look at me, Dean.” Your cheeks are stiff with dried tears, Dean’s hand cups one of them gently. You melt against the touch, shivering all over. “I’m always there, but you just see right through me.”
“Oh, baby.” Everything goes fuzzier every time he says it. Something in your face must show it, because Dean drops his hand and tries to pull back. You whimper, tugging harder on his shirt, practically crawling onto his lap. He groans. “You think I could look at you and still hold back? I had to look away. I ruin everything I touch, and I couldn’t risk—I couldn’t risk losing you. Not you.” He hesitates for a second before resting his forehead on yours. Your lips part at the contact. “Still, you are all I can see.”
With a desperate little whine, you dive down for Dean’s lips.
But all your mouth finds is the stubbled skin of his cheek, his head jerked to the side and scrunched in agony.
“Dean.” You mutter, because that’s all that's in your mind. “Dean, Dean, Dean.”
“Stop,” he pleads, but his hands latch onto your waist. You moan again, the prickling on your skin now a lot gentler, a lot less disgusting. Almost beautiful. “I can’t. It’s the cuff, baby. You don’t really want this.”
“I do. I want you, more than anything else.”
“Stop it. Now.”
You can’t.
“I’ve wanted you ever since I’ve known you, Dean.”
Your name, again, imploring.
“It’s not the stupid arm cuff, it’s not Eros’ magic, it’s not anything else. It’s just me. Me, wanting you so bad I can’t breathe when you’re not with me.” After so long holding back, it all spills out like a hurricane. “I’ve wanted you long before this, when Sammy lets me ride shotgun down the interstate and when I’m patching up your reckless wounds and when you put on that stupid little winning smile whenever things go your way.”
Dean tries to look away again, but you won’t let him anymore. You grab his face, nails digging into his jaw, pinning him under your gaze just like Eros did.
“Look at me, Dean. Finally, really look at me.”
You’re not sure who leans in first, with the heat rising and clouding your mind, but suddenly Dean’s mouth is on you.
It’s violent, teeth clashing and lips bruising. Dean’s tongue is so far down your throat it makes you gag a little. He tries to apologize, but you shut him up by grinding down against his crotch, a hard bulge already there to welcome you under thin fabric.
You’re basically eating each other, hands groping all they can find and hips rutting incessantly. Dean’s fingers tangle on your hair, pulling gently. You bite down on his tongue, sucking it into your mouth right after, and he tugs harder.
“Fuck. Fuck, baby. I’m goin’ insane.” He grunts when you break the kiss, licking and nibbling down his throat, leaving angry red bruises everywhere you can. “You have no idea—lookin’ so gorgeous, like fuckin’ sex reincarnated. I’ve been losin’ my mind.”
He sounds deranged, it’s only gasoline to the wildfire inside of you. You snarl against his collarbone, scratching at his shirt like it personally offended you, lips collapsing with the high neckline. Dean chuckles, endeared.
“Calm down, baby girl.” He uses the hand on your hair to guide you away from where your teeth were abusing the space between his neck and shoulder. You pout at the loss, Dean licks it away. “You’re so desperate, darling.”
He yanks his shirt over his head, and you immediately get to work. Pushing him back until he’s lying down on the tiles, climbing over him until the outline of his cock is pressed right against your ass, gnawing on the hills of his pecs and down the ridges of his ribs.
“You have no idea, Winchester.” You make your way down his body, running your tongue through the faint trail of hair under his navel and chewing on his hip bone. Dean’s hips jerk up, your teeth sink into the flesh of his waist in reprimand. “I’ve been locked in that room for ages. I’m more than desperate.”
“It was less than a day.” Dean’s laughter is interrupted when you pull his pajama pants and underwear down his thighs with one swift movement.
His cock springs up proudly against his stomach, flushed and shiny with precum already. He hisses as the cold air hits him, and your mouth waters so bad you have to swallow down a mouthful of it.
“How are you pretty all over?” You whine, fisting the base of it furiously. He’s big, thick and veiny. Delicious. Dean cries out, but you ignore him. You want him to hurt a little. “Fucking unfair. Pretty eyes and pretty face and pretty cock. Maybe I do hate you.”
You pounce on him, taking him all the way down your throat in one go. Your gag reflex is completely gone, it has to be the arm cuff. The bronze burns against your skin, almost satisfied, and you hope Eros isn’t watching from somewhere.
But deep down, you don’t really care. He can enjoy the show.
All that matters is the veins of Dean’s dick pulsing on your tongue, his hand fisting your hair and his back arching off the floor. He keens, so loud you’re glad there aren’t any neighbors nearby, as you start bopping your head. Your throat contracts around his length, and the strain of his fingers on your locks have you humping his leg, dying for a little friction.
“Shit, darlin’, warn a guy.” He pants, starting to thrust up into your mouth. You pin his hips down to the floor, letting the edge of your teeth brush right under the engorged head. Dean cries out the sweetest noise you’ve ever heard. “Yeah, fuck, taking me so deep. Sweet fuckin’ mouth, so warm and wet for me. You’re heaven, baby girl. Swallowing me down like an angel.”
You feel anything but angelical right now, sweat beading on your forehead as you pull back until just the tip is on your tongue, using your hand to stroke the rest of his shaft. Your tongue dips into his slit, savoring the bitter and musky taste of precum, the beast howling for more.
“Shit, shit. Wait.” Dean tries to drag you up by the hair, but you claw at his hips and stay right where you belong, suckling on his cock while your other hand fondles his balls. “Stop, I’m gonna—Gonna cum, sweetheart. You need—”
You part your lips, letting him slide out your mouth but keeping him pressing against your face. You gaze up at him—green irises consumed by blown pupils, lips shiny and parted, hair mussed and wild. It’s better than the guy in Eros’ book, better than your wettest dreams. He’s perfect.
“I want you to cum.” You nuzzle your cheek against the sticky length of him, making him twitch, more precum spurting out. “I want to taste it, De.”
Dean whines, and it shoots through your bloodstream like heroin. You need more, now and tomorrow and forever.
“I’m not cursed like you, you little vixen. I can’t—” He shudders as you start to leave little kitten licks all over him, lowering your head until you can suck one of his balls into your mouth. “Motherfu—I can’t come twice so quickly, baby. And I wanna fuck you.”
A long, dragged moan vibrates in your chest at that, your hips rutting harder against his leg. You return to the head of his cock, leaving a saccharine open-mouthed kiss there.
“It’s okay, I can wait.” You blink up at him in what you hope is an irresistible pout. It seems to work, because Dean’s fingers on your hair relent. You lick your teeth slowly. “Besides, I can think of about a million things to do in the meantime.”
“When did you—Ah!” The back of your throat must be bruised, aching as Dean bumps into it again, tender flesh holding the memory of his cock. The thought brings you closer to orgasm than you’d like to admit. “When did you get so filthy?”
Always. You want to say. I’ve always been like this. I’ve always been this perverse.
Instead, you squeeze his balls in one hand and hollow your cheeks, tongue twirling around him before pushing against the pulsing vein on the underside. He growls hoarsely before going really still, spilling all over your mouth, head falling back on the floor with a thundering bang.
The overly-familiar feeling of climax reaches you, wrapping around you like a soft blanket, no longer tearing you apart from the inside out. Your hips stutter against Dean’s thigh, moaning around his still quivering dick, swallowing down every bit of his sweet release.
He’s coating your mouth and your throat and your insides. He’s all over you, on your lips and esophagus and guts. All yours. Only yours.
You straighten up, leaving one last smooch on Dean’s softening cock before climbing back on top of him.
He looks almost dead. Breath ragged, eyes closed, skin glistening—absolutely drained. His hand slips from your hair, falling onto your thigh clumsily, neck and chest blooming with teeth marks and hickeys. You puff up with pride.
“Come on.” You shake him slightly, hips already rutting in little circles against his stomach. The wave isn’t gone, but it’s not wrecking you either. You’re hot all over, still itchy and bothered, but you’re not hurting. Not anymore. You’re just eager. “Let’s get you hard again, I need you inside me. Now.”
Dean groans, curling into himself a little. “You’re a psycho, I should’ve known. You murdered me, you insatiable little thing.”
“You can thank Eros for that.” Anguish flashes on Dean’s face. You kiss him slowly, letting him taste himself on your tongue, licking behind his teeth until he’s a puddle under you. “Stop thinking so hard, we need all that blood downstairs."
“Jesus Christ.” His hands return to your body, kneading the fat of your ass and your upper thighs, making you roll your hips faster. Still, when his eyelashes flutter open, something troubled dances in his eyes. “You’re batshit crazy. I adore you.”
That makes you giggle, pecking his lips chastly as your body erupts in little satisfied goosebumps, heart swelling against your will. It’s just dirty talk, shit that he must say to every girl. It still makes you all soft inside.
“Come on, big boy.” You smack his pec, watching it jiggle with glittering eyes. You lean down, taking a mouthful of it between your teeth. “Unless you don’t wanna fuck me?”
With an exasperated huff, Dean collects you in his arms and jumps to his feet. You yelp, legs wrapping around his waist, hands clutching his shoulders.
“Dean! What are you—”
“You’re out of your mind if you think I’ll fuck you for the first time on the fucking floor.”
It’s not special, you have to remind yourself. You’re not special.
You end up in your room, your sheets crumpled and still holding the shape of you, the open window barely helping the smell of sweat and sex.
“You really made a mess in here, huh?” Dean drops you on the mattress, draping himself over you immediately. “Left all alone, so fucking needy.”
“Yes,” you croak as Dean rips your clothes off, leaving you only in your underwear. “It was Hell, De. It hurt, so bad, and nothing I did was enough.”
“But you tried, hm?” He hovers over you, observing you carefully. Admiring, almost devoted. You repress the urge to hide. “Tried to take care of it? Give your body what it needs?”
You nod, a little fevered under Dean’s gaze. His hands start to roam all over, brushing your legs and squeezing your waist and cupping your tits over your bra. You arch against the touch, impatient. “Off. Dean, take it off.”
“Not until you tell me what you did,” he whispers in your ear, sucking the lobe between his lips. Your breath hitches, wondering if you could cum from his voice alone. Probably. Stupid Cupid magic. “Tell me, baby. How did you survive that awful day locked away.”
He’s being a condescending asshole. You want to kick him, you kiss him instead.
All the shame suddenly vanishes, the beast gone missing inside of you, replaced by an irresistible hankering. Tomorrow you’ll vomit, and scrub your skin raw, and beg to be put down like a rabid animal. Today, you’re allowed to indulge.
“I—I touched myself,” you mutter against his lips. Dean breaks the kiss and bites down on your neck, leaving little marks of his own. “I rode my pillow and fucked myself with my fingers, made myself cum over and over again until my legs stopped working. I played with my tits, like this.” You grab Dean's hands, guiding them under the cups of your bra. He squeezes, sucking harder on your jugular. “And I imagined it was—”
You cut yourself off, scared that such a confession will ruin everything, but Dean keeps making his way down your body. Kissing the valley of your breasts, finally taking off your bra, sucking each nipple into his mouth until they’re stiff and flushed, and then moving even lower, dipping his tongue on your navel. When he speaks, he sounds wrecked.
“What did you think about, baby girl? Come on, don’t get shy on me now.”
“You. I thought of you.” His spent dick makes a brave attempt at hardening again, twitching against your calf now that Dean’s head is between your legs. He licks a long strip up your slit over the translucent cotton of your panties, a reward. You keen, thighs hooking over his shoulders. “Ngh, Dean! I thought of your fingers inside me, of your tongue—” He laps at your cunt again, more profusely. You’re gushing, drenched panties and inner thighs. “Of your cock. Fuck, I wanted your cock so bad, De. C-came the hardest when I thought of you fucking me.”
“You’re so wet.” He sounds awed. Scarlet blooms across your cheeks, you try to push his head away. It's futile.
“It-it’s the cuff. I’m sorry—”
“You’re fuckin’ soaked, darling.” He doesn’t even seem to hear you, his voice dreamy like a kid in a candy store. “Drippin’ for me, such a good girl.” And then, shredding. Fabric tearing, cold air and hot breath. Dean just ripped your panties off. “Shit. Prettiest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever seen.”
That’s enough for the curse, apparently. Fireworks burst inside your ribcage, your thighs squash Dean’s head—who doesn’t complain in the slightliest—and you’re cumming again.
“Son of a bitch.” You’d laugh at Dean’s astonishment if you weren’t so busy fighting the tears that burn in the back of your eyes. “Another one, just from that? How many times can you come, baby girl?”
“I’m not—” Dean starts to mouth at the mess on your thighs, lapping up your slick and sweat, humming contently. “I’m not sure. I think I counted ten, last night. But I–I kinda passed out, so.”
“Mhm.” Dean grins up at you, foxy and glistening with your arousal. You want to devour him whole. “Well, let’s find out.”
“Huh?” You’re a little dumb with it already. Three orgasms at the hands of the man you love more than life isn’t for the weak. But then Dean blows air over your pussy lips, leaving a sweet little kiss on your clit. “More?”
“Oh, darling.” His grin turns dangerous, you find it in yourself to be a little afraid. “I’m not anywhere near done with you.”
With that, he plunges face first into your cunt, fully making out with it. And as he promises, he doesn’t stop for a while.
He makes you come on his tongue two more times before he lets you rest, pressing kisses all down your legs and over your bruised knees, leaving matching ones on your hips and up your sternum. He peppers little pecks across your shoulders, dips down until he can suck on your tits again, his fingers circling your entrance before entering you.
Another orgasm finds you with three of his digits massaging your insides and his mouth suckling on your breasts. It feels oddly romantic. Dean’s a little ditzy after, licking his fingers and babbling about how good you taste, slumping against you like a giant teddy bear, impossibly broad shoulders and tiny waist bearing down on you.
His dick is already hard, weeping and still pretty, somehow looking even more inviting after a million climaxes.
“Dean.” He only mumbles against your skin, cock snugly pressed between your asscheeks, your legs encircling his waist. You try to tug him back by the hair, make him face you, but he refuses. He sounds sulky, almost spoiled. Pussydrunk. “Baby, c’mon. Let me see you.”
When you finally get a glimpse of his face, it leaves you breathless. Puffy lips, drool on his chin, blush making his freckles pop up. His eyes are glassy, his pupils so huge that almost no green is visible, his hair spiky and all over his forehead.
You brush it back with a gentle hand, revering. Your pretty boy, who isn’t yours at all.
“Look at you.” Deciding that you’re going to hell anyway, so might as well, you lick a long strip up his face. From chin to temple, collecting sweet spit and salty sweat on your tongue. Dean honest to god whimpers, so you repeat the action on the other side. “Such a pretty thing.”
“Not pretty.” He goes for macho, it comes out huffy.
“No? You’re a big bad hunter?” He nods, scowling, the haze behind his eyes slowly fading. “Well, I think you’re pretty.” You lick into his mouth, the taste of both of you long mixed between your tongues. “The prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.”
“Shut up.” He sounds more present as he pushes you down onto the sheets, but the bridge of his nose flushes crimson and his eyes don’t quite meet yours. “You’re pretty.”
“Real mature, lover boy.” You poke his side, giggling against his teeth. “What’s next, you’re gonna accuse me with your mommy—?”
Suddenly, your legs are being pushed against your chest, bending you in half as Dean’s cock slides between the folds of your abused cunt, tip brushing your swollen clit, succulently painful.
“I’m gonna cum inside you. That’s what’s next.” For a beat, everything is funeral-silent. Dean looks as shocked by the words as you, whatever daze had overcome him before completely gone. “I–I didn’t mean that. I’ll go get a condom, don’t worry—”
“No!” You claw at his shoulders when he tries to get up, yanking him down and making his dick catch on your entrance. You both moan, your legs already trembling. “I wanna feel you. Please, I need to feel you.”
“You sure?” His voice is tight, like he’s holding onto his last bit of resolution. You want him to let go.
“Yes, yes,” you say desperately, hips jerking under the unrelenting weight of Dean’s. “Please, I want you to mark me, inside and out. I want you to fill me up, baby, please.”
Dean lets out a broken noise, grabs your hips, and rams into you in one thrust.
You’re so full, you feel like you’ll tear at the seams. It’s been years since you’ve had something other than fingers enter you, and Dean fits so right that you can’t fathom how you’ve lived this long without it.
“There you go, good girl.” His hands move to rest on each side of your head, bracing himself as he starts rolling his hips. His face is tucked against the side of your neck, and he almost sounds as destroyed as you. “Look at you, baby, taking my cock so well. Opening up for me, soaking wet, perfect sweet cunt. Just for me.”
Oh, he has no idea.
His whispers in your ear are so much better than anything your mind could’ve come up with. Dirty fucking mouth and sharp tongue, leaving you shaking in his arms. You tangle your body with his, arms around his shoulders and ankles crossed on his lower back, suddenly afraid that the gods will get jealous and try to take him from you.
They’ll have to rip him from your cold dead hands.
“Dean—” You gasp when he shifts, changing the angle and hitting depths you weren’t even aware existed. It’s like your body molds around him, making space for his huge cock, and you know you’ll hold the shape of him long after he’s gone. Maybe forever. “You’re–God—”
He pulls back until you can see his face, his hands circling your waist and pulling you down on his dick, the headboard banging against the wall with each rock of your bodies. He sucks on your upper lip, his voice a deep growl that rumbles through your whole body.
“You like it, baby girl? Like it when I wreck your pretty pussy? Want me to fucking ruin it?”
“Yesyesyes.” You chant, going a little cross-eyed when he finally finds that gooey, needy spot inside of you. It’s so different from Eros’ magic, less glittery and more real. Carnal and brutal and real. “Feels so good, De. You’re so–you’re so fucking good. Need you to ruin me.”
Dean moans, guttural and a little demented.
“You’re gonna be the end of me.” His pace picks up, rabid. You clench around him, nails digging into his shoulders and tugging him down until his chest is glued to yours, needing every inch of him pressed against every inch of you. “So fucking tight, baby. Better than any other pussy I’ve ever fucked, fitting me like a glove, made for me.”
You throw your head back, tongue lolling out as Dean starts to gently pet at your clit, the bundle of nerves too sensitive for anything else. Still, it feels like you’re being engulfed by nectar.
“I wanted to kill them.” You babble, your mind sluggish with Dean’s touch, the heat of him, the way you can feel precum leaking inside of you already. “All those other girls, all those ‘smokin’ singles.’ I wanted to murder them. I needed them dead, I needed you all to myself.”
Part of you knows you’ll regret all of that later, that evil side that never lets you have anything. But the way Dean’s cock twitches as he starts pounding harder against that sweet spot drives you to utterly ignore it.
“Fuck, why is that so hot.” He groans, hiking your legs higher up his body and enclosing you in his arms, his body covering yours completely. You can’t move an inch, absolutely at the mercy of his frantic thrusts and ponderous frame. “It’s only you now, baby. Just you.”
You know it’s not true. Not a single cell in your body even attempts to believe it—that you could be Dean’s best, Dean’s only one. It’s as delusional as the earth being flat or God being a mediocre fantasy author.
It doesn’t stop it from turning you all dopey. The room is filled with your obscene moans and the slap of skin against skin, your mouth parted wide open and eyes rolled back as Dean continues to murmur lewd nothings against your cheek.
“‘M gonna make you mine, pretty girl. Hell, look at that angel face, all fucked out, just for me.” He mirrors your previous actions, licking up the drool dribbling down your chin. “Stupid cuff, making you look like a fuckin’ goddess, all glowy and shit. And you don’t even know it. Goddamn doll face and dream body, even without the curse. Gonna fuckin’ fill you up, mark that perfect cunt all mine.”
It’s almost too good. Too much. The soft circles against your clit, the head of Dean’s cock slamming against your cervix, his warm mouth on your jaw, sucking more bruises that you’ll press down on later.
The cuff starts to smoke. You’d almost forgotten about it, until now. It feels like it’s charring your skin, burning so hot it almost goes back to cold. Dean gives you a specially deep thrust, your whole body seizing with it, and it all melts together in a rush of unbearable pleasure.
You turn your head to the side, writhing under Dean’s unrelenting weight, but there’s nowhere to go. Your face ends up smushed against his bicep, flexed and chunky muscle against your lips, almost as big as your face.
You bite down on it, hard.
Metallic explodes in your mouth, thick and holy. Dean cries out, his hips stuttering.
“You’re bleeding,” you mumble through a mouthful of flesh, deliriously. “Oh my god, you’re bleeding.”
You think you scream his name, you’re not really sure. Pleasure numbs your every other sense as your final orgasm hits, making all of the others seem like tiny ponds in comparison. This is a cyclone, and you’re in the eye of the storm.
The next few moments are utter oblivion. Everything blurs together until you can’t tell them apart—Dean still grinding into you and the cuff on your arm and the mess of emotions buried so deep in your ribcage.
For a second, they’re all one and the same.
You come back down like you’re resurfacing from a shipwreck, gasping as your vision clears, your mouth wrapping around words you can’t really make out. When the rush of blood and exhilaration start to fade, your own loopy voice reaches you.
“...love you, love you, love you, love you.”
You’re repeating it over and over again, like a prayer. Through blood-stained lips and tar-coated teeth, like a violent wolf offering its neck to the hunter.
“What?” Dean’s stopped moving completely, his limbs rigid all around you. You whine at the interruption, grinding up against his—thankfully still hard—cock. Dean holds you down, both his hands cupping your face a little more forcefully than he intended, squeezing your cheeks until your lips are pursed and you have no choice but to look into his eyes. “What did you say?”
There’s no point in lying. You’ve shown all your cards, revealed every rotten and ugly bit of you, there was never a way back from here.
“I love you, Dean. I really fucking lov—ah!”
He slams into you with refound vigor, dragging you up and down the bed until you're lightheaded, the whole world spinning as he whines like a puppy, cock twitching against your walls.
“I love you too.” You’re sure you imagined it at first. But then he grabs a fistful of your hair, crashing his lips with yours hard enough to break them, spit and blood and desperation all mixing on your mouths. “I love you so much, holy shit. I’ve loved you forever, baby girl, I can’t believe—fuck.”
He’s feral, snaring and grunting and fucking crazy.
It still takes you a bit to process the words, the way he’s moving like a madman, the pure devotion in his tone. He loves you. Dean Winchester freaking loves you.
You grab Dean by the shoulders and push him off of you, taking advantage of his wooziness to leave him flat on his back on the mattress. In less than a second you’re straddling his hips, staring down at his terrified wide eyes and holding his flushed, now almost purple dick in your fist.
“Repeat it.”
Dean only blinks up at you, jaw dropped and hands hovering over your body like he doesn’t know what to do with them, astonished. You suck on your teeth slowly, savoring the ambrosia of his blood before a smirk takes over your face.
Slowly, your other hand makes its way up Dean’s chest, until it rests neatly against the base of his neck. With a shiver of raw excitement washing down your spine, you squeeze, hard enough to make him wheeze.
“Repeat it, De. Say it again.”
His cock weeps, his eyes gloss over, his blush travels down to his freckled chest.
“I love you, sweetheart.”
You impale yourself all the way down his shaft. Dean keens shamelessly when he bottoms out, hips jerking up as his hands clench on your hips. You hope they leave even more marks, little half-moons and rouge fingerprints.
You continue to hold his throat as you ride him, bouncing on his dick as your fingers spam just under his Adam’s apple—sometimes barely-there pressure, sometimes leaving him completely breathless.
It’s like all the pain has transformed into empowerment, all the rot into gold and all the poison into amrita. You’re untouchable. You’re celestial. You’re Dean’s.
“Again,” you order, a little too pleading to be demanding. But Dean only whimpers, erratically humping up into you as he worships you, tears clinging to his long eyelashes and hands trembling. “Look at you, just a little choking and you go all stupid with it. My pretty boy, big bad wolf melted into a dumb puppy.”
“What the fuck?” Dean rasps. You tsks softly, tightening your grip around his windpipe.
“Say it again, baby. Be good for me, and you’ll get a reward.”
Dean stammers before croaking out: “I love you, more than you could ever imagine.”
Your chest heaves, something breaking and mending at the same time. Your free hand moves to Dean’s face, fingers slipping into his lax mouth, hooking over his lower teeth and tugging it open.
“Good boy,” you whisper before spitting right into his tongue. Your digits slip out, pushing his jaw closed before slapping his cheek lightly. “Now swallow.”
With a wild moan, Dean obeys, his hips pistoning up into your throbbing cunt as he’s pushed over the edge. Warmth coats your pussy, painting your walls white and running down your legs, washing you clean and tainting you dirtier. It’s immaculate.
You’re trying to catch your breath when you’re abruptly dragged down, tumbling against Dean’s chest as his dick softens inside of you and his arms hold you down, clinging to you like a comfort stuffed animal.
You stay there for a couple of minutes, maybe years, maybe centuries. Your skin sticks together as you cool down, your mouth still tasting like his cum and blood, your fingers still loosely holding his neck. It’s truly out of your wildest dreams.
“What the fuck was that?” Dean eventually chokes out.
You giggle, nuzzling against his pecs. “That was me off the leash.”
“Holy shit.” His arms tighten around you, dick twitching against your swollen walls. “I might need to smite that leash, fuck that shit. That was—” He makes a little explosion sound. You laugh harder, languidly rising to peck his full lips.
“I love you, you fucking dork.”
Dean smiles, toothy and silly, kissing your forehead with so much adoration it makes you blush. “I love you too, sweetheart.”
You sigh, already expecting the post-wave exhaustion to come, but the tide is calm. Not retreating, not threatening. Just peaceful sweet water.
You slide off Dean, ignoring his little grumbling complaint. You hiss as he slips out, sore in the best way possible. Dean pounces on you, rolling onto his side so his gaze can rake down your body. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, you were perfect.”
You look down on your own body—purple and maroon clouds all over, scraped knees and palms, tacky inner thighs. For the first time in your life, you think you’re perfect as well.
Your eyes drift to the sheets under you, finding them wet, wetter than they should be. Clear and splashy and yours.
“Did I—?”
“Yes. When you said you loved me, the first time.” Dean drapes an arm across your waist, the distance between you apparently hurting him as much as it does you. “It was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
“More than the singles you were going to comfort today?”
Dean huffs, leaning down to pepper kisses all over your face. “There’s no one else, darling, not anymore. Just you and me.”
You try to play grumpy, but it’s impossible with Dean’s soft lips all over your cheeks and nose and forehead. You end up giggling softly, pretending to fight him but basking in the attention.
“Besides, none of them compare to you.” He buries his face on your hair, breathing you in. You happily let him. “The spell, it gave you this—after-sex glow, all the time. You were freaking glittery, baby, like a goddamn pornstar.”
You chuckle, your fingers finding the mark of your teeth on his arm, tracing the little indents. You hope it scars, so everyone who ever looks at Dean knows he’s yours. Only yours.
“So it was the cuff? What made you want this?”
“Nah, I’ve wanted you ever since I saw you that first day in Montana. I started loving you not too long after.” You can feel his grin against the top of your head. “Besides, you always look like a pornstar to me, no need for any damn magic bracelet.”
You snort, bumping his chin softly. “That’s not the compliment you think it is.”
But then, it dawns on you.
“The cuff!”
You swiftly sit up, ignoring Dean’s little wounded whine. You stare down at your arm, the cuff still resting snuggly against your flesh. But the metal is freezing, and the fairy dust is faded and dull.
With trembling fingers, you tug the thing down, just once. It slides right off, landing on the mattress with a little bounce. Relief floods you, strong enough to annihilate any hint of frustration. There’s no value in crying about it now, not when Dean presses up against your bare back and whispers against your neck.
“See, I told you, you’d be okay. We survived another day.”
This time, when you lean back on him, there’s not an ounce of guilt or fear or disgust in you. The beast is gone, running free and wild, one with your soul. You might be sick, the punishing eyes of your mother forever engraved in your brain, but you’re not ashamed anymore.
Not when Dean Winchester is just as sick as you.
You try to look for the cuff again, but it’s gone. In its place rests a French countryside postcard, a peach-scented pink mist evanescing around it. You pick it up, holding it so both Dean and you can read the sparkly gel pen scribbles.
“I know you might not believe me, but I’m truly glad that you two figured it out. Either outcome would’ve been entertaining, but you two gave me a real showdown. In repayment, I’ll make sure to leave you out of the way of my arrows for the rest of your mortal lives. I can’t promise anything for those pesky cherubs, though. Not my jurisdiction.
As promised, your little old town has been freed. The villa where I am right now is at least four miles away from any civilization, so please don’t come bother me, or I might have to get mean again.
Unless you wanna play around, in which case my doors are always open.
Enjoy the rest of the most important day of the year, and don’t forget to thank me in your prayers!”
“Fucking asshole.” Dean plucks out the postcard from your hands, ripping it in half. “Might have to go find him, blast his face off.”
“But then you’d have to get on a plane, pretty boy.”
Dean glares at you, and you just laugh softly before surging forward to hug him, both of you falling back onto the soiled blankets.
“Maybe if you’re with me, I can do it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I could do anything with you by my side.”
Someone knocks on the door, loudly.
“Guys!” Sam yells through the thick wood. “I’m back! It was getting late and this town is practically dead, so I couldn’t wait at the gas station any longer. Hope you—fixed things! I guess. I’ll go put my earbuds on, so don’t worry about me, just thought I’d let you know I’m here!”
Shuffling, prolonged and awkward.
“There’s ice cream in the fridge, by the way. Anyway, Have fun! Or—whatever.”
Sam’s heavy steps disappear down the hallway. All it takes is one shared look for you and Dean to dissolve into laughter, limbs tangled together and souls comfortably merged into one, no longer teared apart.
“Shower?” Dean hikes you up his body, sitting up on the edge of the bed. You give him a slow up-and-down look, licking your lips obscenely. “Don’t even think about it, Jesus Christ. What did I get myself into?”
You grin, because he doesn’t know half of it. The world is gonna wish you never lost your shame.
“Happy Valentine’s day, my love.”
“Happy Valentine’s, sweetheart.”
NOTES: okay, so. this is actually kind of special to me because tomorrow, feb 15, it'll be a year since i first started posting on this blog. And the first fic I posted was valentine's inspired (pls don't go look for it my writing was terrible) so i thought it was fitting to post a little tribute to the story that started it all.
it's been amazing to share my writing in here, and i couldn't be happier that i decided to take a chance after giving up on fanfiction so long ago. it's so heartwarming to see how much you've showered me and my silly stories with love, and i'll be forever grateful to all of you.
anyway, i don't wanna bore you out with my emo sobbing. happy valentine's day, i adore you, and see you again soon!
summary. sam is in jail. it’s been two weeks and he still isn’t out. time is taking a tool on you both.
pairing. sam winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount. 1055 genre. smut!!
warnings. explicit sexual content (phone sex, mutual masturbation descriptions via phone, dirty talk, orgasm with no physical contact), themes of incarceration/separation frustration, intense yearning n frustration (sam unable to touch reader), adult language, detailed arousal descriptions, coming in pants
The visiting room makes the situation even more depressing. Gray walls, gray tables bolted to the floor, a jumpsuit on the man you love sitting across from you with a thick pane of scratched Plexiglas between your faces. Two black phones hang on either side—old-fashioned handsets, coiled cords already twisted from too many desperate conversations.
Sam looks different. Leaner. Shadows under his eyes darker. His hair’s a little longer, curling at the nape, and the orange fabric stretches tight across his shoulders like it’s mocking how much space he usually takes up in a room. He picks up the receiver the second you do. Presses it to his ear so fast you hear the plastic click against his skull.
“Hey,” he says. Voice low. Rough. Like he’s been saving it.
“Hey.” You try to smile. It feels thin. “You okay?”
He exhales through his nose. “Better now.” His free hand flattens against the glass—palm wide, fingers long. You mirror him without thinking. Your fingertips don’t quite meet his. The barrier is cold. Impersonal. Cruel.
Two weeks. It was supposed to be seventy-two hours. A paperwork glitch. A pissed-off marshal. Whatever excuse they fed Dean this time. Two weeks of motel beds too big, of reaching for him in the dark and finding nothing but sheets. Two weeks of Sam in here, counting days, counting you.
“I miss you,” you say. Simple. Honest. It cracks something open in his expression.
“Fuck, baby.” His voice drops lower. “You have no idea.” His eyes flick down your body—slow, deliberate—like he’s trying to memorize every inch through the glass. “Been thinking about you nonstop. Every night. Every goddamn minute.”
Heat crawls up your neck. You shift in the hard plastic chair. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He leans closer to the partition. Breath fogs the glass for a second. “Tell me what you’re wearing under that shirt.”
You glance around—guard at the far end, half-turned, talking to another inmate’s visitor. No one’s paying attention. You lower your voice anyway.
“Same bra you like. The black one. No padding. And those panties you said made my ass look obscene.”
Sam’s throat works. Hard swallow. “Jesus.” His hand flexes against the glass. “Wish I could rip them off you. Right here. Bend you over this table and—”
“Sam.” Your breath hitches. You press your thighs together under the ledge. “Keep going.”
He does. Voice turns gravel-rough. “I’d start slow. Kiss that spot behind your ear that makes you shiver. Bite your neck just hard enough you’ll feel it tomorrow. Slide my hand down your stomach—fuck, I miss how soft you are there—then under the waistband. Feel how wet you already are for me.”
You’re breathing faster now. The phone cord twists around your finger. “I am,” you admit. Quiet. “Just hearing you.”
A low groan slips out of him—barely audible, but it hits you like a punch. “Touch yourself,” he says. Command wrapped in desperation. “Right now. Under the table. Where no one can see.”
Your hand moves before your brain catches up. Slips between your thighs, presses firm against the seam of your jeans. The pressure’s immediate. Not enough. Never enough without him.
“Done,” you whisper.
“Good.” His eyes are dark. Locked on your face like he’s trying to see through your skin. “Rub slow circles. Pretend it’s my fingers.The ones that know exactly how you like it.”
You do. Slow. Teasing. Your hips rock forward just a fraction—instinct. “Sam—”
“Tell me how it feels.”
“Hot,” you breathe. “Achy. Wish it was you stretching me open. Wish I could feel you—fuck—deep.”
He makes a sound—half growl, half whimper. His free hand disappears below the table ledge. You can’t see it, but you know. The way his bicep flexes. The subtle shift of his shoulders.
“Are you—?”
“Yeah.” Voice strained. “Hard as fuck. Been hard since you walked in. Can’t help it. You in that shirt. That look on your face. Fuck.”
You bite your lip. Press harder. “Stroke yourself. Slow. Like you’re teasing me.”
He hisses through his teeth. “Already am. Thinking about your mouth. How you look when you take me—eyes watering, lips stretched. Goddamn, I miss that.”
Your rhythm falters—pleasure spiking sharp. “I’d suck you so good right now,” you tell him. “Deep. Messy. Let you fuck my throat until you’re shaking.”
“Fuck—baby—” His breathing turns ragged. “I’d hold your hair. Pull just enough. Watch you take every inch. Then flip you over. Spread you wide. Slide in so slow you beg.”
“I’d beg,” you gasp. Fingers circling faster now. The seam of your jeans is soaked through. “Please, Sam. Need you inside me.”
He groans—long, broken. “I’d fuck you hard. Deep. Make the table shake. Make you scream my name so loud the guards hear it. Mark you. Fill you up until it’s dripping down your thighs.”
You’re close. Too close. The glass between you feels like torture. “Sam—I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” he rasps. “Come for me. Right there. Let me watch your face when you fall apart.”
Your orgasm hits sudden and brutal—silent because you have to be, but your mouth opens on a soundless cry. Thighs clamp around your hand. Whole body locks up. Waves rolling through you while you stare at him through the haze.
Sam’s eyes blow wide. Jaw slack. Then his head tips back—just a fraction—and a low, choked moan tears out of him. His shoulders jerk once. Twice. You see the moment he spills—hot, helpless—into the jumpsuit pants he can’t even get off properly. His hand stays below the table, milking it out while he stares at you like you’re the only real thing in the room.
For a long second neither of you speaks. Just heavy breathing down the line. Hearts hammering.
Finally he laughs—soft. Wrecked. “I just came in my fucking prison pants. Like a teenager.
”You huff a breathless laugh too. “Hot.”
“Yeah?” His smile is crooked. Tired. Adoring. “Next time I’m out of here—and I will be—I’m not letting you leave the bed for a week.”
“Promise?”
“Swear.”
You both stay quiet after that. Hands still pressed to the glass. Phones still at your ears. The guard calls time in five.
Sam’s thumb strokes the barrier like he can feel your skin.
“I love you,” he says. Quiet. Certain.
“Love you more.”
And for now—for two more weeks, maybe—that’s enough.
ꔛ. all works; writing guidelines ; writing schedule
── .✦ requests are currently closed.
Here to req one similar to the following that you wrote, posted on aug 16th i believeeee 😽:
⋆˚꩜｡ selfish heat,
summary. you're dating both winchester brothers. when it starts getting too hard to manage, instead of breaking up, you get even closer.
pairing. dean winchester x reader ( f ) x sam winchester
wordcount. 1310 genre. smut !!!
warnings. explicit sexual content (threesome m/f/m, oral sex on female and male, p in v, dirty talk, moaning/whimpering), polyamorous relationship (established consensual sharing between brothers and reader), mild jealousy/possessiveness between partners, no direct physical contact between sam and dean, adult language
notes. honestly !! i don't know why i don't write dean x reader x sam more often. what a damn fantasy ugh
<𝟑 .ᐟ consider supporting my work on ko-fi 🩷
The motel room smells of the faint tang of whiskey someone spilled earlier when the news broke.
Two beds. One lamp burning low.
You sit on the edge of the mattress closest to the window, knees pressed together, heart hammering loud enough you swear they can hear it.
Dean paces near the door—three steps, turn, three steps back—like a caged animal who suddenly realized the bars are gone and he’s not sure he wants to leave. His usual swagger is nowhere. No smirk. No cocky one-liner. Just flushed cheeks, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumps, green eyes flicking between you and Sam like he’s waiting for the punchline.
Sam sits on the other bed, elbows on his knees, watching you with that quiet intensity that always makes your stomach flip. He’s calm on the surface. Eager underneath. You can see it in the way his fingers flex against his thighs, the slight part of his lips.
The conversation started innocently enough. Dinner. Beers. Dean making a half-joking comment about how you “play favorites” depending on the day. You laughed too hard. Sam’s gaze lingered too long. Then someone—maybe you—said the quiet part out loud.
What if we didn’t have to choose?
Silence. Then Dean’s rough “Jesus.” Then Sam’s soft “If she wants…”
And now here you are.
You take a breath. “I want both of you. Tonight. Together.”
Dean freezes mid-step. “You’re serious.”
“Yeah.”
Sam exhales through his nose, already half-hard in his jeans—you can see the outline. “We’ve never…”
“I know.” You look between them. “But I want it. And I think you do too.”
Dean drags a hand over his face. “This is fucked up.”
His eyes snap to his brother, then back to you. Something raw flickers there—want, fear, jealousy so sharp it almost cuts.
“You really want us fighting over who gets to touch you first?”
“No fighting,” you say. “Just… both.”
Dean laughs once—short, disbelieving. But he doesn’t leave. Doesn’t tell you no.
You stand. Slow. Walk to him first because he looks like he might bolt otherwise. You cup his face; he lets you. His stubble rasps against your palms.
“Dean,” you whisper. “Please.”
He closes his eyes. Groans low when you kiss him—soft at first, then deeper when he finally opens for you. His hands find your waist, gripping hard like he’s anchoring himself.
Behind you, the bedsprings creak. Sam moving closer.
Dean breaks the kiss, breathing ragged. “Fuck. Okay. Okay.”
You turn, reach for Sam. He’s already there—big hands sliding around your hips, pulling you back against his chest. He kisses the side of your neck while Dean watches, pupils blown.
“Bed,” Sam murmurs against your skin. “Now.”
They move you like they’ve rehearsed it—Dean tugging your shirt over your head, Sam unhooking your bra with careful fingers. Clothes hit the floor in a careless pile. You’re bare between them before you can overthink it.
Dean’s eyes rake down your body—hungry, reverent. “Goddamn, sweetheart.”
Sam’s hands cup your breasts from behind, thumbs brushing your nipples until they tighten. “So pretty,” he breathes. “Always so pretty for us.”
You whimper—soft, needy. They both groan at the sound.
Dean drops to his knees first. No preamble. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, opens you up. His mouth is on you in the next heartbeat—hot, wet, relentless. Tongue flat against your clit, then flicking, circling. You grab his hair; he moans into you like he’s the one getting off.
Sam turns your head, kisses you deep—tongue stroking yours in time with Dean’s rhythm below. His hands roam: one on your breast, pinching lightly, the other sliding down your stomach to spread you wider for his brother.
“Fuck, look at her,” Sam says, voice wrecked. “So wet already. You love this, don’t you? Both of us touching you.”
“Yes—” The word fractures into a moan when Dean sucks hard on your clit.
Dean pulls back just enough to speak—lips shiny, voice gravel. “Taste so fucking good. Been thinking about this pussy all week.”
Sam’s fingers replace Dean’s tongue—two sliding inside you, curling. You buck; he holds you steady with an arm around your waist.
“Easy, baby,” Sam soothes. “We’ve got you.”
Dean stands, strips fast—jeans shoved down, cock springing free, thick and leaking. He strokes himself once, eyes locked on where Sam’s fingers disappear inside you.
“Fuck her mouth,” Sam says suddenly. Low. Commanding.
Dean hesitates—jealousy flashing again—then steps closer. You open for him eagerly. He slides in slow, groaning when your lips close around him.
“Jesus—fuck—your mouth—” His hips rock shallowly. “So warm. So good.”
Sam keeps fingering you—slow, deep pumps—while you suck Dean sloppy and eager. Spit drips down your chin. Dean’s hand cradles the back of your head; Sam’s free hand strokes your hair.
“Look at her take you,” Sam murmurs to Dean. “Look how much she wants it.”
Dean’s head tips back. “Fuck—gonna come if you keep talking like that.”
“Not yet,” you pull off long enough to gasp. “Want you inside me.”
They switch without a word.
Sam lies back on the bed, pulls you over him. You straddle his hips; he guides himself to your entrance—long, thick, stretching you slow as you sink down. You both moan—long, broken sounds.
“So tight,” Sam hisses. “Fuck—ride me, baby. Show Dean how good you feel.”
You start moving—slow rolls at first, then harder. Sam’s hands grip your hips, helping you bounce. His head tips back; throat working on whimpers.
Dean watches—cock in hand, stroking slow. “Goddamn. Look at you taking him. So fucking hot.”
Jealousy still there—sharp in his eyes—but drowned in lust.
You lean forward, kiss Sam deep. He moans into your mouth, hips snapping up.
Dean moves behind you—kneels on the mattress. His hands slide over your ass, spreading you slightly. Not entering—just watching, touching. “Fuck, I can see him stretching you. So pretty and full.”
You whimper—overwhelmed. Sam’s cock hits deep; Dean’s fingers brush where you’re joined, collecting slick, circling your clit.
“Come for us,” Dean growls. “Come on Sammy’s cock. Let me see it.”
The command tips you. Orgasm hits hard—shuddering, clenching tight around Sam. You cry out; Sam swears, hips stuttering.
“Fuck—gonna—” Sam’s voice cracks. “Where—”
“Anywhere,” you gasp.
He buries deep, comes with a long groan—hot pulses filling you. His hands bruise your hips; you feel every twitch.
Dean’s breathing is ragged. “My turn.”
Sam pulls out slow—careful. You feel the warm slide of his come leaking out. Dean flips you onto your back—gentler than you expect. He hooks your legs over his arms, spreads you wide.
“Look at that mess,” he mutters, almost reverent. “Sammy’s come dripping out of you. Fuck.”
He slides in one smooth thrust—groaning at the wet heat, the way you’re still fluttering from your orgasm.
“Still so tight,” he rasps. “Even after him.”
He fucks you harder than Sam—snapping hips, deep strokes that make the headboard thud. You claw at his shoulders; he leans down, kisses you filthy—teeth and tongue.
“Love this cunt,” he growls against your mouth. “Love how you take us both. Greedy little thing.”
Sam moves beside you—kisses your neck, your jaw. His hand finds your clit again—rubbing tight circles.
summary: Sam was just going to have a glass of water. What a surprise when he finds you there, late at night, unable to sleep.
pairing: sam winchester x reader
warning/tags: no one!! it’s fluff. they are tired and want to sleep (together. holding each other. cause they looooove each other. kinda) friends?? to lovers
ara note: hi!! im back today with a sweet sammy fic! let my man fall in love please please please
Bobby's house is completely silent, though you're unable to perceive it. If you were able to appreciate the silence, perhaps you'd be asleep. Perhaps its calm would have lulled you into the wasteland of dreams.
Perhaps you wouldn't have ended up like this. On the living room rug, legs crossed, the hollow of your neck resting on the sofa.
After turning over and over, and over again on the mattress, you've decided that it was enough.
Blame the voices and images and the dialogue in your head. A turn to the left and the question of whether you'll ever stop staring into people's eyes to see if they hide completely black pupils. Another turn in bed. The thought of a family. The possibility of losing a child to a ghost.
Another turn.
Dean's bloody chin. Sam's hands on the first aid kit. The lights of a hospital.
You couldn't take it anymore. At least in the living room you could keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling, and watch as the shadows of the night drew figures. With the living room light on, they were very timid. Soft silhouettes that danced.
You had intended to read one of the books Bobby piled up there, but it had been quickly forgotten to one side.
You were too tired for that.
In fact, your eyelids were closing, in that strange position, despite being unable to stop the wheel in your mind from spinning. That's the thing about insomnia, you are tired, despite being unable to fall asleep.
That's why you don't hear him.
You don't hear Sam's footsteps coming down the stairs, nor the sound the refrigerator makes when he grabs the water pitcher.
He's the first to notice your presence.
The light catches his attention. Damn Dean, Bobby's going to end up charging us for the electricity. It's when he's about to turn off the switch that he senses your body. Your head thrown back, eyes closed.
He says your name, very quietly. A whisper.
Of course you don't hear him.
You don't hear him until he's two steps away. Bent over, his knees encased in flannel pants, a worn Stanford T-shirt as his pajama top. It's starting to get too tight for him.
He says your name again. Very softly.
That's when you open your eyes.
If you weren't so tired, you might feel embarrassed. That's usually the effect Sam has on you. Unlike Dean, whose jokes have helped you distinguish him as a stupid hunter and also a friend, with Sam it's different. You are friends, of course. You've been in that house with them long enough for both brothers to have become part of your world.
But Sam is… just different. He's formal. He's always calm around you, but in a tense way, as someone who is holding something back. He spends hours researching in front of his computer. He always knows what he's talking about. He talks to you in a certain way. Not paternalistic, but profound. With respect.
Ultimately, he's intimidating.
"I think you fell asleep..." His voice is deep when he speaks. Did you wake him up when you shuffled past his bedroom door, exhausted?
"No. I'm not asleep." You try to sit up a little, using your elbows for support. It's an awkward gesture. Because you're so, so tired; moving has become an effort. "I can't sleep."
Sam notices, of course he does, how your eyes open weakly; and the frown that forms between your eyebrows as you look around. Disoriented.
"Well, but its sleepy time, don't you think?" His tone sifts. Something in him warms up just seeing you barely able to open your eyes.
Mm is all you are capable to say. His hand rises, finally pressing his index finger against the spot between your eyes. You hadn't even noticed the pressure building there. A sigh escapes you.
Sam smiles. Unlike his brother, he always notices your presence. The effort you make, how tired you look at the end of the day. What you carry, like all of them, on your shoulders. It seems that tonight it weighs a little more heavily on you.
More composed, you rub your eyelid and pick up the book lying beside you. You hold it up so he can see it.
"Actually, I did go to sleep. But I couldn't fall asleep."
"And you decided to read?" You nod, but a pout escapes you. Sam's eyes land on that spot, above your slightly raised lower lip. His gaze changes. It softens. It transforms into an expression bordering on the desperation of a hungry puppy.
"I haven't read anything." The words escape you with frustration.
You almost feel like crying. You're so tired, and you haven't slept. And who knows what time it is. And tomorrow you'll have another case, and to make matters worse, not only will you be tired, but Sam will be too, because you've already kept him awake. And you don't want to bother him.
And it's not fair, because all you want is to be able to sleep.
"I'm sorry, Sam. I just wanted to sleep. And I can't..." You bend your knees, resting your forehead on them. Your voice comes out muffled. "I can't sleep. And it's not the first day. And I'm so tired. So, so tired. And I'm sorry I bothered you, tomorrow we'll both be tired..."
"Stop."
Your mouth closes suddenly. You've never heard him speak to you like that. With authority. Something inside you jumps. You're about to raise your head to look at him again, to apologize again, when you feel the palms of his hands beneath you.
In a second you're in the air, leaning against his chest.
Too shocked to say a single word.
The sensation lasts barely a second, the time it takes Sam to lower your body onto his own on the sofa. You're lying across his lap, your upper body pressed against his chest.
You're too tense to notice him bend down to pick up the book you had on the floor.
"Slavic folklore, really?" Then his eyes are on you, with an almost amused smile. You feel the heat rise up your neck. You're going to open your mouth, this time for real, and say something. He pulls the blanket over the head of the sofa with his left hand and covers your legs. “I’ll make sure you sleep, but if you have nightmares about this…”
“It’s interesting.” You try to defend yourself, but it comes out as an excuse.
He has kept one hand on your bent knees. He gives it a squeeze. His other arm encircles you just enough so you can see him open the book with one hand.
“Get this… Samodivas lure men in the middle of the night, in the woods, to beguile and eat them.”
You already knew that, because like him, you also read a lot. But you’re barely aware of what he’s saying. A sweet, comforting warmth has enveloped you, as Sam’s voice remains steady and low.
He reassures you, reassures you enough so that you forget your heart had been racing two seconds ago. Calm you enough so that your head naturally ends up tilting against his chest. Enough so that his pine scent, his clean smell, makes you close your eyes. You're listening to him, and Sam knows it. He keeps reading as he feels your body giving up against his. His hand gently traces your leg, caressing you in circles.
As he turns the pages, with difficulty and thanks to his thumb, he notices how your breathing starts to deep in.
His does too, to such an extent that the book ends up slipping from his hand, and he has to make an effort to let it fall onto the table before it clatters. All of it without waking you up.
You've fallen asleep against his chest. The sensation it awakens in him is so profound that his body knows it's time to give in too. He's about to fall asleep too.
That's how Bobby will find you in the morning, and it won't be the only day. They will keep finding each other, at night. Too tired to talk about what is happening to them, but knowing that they both have been aware about how something is changed.
Bobby notices. And in the old hunter's gaze there will be something akin to nostalgia. To the vision of his wife, in what already seems like another life, lying in his arms on that same sofa.
Rocked, like you by Sam, into a sleep much sweeter than what reality allows you both.
Warnings: smut, car sex, oral (f receiving), handjob, penetration (p in v), public sex (it happens in a parking lot so yeah i guess), no use of y/n, mutual pinning, cursing, kissing, dirty talk, female anatomy, male anatomy.
Word count: 4K (idk how that happened, i swear it's worth it 😅)
There were about a thousand other things Carmen should’ve been doing right now. The restaurant was still made up of tarps and chunks of wood and debris. He needed to call a plumber. And an electrician. And a builder. He needed to figure out the menu. Get the staff. Handle the permits. There were a million other things he should be doing.
But he wasn’t.
In fact, he wasn’t anywhere near the restaurant.
Carmen currently found himself sitting in your car, parked in the middle of a near-empty lot, as you blasted the radio. You hadn’t shut up for the last thirty minutes. You couldn’t. There were too many things to say, too many thoughts to share.
And Carmen listened—not because he needed to, but because he wanted to. Because it mattered to you.
He enjoyed the way your eyes lit up as you spoke about the music. He didn’t understand half the technical terms you used and probably never would, but that didn’t matter. He loved the way your hands moved through the air, describing a specific part of a song like you were conducting it.
He wondered if this was how people felt when he talked about cooking. Did he light up like this? Did his hands move the same way? Did people look at him the way he was looking at you now?
Carmen had been so focused on the way you looked as you talked that he completely lost track of what you were actually saying. You noticed. You always noticed. You snapped your fingers in front of his face to bring him back.
“Yo, Carmy? You still with me?”
“What? Yeah—sorry.”
“I’m boring you with my music talk, huh?”
“No, no—of course not. I was just—”
“Jesus, Carm. I’m joking. You’re all good.”
This happened a lot. Sometimes Carmen got too caught up in the sight of you, in his thoughts about you, that he missed whole pieces of conversation. You never seemed bothered by it. You never held it against him.
But it happened enough for you to notice—how his eyes would glaze over just slightly, or how he’d be so focused on your face that he didn’t compute a single word coming out of your mouth. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it. Who wouldn’t want Carmen Berzatto staring at them like they were the only person left on Earth?
“I could play at the restaurant,” you said suddenly.
You surprised him—it was obvious on his face.
“I mean, think about it. You could have live music on, I don’t know, Saturday. Then I could go, and I could play.”
“…Okay. I’d need a stage.”
“No, fuck that. I don’t need a stage to play.”
“Okay. What about payment?”
“Jesus, Carmy—way to spoil the mood.”
You were toying with him. You couldn’t help it. Carmen was an easy target. You loved seeing the way his brows crinkled when he thought he’d actually managed to piss you off.
He never did. Well—maybe if he really tried, he could. But he never had. Not once. And yet every time you teased him, you still got him. Every time.
“You’re a pain in my ass,” Carmen muttered, but he was smiling when he said it.
You leaned back in your seat, kicking your feet up onto the dash like you lived in the car. Like this was your shared little world where nothing outside mattered—not the restaurant, not the bills, not the creeping anxiety that clung to Carmen like grease in his skin.
“Yeah, well,” you said, tilting your head to look at him, “you keep coming back, don’t you?”
He did keep coming back. Not because it mattered. Not because he had to. But because you were a break. A break in the constant anxiety and dread that filled him. A break from the restaurant and its never-ending chores. A break from his mind. Here, in your car, locked away from the rest of the world, Carmen felt like he could breathe again. It didn’t matter that he didn’t understand what you were talking about half the time. The sound of your voice—the simple presence of you—managed to calm him.
So yes, he kept coming back to you.
Even if maybe there were other things he could be doing with his time.
You always made sure he had nothing left on his plate before letting him melt into your passenger seat. You didn’t let him hide here if there was something waiting to be resolved. And even when he said, “I’m good, I’m done for the day,” you still checked with Syd. Not because you didn’t trust him. But because you didn’t want to be a burden.
You didn’t want to be the reason the restaurant fell behind.
Because as much as you selfishly adored your time with Carmen— as much as you wanted to keep him here, tucked away with you forever—you knew what the restaurant meant to him. How much it meant to be building something again. It meant something to him, which meant it meant something to you too. Because he meant something to you.
Carmen’s eyes raked over your face before shifting to the place where your hands thrummed against your thighs. You seemed so at peace here—so angelic against the light of the setting sun. Carmen often thought that, in moments like this. But he never told you.
“You look really pretty.”
You blinked, caught off guard.
It wasn’t like Carmen to say things like that. Not to you. Not to anyone, really.
He was quiet with his feelings—kept them pressed down, folded into corners of himself he rarely let people see. And even though you were close, even though you spent hours like this—just being together—he had never said anything like that before.
Not really.
You glanced over at him, searching his face for a sign that he was joking, or distracted, or thinking about someone else entirely.His brow furrowed slightly, like maybe he was already regretting saying it. Like the words had slipped out before he could shove them back down.
But he didn’t take it back.
You felt your stomach twist, just a little.
“…What?” you asked, not because you didn’t hear him, but because you needed to be sure.
Carmen looked away, jaw tight. His fingers tapped lightly against his thigh—nervous, fidgeting.
“I just…” he started, then stopped. Swallowed.
“I think that sometimes. That you look… you know. Pretty.”
You stared at him for a moment, completely still. Because you’d known he liked being around you—sure. You’d known he cared. But this? This was different.
Your heart beat louder than it should’ve.
You didn’t really know how to respond.Maybe you should thank him, but that felt too superficial, too odd considering the situation. Carmen Berzatto had just told you that he often thought you looked pretty—and that was doing something to you that you hadn’t expected it to.
You’d always had a sort of thing for him. The Berzattos were a handsome family—it was easy to fall for their looks. So yeah, when you were younger, you thought Carmen was cute. But then you started to know him. Started to hang around him. Actually became his friend.
And the thought of him being cute melted into something else.
But he had too much on his plate already, and you didn’t want to just pile on another thing for him to be worried about.
Friends don’t look at friends the way you look at Carmen.And Carmen doesn’t look at you the way he looks at his other friends—the few ones he does have.
So you let yourself sit in silence for a moment, running over a million thoughts at the speed of a second. And then, before you could chicken out,before you could convince yourself that it wasn’t worth it,you removed your feet from the dash and began to lean over the center console so you could reach him.
When your hand touched Carmen’s thigh, his head snapped up from the window to look at you. He hadn’t even realized you’d moved—not until you were practically on top of him.
And you stayed there for a second. Not moving. Not talking. Just letting your breath and his mingle.
His eyes darted from yours to your lips and you took that as your shot.You pressed a gentle kiss to him, backing away softly in an attempt to allow him to take in what had just happened.
But Carmen didn’t need to think. In fact, he’d almost shut off that part of his brain in that moment. Because if he started to think, he would chicken out. And he didn’t want to lose the opportunity you had just granted him. So before his brain could even compute it, he had dragged you onto his lap, hand settling at your waist as he kissed you again.
Carmen’s lips trailed from yours down to the hollow of your neck, soft and searching. You tilted your head, giving him better access, heart pounding in your chest like a drum. His fingers pressed firmly at your sides, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
You could feel the heat radiating from him, the subtle shift in his breathing as desire laced every movement. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t urgent—it was something deeper, slower. Like discovery.
Your hands found their way up, tangling in his hair, feeling the slight roughness beneath your fingers. He responded with a low sound in his throat, pulling you into him again.
The radio hummed somewhere in the background, but it was just noise now—everything else narrowed to the warmth of his skin, the press of his body, the steady beat of your shared breaths.
Carmen’s lips left your neck to meet yours again, more demanding this time, as if he was catching up on all the things he’d been holding back. Your hands slid down, tracing the line of his shirt, feeling the strength beneath, the promise of more.
You ground your hips down onto Carmy’s, causing him to let out a low groan. You smiled against his lips, repeating the action. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the way his body pressed harder into yours, matching the rhythm you set.
And then he pulled his mouth away from yours. You wondered for a moment if he’d changed his mind. Wondered if you were going too fast for poor Carmy. But he surprised you.
“Get in the back.”
You raised your eyebrows at the sudden shift in his voice. Where had the shyness you knew so well gone? Carmen seemed to catch onto your amusement, his hands moving to caress your ass. He smiled as you gasped at his actions.
“You started it.”
“And you’re gonna finish it, Berzatto?”
Carmen smiled at you—full of mischief.
“Get in the back and you’ll find out.”
That was all you needed. You climbed over the center console, sitting in the backseat. Carmen didn’t even need to ask you to take your pants off; you were already stripping them when he managed to get to the backseat. His eyes raked over the newly exposed skin, hands moving to knead it like soft dough.
Carmen’s hands didn’t stop kneading, their touch slow but deliberate, as you adjusted yourself into a more comfortable position. You were practically lying down in the back seat, Carmy hovering above you. The car felt smaller than it had a couple of moments ago, the air charged with a sort of unspoken need.
You let out a soft breath, your fingers trailing down his arms, feeling the strength beneath the fabric.
“Can I see you without the shirt?”
Carmen was surprised by your question. You’d been so prepared to undress yourself before him, but you worried he wouldn’t be as comfortable doing that. Instead of answering, his hands released your body for a moment, tugging his shirt off. Your palms traced his body as he leaned down to kiss your neck again.
His hands moved over your stomach, fingers skimming against the edge of your shirt. You nodded your head at him before he even asked the question, hands moving to help him peel your shirt off. When the shirt slipped over your head, Carmen’s lips met yours again, slower this time, more deliberate. His hands roamed your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
You could feel the heat pooling low in your stomach, the pressure of his body pressing against yours. His fingers trailed lower, brushing over your ribs, the bare skin beneath your bra.
“Can I?” he murmured against your lips.
Your breath hitched as you nodded, lifting your arms just enough for him to slide your bra straps down your shoulders. His hands cupped your breasts gently, thumbs circling your nipples through the thin fabric. Your head lifted slightly off the seat as Carmen leaned down, taking one of your breasts into his mouth while his hand continued to caress the other.
You could already feel the wet spot forming on your underwear. Carmen wasn’t much better off—his boxers were already stained with precum, his dick twitching with every soft sound that escaped your lips. And every sound did feel like music to him, which felt appropriate, considering your profession.
His lips trailed lower, moving from your breasts to your stomach, and finally to where you needed him most. He hooked his fingers around your waistband, pausing for just a moment to meet your gaze in silent question before tugging the fabric down your legs.
The space was tight, but Carmen was determined. He managed to settle between your thighs, his face mere inches from you.
And then he leaned in.
Your body jolted at the first touch of his tongue. A soft gasp escaped you as your hand found his hair, gripping tightly as he continued working you open with slow, deliberate movements.
Carmen groaned softly against you, the sound vibrating through your core and pulling another breathy moan from your lips. He was taking his time with it, dragging his tongue through your folds, slow and focused—like he was tasting something he’d been craving for a long time.
Your thighs twitched around his shoulders, and he only pressed in deeper. One arm curled beneath your leg to keep you open for him, while the other reached up, hand sliding along your ribs until his thumb brushed over your nipple again. Every point of contact lit you up.
“Fuck, Carmen—” you breathed, voice catching as your hips rocked against his mouth.
He pulled back just enough to glance up at you, lips shiny and eyes heavy.
“Yeah?” he said, voice hoarse. “That feel good?”
The teasing lilt in his voice was new—rough and low, coaxed out by the way you fell apart for him.
You nodded, too far gone for words. Your fingers tightened in his hair as he lowered his head again, tongue circling your clit before sucking softly, rhythmically. You gasped, a sharp, broken sound that made his hips twitch beneath the denim.
You were close, and he knew it. He could feel it in the way you pulsed against his mouth, in the way your thighs tried to close around his head.
He didn’t let up. If anything, he doubled down—sucking harder, tongue flicking in just the right way, fingers now slipping lower, pressing inside you without warning.
Your back arched off the seat, a cry spilling from your mouth as the pleasure hit all at once, wave after wave rolling through you. Carmen didn’t stop until you were twitching under him, your grip in his hair loosening, chest heaving with the force of it. Only then did he lift his head, dragging his mouth across your thigh with a breathless laugh.
“Jesus,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”
You were far too breathless to offer a witty quip in response. So instead, you tugged him up by the chin and kissed him, messy and needy. You could taste yourself on his lips, the mixture of you and him almost intoxicating. Your tongue moved over his, hands clinging to his biceps as you tried to keep him close.
It was too much for Carmen to handle. Being this near to you, yet still not close enough, was driving him insane. And you could see it. You could feel it in the way his body trembled as he tried to hold himself up. You could feel it in the bulge straining against his jeans. With every movement of his tongue, he rocked his hips into you—his clothed dick dragging against your thigh, desperate for friction.
You shifted one of your hands from his cheek, palm trailing down his body until you reached his belt. You didn’t know how you’d managed to do it one-handed, but somehow, you got his belt off. You caressed him through his boxers, reveling in the soft moan that escaped his lips at the action.
“Someone’s excited to see me.”
Carmen couldn’t help but laugh at your words, his forehead resting against yours as you smiled. Your hand slipped beneath his boxers, soft fingers wrapping around his dick. Carmen bucked into your hand unconsciously.
“Yeah? Like that?”
He’d gone quiet all of a sudden—just nodding at your words.
“Come on, Carmy. Where’s the loudmouth I know and love?”
“Fuck you.”
You grinned.
“There he is.”
You shifted your grip, fingers moving over his head as you continued your languid strokes. He kissed you again—maybe in an attempt to shut you up. Or maybe to stop himself from groaning out loud. You nipped at his lips, tugging them between your teeth.
“Wanna hear you, Carmy,” you whispered against his lips, your voice low, sultry, commanding.
Carmen groaned — this deep, wrecked sound from somewhere in his chest — and you felt his whole body shudder in response. His hands gripped your hips like he was grounding himself, but his resolve was slipping. Fast.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, almost like a prayer, breath hot against your skin.
“Haven’t even got to the best part yet.”
Your words sent a shiver of desire rushing through him. Yes, he had wanted to keep going—that’s why he’d told you to move to the backseat. But to hear you acknowledge it, to hear those suggestive words slip from your lips, ruined any self-control he had left.
Without warning, he shifted, guiding your body further down the seat. His fingers hooked around the edge of your underwear, tugging them fully off this time and tossing them somewhere behind him. His hands spread over your thighs, pushing them open as he settled between them, his gaze trailing down your body like he was memorizing it.
“You still sure?” he asked, voice rasped and a little wrecked.
You nodded–breathless, aching. “Yeah. Fuck, Carmy—please.”
He lined himself up, pressing the thick head of his cock against you, teasing you with just the tip. He watched the way your body reacted — how your hips lifted toward him, how your breath hitched — and he swore under his breath.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he murmured, and then he pushed in slow, deep, agonizingly, deliberately.
Your head fell back with a gasp, hands gripping his shoulders as he sank into you inch by inch, filling you completely. The car felt even smaller now, the heat between you overwhelming.
Carmen stilled when he was fully inside, trying to catch his breath, to keep from coming right there.
“Jesus Christ,” he hissed against your neck. “Fuck, you’re warm. Oh god.”
“Carmy,” you whined, biting your lip as you tried to adjust to his size.
He growled — actually growled — and pulled back before thrusting into you again, harder this time. You moaned, nails digging into his skin.
The rhythm started slow, deep, grinding — like he wanted to savor every second — but it didn’t take long before it grew messier, more desperate. You wrapped your legs around him to pull him closer, to let him hit deeper. He bit into your shoulder, hips snapping against yours in a rhythm that had you both panting.
“You feel so good,” he groaned. “Fuck—just—so good.”
Your lips brushed his ear as you whispered, “Don’t stop, Carmy.”
Carmen’s hands gripped your hips tightly, fingers digging in just enough to remind you he was there—anchoring you even as his movements became more urgent, more desperate. Each thrust hit deeper, sending sparks of pleasure bursting through every nerve ending.
Your breath hitched with every collision, a mix of gasps and moans tumbling from your lips, the confined space of the car amplifying every sound. The way he moved—rough yet careful—made you feel cherished and possessed all at once.
He kissed down your jaw, teeth grazing your skin, leaving a trail of fire. Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging him closer as your bodies moved in perfect, heated sync.
You were going to come. You could feel the coil tightening with every thrust. And when Carmen started mumbling words of praise against your neck, you knew you wouldn’t last much longer.
You met his gaze, eyes shimmering with need and something softer—trust, desire, something unspoken that hovered between you.
“Carmy,” you breathed, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, “I want you to come with me.”
His pace faltered for just a moment, but then he nodded, lips brushing against yours in a promise.
The sun was long gone; the only light illuminating the car was a crappy one from the parking lot. You were sure anyone who passed by could tell what was happening inside. With how rough Carmen was moving, you’d be surprised if your beat-up car wasn’t rocking along with the rhythm. But you couldn’t care less. Let them see. Let them watch the show.
The tension coiled tighter, muscles burning, heart pounding. Your world narrowed down to the feel of him, the sound of your joined breaths, the heat that bound you both.
And then, with a shuddering groan, Carmen tipped over the edge, his body trembling as he spilled inside you, every inch of him alive with release.
You clung to him, riding out the waves of your own climax as the world outside faded away.
For a long moment, you just held each other—breathless, tangled, the world outside reduced to distant noise. Your eyes were glued to the ceiling of the car as you tried to catch your breath. You could feel the warmth that still radiated from Carmen's body beside you. Could feel the scratch of his jeans against your bare legs as he shifted into a more comfortable position.
Carmen rested his forehead against yours, voice thick with exhaustion and something softer. “You okay?”
You nodded, fingers tracing lazy patterns across his sweat-dampened skin. “Better than okay.”
A tired smile tugged at his lips. “Damn, you’re something else.”
You laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine. “So are you.”
Neither of you spoke for a while, just breathing in the closeness, the newness of what had shifted between you.He smiled, a slow, genuine smile that made your heart twist.
“I don’t want this to end.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the honesty.
“Stay over,” he said quietly, his voice almost a plea. “Sleep in my apartment tonight. Let me wake up to the sight of you in the morning.”
The smile that broke onto your face could have replaced the sun. You tugged him into a soft kiss.
“Okay… but you’re driving.”
His brows lifted in surprise. “Wait, what?”
“I can’t feel my legs,” you teased, nudging him gently.
Carmen laughed—a low, warm sound—as he shifted closer, wrapping an arm around you. “Alright, alright. I got you.”
After you both got dressed and Carmen settled into the driver’s seat, you made your way to his apartment. You watched the city pass by as you drove, Carmen’s hand resting on your thigh—a soft reminder of what had happened. A silent promise of more to come.
No lucilla and he loves her bcs im a slut for a problematic power imbalance and soft dom acacius
Thanks <3
Where Power Kneels
PAIRING: Marcus Acacius x reader
WORD COUNT: 2725| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)
Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II
Joel Miller Masterlist | Kinktober 2025
You are polishing the lion-headed buckle he favors when he returns from the training yard. The clangor of practice blades still rings in the courtyard, but inside his private rooms the air is quieter, cooler. Oil lamps throw a mellow glow across marble and shadow. Marcus Acacius steps in and shuts the door with a careful hand, as if noise itself is something he chooses.
“Stay,” he says, though you haven’t moved. Then, softer, “Please.”
You straighten, cloth laid across your palm, eyes lowered. “Welcome back, my lord.”
He tastes the words as if deciding whether he deserves them. “I prefer Marcus when we’re alone.”
“That would be improper,” you say, and he smiles the way a knife might smile if it could, bright, thin, controlled.
“And yet I am very fond of improper things, favorite,” he murmurs, crossing the room. “Tell me, do you fear me?”
You shake your head. “No.”
“Good. I don’t want your fear. I want your honesty.” He watches you a moment longer, then tilts his head at the buckle. “Will you put it on me?”
Your fingers work the strap through the metal, knuckles grazing the linen at his waist. You feel him breathe, slow, measured. He sets his hand on the edge of the table, inches from your hip. Not touching. Commanding by not touching at all.
“You’re quiet.” He says it like an invitation.
“I’m thinking,” you answer.
“About?”
“Whether you ate.”
He blinks, then laughs under his breath. “I have conquered men who worried less about my well-being.”
“I am not a man to conquer,” you say, and the words are out before you can recall them. You expect reprimand, a correction, a reminder of the line you have crossed. Instead, he studies you, the way he studies new terrain.
“No,” Marcus says. “You are a country I would like to be invited into.”
You look up at him then, truly look, and see what others fail to see: not the scowl that keeps fools at bay, but the sincerity beneath. You want to answer, but a shout carries from the yard, a soldier’s complaint, a trainer’s command. Marcus does not glance away. He is the kind of man who lets the world knock itself against his walls while he chooses where to place his gaze.
“If I told you I was going to ask something foolish,” he says, “would you refuse me out of prudence?”
“That depends on the foolishness.”
He leans just enough that the lamplight gilds the line of his cheekbone. “Come walk with me.”
“In the gardens?”
“In my thoughts,” he says, amused. “But the gardens will do, until you learn the route.”
He offers you his arm. It is a ridiculous gesture, he is a Roman power, you a favored servant, but he makes it matter by the way he does it: palm open, patient. You set your hand in the crook of his elbow and follow him out into moon-dusted pathways, cypresses black against the sky.
He does not talk at first. He listens the way he commands, completely. To water murmuring in a fountain. To your breath. To the graveled hush of footsteps. When he does speak, it is without pomp.
“You corrected a magistrate this morning,” he says eventually.
“I did not correct him,” you say. “I gave him the proper inventory because his scribe miscopied the figures, and I do not enjoy watching men argue over lies.”
“He is unused to being corrected by anyone. Least of all a woman born without a family name.” He glances over. “I am not scolding.”
“What are you doing?”
“Admiring,” he answers without irony. “And, forgive me, testing.”
You stop. “Testing what?”
“How much you will give me freely, and how much I must earn.” He steps closer, his voice low. “You once told me obedience is easy to buy. Loyalty is not.”
“I said that?” Your mouth quirks. “It sounds like me trying to sound clever.”
“It sounded like truth.” He lifts his hand and, after a hesitation that lasts long enough to feel like a question, brushes your cheek with his knuckles. “You’re not afraid of me, but you are careful. Keep being careful. I’ll deserve you better that way.”
“You think you deserve me?” you ask, teasing because if you do not make a joke you will say something more dangerous.
His eyes warm. “I am trying to.”
You draw a breath. “And if I said no?”
“I would keep trying,” Marcus says simply. “And keep you safe while I try.”
“Why?”
He considers, as if the answer is a field he wants to survey before building anything on it. “Because I love you.”
It is not a declaration with trumpets. It is a stone placed gently into your hand, heavy with meaning. You open your mouth and close it. You have rehearsed many futures; you have not rehearsed this.
“Say something,” he urges very softly.
“I, It’s not proper.”
“I know,” he says, and there is a smile in it, rueful and bright. “One day I will petition the gods for a life made entirely of improper gifts.”
“And if I cannot give you, ”
“Do not finish that sentence.” His voice darkens, not with anger, but a sternness that holds you steady. “You owe me nothing. Not consent, not comfort. You owe me only your truth. If your truth is no, I will hold it like a sword and wear it at my side so no one else tries to break you.”
You swallow. “And if my truth is yes?”
“Then I will be gentle,” he says, and the words skim along your skin like cool water. “I will be firm when you ask me to be firm and soft where you ask me to be soft. I will praise you where the world finds fault. And I will never, ever, make you small.”
You do not realize you have taken his hand until you feel how securely he holds yours back.
“You talk like a poet when no one is listening,” you say, because humor is the only shield between you and tears.
“I talk like a man who has spent a long time being listened to for the wrong reasons.” His thumb traces your knuckles. “Say yes or no, favorite. Let me be steady under whichever weight you give me.”
“Yes,” you say, and the garden seems to breathe out.
He exhales too, slow and reverent, like a prayer released. “Then come back inside with me.”
You return to his rooms, lamplight soft, shadows kind. He closes the door, then faces you with a gravity that feels like a vow.
“Before anything else,” he says, voice gentle but edged with that quiet authority that always finds your spine, “we will set our terms.”
“Terms?”
“Yes.” He steps close, hands still at his sides. “You will tell me what you want, and I will tell you what I want, and we will mark the borders where either of us must not cross. Power is only beautiful when it is held on purpose.”
You nod, the relief of being seen making you braver. “I want you to lead. Not because you must, but because I, ” You bite the word. “Because it steadies me.”
“I can do that,” he says. “What else?”
“I want warmth. Praise. I want to know the command is for me and not for the sake of command.”
His mouth softens. “You will never mistake one for the other with me.” A pause. “I want your voice. Even when I am guiding. Especially then.”
You breathe in. “I can give you that.”
“What will we not do?” he asks.
“No cruelty,” you say immediately. “No punishment for pleasure. No orders that separate me from myself.”
He nods. “Agreed. No pain that is not chosen. No shame, ever. No secrets that keep you alone.”
Your lips part. “No secrets that keep you alone either,” you say, surprising yourself.
He bows his head. “You are dangerous in the kindest way.”
He lifts his hand. “May I touch you?”
“Yes,” you say, and that one syllable turns his gaze molten. He moves with deliberation, like a man laying down armor he no longer needs, and sets his palm at your waist, the other skimming your shoulder. His touch is steady and sure, asking and answering at once.
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
You do. The command steadies you, exactly as you asked. He smiles like he’s found a perfect fit. “Good,” he praises, and the word turns your bones to warm metal.
“Tell me if this is too much,” he adds, and when you shake your head, he leans in and kisses you. It is not a conquering. It is a question with its answer wrapped inside. You taste the day’s salt and the sharpness of him. He kisses like he thinks you might vanish if he is not careful, and you have never felt less likely to disappear.
When he draws back, he keeps his forehead against yours. “Again?” he asks, and the politeness of it makes something tight in your chest loosen.
“Again,” you whisper, and he obeys your order with exquisite precision.
Later, he guides you to sit, and takes a step back, eyes traveling over you like a vow renewed.
“Say it,” you tell him.
“What am I saying?” he asks, amused and obedient.
“That I’m your favorite.”
“You are not my favorite,” he says, and your heart drops for a single terrified beat before he continues, “You are my beloved, which is a far less replaceable thing.”
You huff, the laugh shaky. “That is worse. Favorites can be dismissed.”
“Then dismiss me if I fail you,” Marcus says evenly. “Tell me when I am not gentle enough. Tell me when I mistake my power for permission. I will listen.” He kneels, Marcus Acacius, whose shadow drapes over half the city in rumor if not in fact, he kneels before you because he wants you to see he can. “I am strongest with a hand to tether me,” he says, “and I would have yours.”
You reach for him, threading your fingers into his hair. “You talk about power like it’s a lion you keep fed.”
“It is,” he says, tilting his head against your touch. “I would rather it feast on my pride than on your peace.”
“You’re insufferable,” you say softly.
“And you are…mine? Say it, if you want it. Only if you want it.”
“I want it,” you say. “I’m yours.”
Something uncoils inside him. He looks like a man both relieved and ruined, in the best way. He rises, and when he does, he is close enough that you can feel the heat along his skin.
“Then obey me in this,” he whispers. “Breathe.”
You do. He smiles. “Good. Again.”
You breathe again, deeper, and his praise ropes around your ribs like silk.
“Tell me what you want now,” he prompts.
“I want you to tell me what you see when you look at me,” you say, surprising yourself again.
He blinks. “I see a mind like a whetstone. A mouth that refuses to shape lies to please fools. Hands that know how to mend and how to make.” His voice lowers. “I see a woman and I am almost angry the gods made her in my lifetime, because I have to manage the miracle instead of letting it remain abstract.”
“Marcus,” you whisper.
“I also see you’re tired.” His thumb strokes your jaw. “Sit back. Let me pour the wine.”
“You serve me?” you tease, though your body yields to the couch.
“I serve what I love,” he says simply. He pours, then hands you a cup, then takes one himself and sits beside you, close enough to share breath.
“Tell me about the training yard,” you say. “Tell me what your soldiers did wrong.”
“They did not listen,” he says. “To each other. To me. To their own limits. Listening is the first command I ever give.”
“And the second?”
“Hold,” he answers, eyes on yours, weight in the word. “Hold ground. Hold line. Hold yourself.”
“And the third?”
“Advance,” he says. “But only when the first two are firm.”
“And now?” you ask, a new lightness in your voice.
“Now I will ask you to hold for me,” he says. “Hold your courage. Hold your yes. Hold the right to change it.”
“And you?”
“I will listen,” he promises, “and I will advance only when you tell me to.”
You sip the wine. It is good, dark as a secret that wants to be a story. “Advance,” you say, smiling.
He sets his cup aside without breaking eye contact and leans in, one hand braced beside your hip, the other hovering. “Touch?” he confirms.
“Yes.” You guide his hand where you want it, a map he reads with exquisite attention.
“Good,” he praises again, and then, because he knows the weight of your likes, “Very good. Stay with me.” Every word is a thread he uses to stitch the moment in place, to keep the world from intruding.
When the lamps have burned lower and the night presses its soft palm to the windowpanes, he draws back just enough to study your face.
“Tell me something true,” he says.
“I thought I was a toy to you at first,” you admit.
He flinches; it is small but it is real. “And now?”
“Now I know I am a choice.”
“You are my favorite choice,” he says. “And I have had to make too many.”
“Then make one more,” you murmur.
He takes a breath. “Stay. Stay tonight. Stay until you wish to leave.”
“I have duties,” you say automatically.
“I know,” he answers. “I will never take those from you. But when you can, stay.”
You look around at the room that has made space for you just by his wanting, and back at him, the man who could have demanded and instead asked. You set your empty cup down and lace your fingers with his.
“I’ll stay,” you say, and you feel the decision settle inside you, not like a chain, but like a key.
He smiles, unguarded. “Then come here,” he says, voice soft but edged with that careful iron that always makes your breath catch. “I want you close.”
You go. You let him arrange you against him, the way he arranges armies and arguments and afternoons. He gathers a blanket without ceremony, tucks it around you. When he speaks again, his mouth is at your temple.
“Tell me if I hold too tightly.”
“You won’t,” you say, and he proves you right. He holds like someone who knows what it is to lose.
“Good,” he murmurs, praise threaded through drowsiness. “Very good.”
You let your eyes close. His breathing is a steady drum beneath your ear. The world knocks at the walls of his house, the calls from the yard, the distant clatter of a dropped pail, the inevitable demands of a city that never sleeps, but inside the room he has chosen not to move. Inside the room he has chosen you.
“Marcus?” you ask, half under.
“Yes, favorite.”
“If the magistrate complains again, will you let me correct him?”
He huffs a laugh that rumbles through your spine. “I will command it,” he says. “And praise you in front of him until he is forced to learn humility.”
“You’re cruel,” you mumble.
“I am precise,” he answers. A pause. “I am in love with you.”
You smile against his throat. “I know.”
“Say it back,” he requests, soft but sovereign.
“I love you,” you reply, and the way he exhales makes you think of gates opening. His hand tightens on yours exactly as much as you like. He does not let go. He will not let go unless you ask.
“Rest,” he says, the last command of the night. “That’s an order.”
“Yes, my lord,” you tease, because you can.
“Marcus,” he corrects, and you feel the shape of it in your chest, your name for him, your yes made into a home.
You obey. You rest. And for once, the lion of power dozes at the foot of the bed, not as a threat, but as a guardian, well-fed, well-named, and pointed outward at the world.
