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LOVE NOTE : sundress

WORD COUNT : 619

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dean is not above slipping his fingers under the hem if mal’s wearing a dress — not in private, not in public 

dean winchester is many things — charming, reckless, a menace to public decency — but above slipping his fingers under mal’s dress? in any setting? not even a little bit. especially not when she wears one of those flowy, flirty little numbers that swirl around her thighs and catch in the breeze, the kind that make his mouth go dry and his hands get real brave.

in private, it’s expected. routine, even. he’s always crowding her against counters or yanking her into his lap, hands already halfway up her skirt before she can even sass him. doesn’t matter if they were supposed to be doing research, or laundry, or literally anything else — if she’s in a dress, he’s in it too.

but in public? oh, that’s where he gets dangerous. sneaky hands while they’re in line at the diner, a slow slide up her thigh while she pretends to read the menu. the softest brush of his fingertips just beneath the hem while they stand shoulder to shoulder in a crowded bar, and his smirk widens when she stumbles a step closer. he’ll lean in like he’s whispering something innocent, voice thick with laughter and heat, mumbling something like, “you started it, sweetheart. shouldn’t wear somethin’ so easy to slip under if you didn’t want my attention.”

she always glares at him, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, but she never stops him. not even when his fingers start to inch a little higher, not even when her teeth sink into her bottom lip to keep from gasping out loud.

and worst of all — he’s smug as hell about it. whole palm on her thigh, knuckles brushing lace, mouthing at her ear like he’s telling her a secret and not mapping out exactly how he’s gonna wreck her the second they get somewhere private.

“you wearin’ these for me, or just for the thrill?”

and when she finally breathes out, “both,” like it’s a challenge — god help the poor piece of furniture they end up defiling later.

dean is the kind of man who thinks “public decency” is more of a soft guideline than a rule, especially when it comes to mal. if she’s wearing something that makes his imagination run wild, you can bet his hands are gonna follow.

and mal? oh, she’s no better. she knows exactly what she’s doing when she wears a dress that rides up the second she sits down, or something backless with a halter tie he can undo with one soft tug. she’ll smirk when he gets antsy in a booth, innocently sipping her drink while his hand disappears beneath the table.

it’s a game. one they both play very well.

and every now and then, someone notices. maybe sam catches the very pointed way dean adjusts his jacket when they leave a diner, or the suspicious flush on mal’s cheeks, or how neither of them seems capable of making eye contact for ten minutes straight. bobby just grumbles something about “damn kids” and walks away. cas tilts his head and says something like, “your pheromones are unusually active, dean,” and dean has the audacity to wink at him.

and mal? she just leans over, whispers something absolutely filthy in dean’s ear, and watches the last of his self-control snap. he’s dragging her to the impala in seconds, and she’s giggling the whole way, smug and sweet and just a little dangerous.

because if there’s one thing they both know — it’s that dean’s hands belong under her dress, no matter where they are.

[sophiuhhsthots]

LOVE NOTE : objectified

WORD COUNT : 1604

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dean LOVES to be objectified. adores it, really

dean winchester thrives when mal objectifies him — when she ogles him, praises him, talks about him like he’s her personal piece of grade-a meat. he acts all flustered, like “mal, c’mon, you can’t just say that in public,” but deep down? he’s preening. glowing. tail-wagging levels of smug. he could be covered in dirt and monster guts and if she so much as mutters “god, you’re hot when you’re all bloodied up like that,” he’s done for. ruined. grinning like an idiot and puffing up his chest.

call him pretty boy while he’s fixing the impala? he’ll drop the wrench, smirk over his shoulder and be like, “yeah? you like the view?”

comment on his thighs when he’s got his jeans on low and slung lazy over his hips? suddenly he’s all, “these old things? nah, baby, it’s just genetics."

tell him he looks like a porn star and he’ll wink and say “damn right. i’m the main event.”

and the best part? the more she does it, the more obnoxiously flirty he gets — like she unlocks some hidden level of dean where he fully commits to being her hot boy toy. throws his arm behind his head when he’s lying shirtless just so she’ll look. flexes on purpose when he thinks she’s watching. does that gravelly voice thing because he knows it drives her insane.

and when she teases, “you’re so pretty, dean. makes me wanna climb you like a tree,” he just grins slow and says, “babe, i’m all yours. start climbin’.”

he lives for it. melts under it. he’s a menace and a prize and he loves when mal knows it.

he loves when she demands the gun show, or makes him do pushups with her sitting on his back, or when he wears compression shirts that are way too small.

he lives for that shit. dean winchester? total slut for being ogled and bossed around by mal when it comes to showing off. it’s not even subtle. she’ll walk in, toss him one of those tight black compression shirts that’s barely a second skin, and go, “put this on. for science.” and he’ll grumble just loud enough to be dramatic, but he’s already pulling his old t-shirt off, smirking like a bastard the whole time.

and when she says “gun show. now.”? he’s already rolling up his sleeves and flexing obnoxiously, giving her a full slow turn like he’s on a damn catwalk. he’ll do that dumb double bicep pose and grin when she whistles, puffing his chest like a proud jock who just won prom king. “you want front row tickets or backstage passes, sweetheart?”

but the pushups? oh, the pushups are a whole event. mal climbs on his back with zero warning, all smug and wiggly, kissing the back of his neck like a menace. and dean? doesn’t even flinch. just keeps going like there isn’t an extra hundred-something pounds on his back. 

and later? when she makes some offhand comment like “compression shirts are a crime when you wear ‘em like that”, he’ll cock a brow and say “a crime? baby, then arrest me. i’ve been real bad.”

he’s shameless. completely whipped. and so proud of it.

“naughty.” she snickers, getting the fuzzy pink handcuffs and clicking them into place. 

“oh, you’re gonna cuff me?” dean drawls, eyes flicking down to where her fingers are expertly securing the fuzzy pink restraints around his wrists, the corner of his mouth twitching up in that signature, cocky grin. “you know i’ve got at least three lock picks in my jeans right now, right?”

“yeah,” she purrs, straddling him with a wicked glint in her eyes, “and if you use any of them, you’re sleeping in the car.”

he laughs, low and warm in his throat, and leans in like he’s gonna kiss her — soft and sweet — but then just breathes against her lips, all smug and sinful. “yes, ma’am.”

“good boy,” she hums, clicking the cuffs tighter for good measure, then trailing her nails slowly down his chest. “you’re officially under arrest.”

“what’re the charges?” he rasps, watching her like she’s the only religion he’s ever believed in.

she grins, syrup-slow and feral. “being too hot. existing while irresistible. and resisting arrest by being a cocky little shit.”

he throws his head back and laughs, full-bodied and helpless, tugging on the cuffs just enough to feel them. “guilty as charged, sweetheart.”

“damn right you are,” she whispers, leaning down to nip his jaw. “now shut up and take your punishment like a man.”

and he does — happily.

she undoes his belt, pulling down his jeans and straddling his thigh. “no more lock picks, hm?”

his breath catches as she sinks down, hot and slow, denim rasping under her thighs while his jeans bunch around his knees. she settles on his leg with a satisfied little sigh, fingers still wrapped around the leather of his belt like it owes her something. “no more lock picks, hm?” she teases, grinding just a little — not enough to be cruel, but enough to make his breath hitch again.

“none that’ll save me now,” he mutters, eyes dark, fixed on her like she’s both storm and salvation. “you got me, sweetheart. dead to rights.”

“mm,” she hums, leaning in, tongue flicking at the corner of his mouth. “and what kind of hunter would i be if i let the monster get away?”

his hips twitch, helpless against the pressure of her, and he groans low in his throat. “monster now, huh?”

“oh yeah,” she purrs, dragging her nails up his chest, slow and unrepentant. 

“no more lock picks, hm?” she teases, voice like honey laced with arsenic, dragging her nails along the waistband of his boxers. dean hisses through his teeth, hips jerking ever so slightly beneath her. he’s still cuffed, wrists resting above his head where she left them, metal glinting sweet and smug against his skin.

he watches her from under heavy lashes, mouth parted, a slow, dangerous grin curving his lips. “you sure? could’ve hid one in my boot.”

she quirks a brow, grinding down against the meat of his thigh, slow and deliberate, savoring the way his muscles tense beneath her. “boots are off, winchester. you’re all outta tricks.”

“maybe i like being at your mercy,” he breathes, voice dark and low, the kind of sound that makes her shiver all the way down to her toes. “maybe i like knowing you’ve got full control.”

she hums, leaning in to bite his bottom lip gently, then soothe the sting with a soft kiss. “you do like it,” she purrs against his mouth, threading her fingers through his hair and tugging just hard enough to make his breath hitch. “you love it when i use you.”

“fuck, mal,” he groans, eyes fluttering shut as she rolls her hips again, slow and sinuous. “you’re gonna ruin me.”

she grins, breath hot against his throat. “i am gonna ruin you. that’s the whole point.” her hands trail down his chest, nails raking lightly. “you look so pretty all spread out for me, baby. like a present.”

“unwrap me, then,” he whispers, needy now, desperate in a way that makes her feel wild and victorious all at once. “please.”

“say it again,” she demands, rolling her hips one more time, drawing a low whimper from his throat.

“please,” he gasps, breathless and utterly wrecked. “please, mal.”

and oh, she’s never loved him more than in that moment — laid bare, begging, cuffed and beautiful, all his bravado melted down into want.

“so handsome,” she coos, syrupy sweet and devastatingly fond, palms splayed flat on his abs as she presses herself down on his thigh, slow and languid, like she has all the time in the world to ruin him. the denim seam catches just right and her breath hitches, lashes fluttering, a shaky exhale slipping past her lips.

he watches her from beneath furrowed brows, his biceps flexing against the cuffs, jaw clenched tight like he’s holding back a prayer or a curse — maybe both. the compression tee clings to every inch of him, damp with sweat and stretched taut over his chest. the sleeves bite into his arms, and there’s a soft smattering of hair peeking out, a teasing little detail that just makes her hips roll again, slow and cruel.

his chest rises too fast, breaths uneven, and he’s already hard — aching — straining against the thin fabric of his boxers. her eyes drag over him like molasses, dark and indulgent, every inch of him claimed and catalogued, all of it hers.

“you like being pretty for me?” she asks, voice gone soft and mocking, sweet enough to rot. her nails scratch lightly down his sides, just enough to make him twitch.

he groans, a strangled sound low in his throat. “mal…”

“what?” she pouts, circling her hips again. “you want me to stop?”

“no,” he rasps, head falling back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut. “fuck—don’t stop. please, baby, just…”

“mm.” she leans down, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear, her voice dropping into a whisper, reverent and sinful. “so eager. so good for me. you gonna beg for it?”

“if you want,” he breathes, almost trembling beneath her. “if that’s what it takes.”

she smiles against his skin, slow and wicked. “everything takes begging, sweetheart. i told you that when you let me cuff you.”

he swallows hard. “then i’ll beg.”

god, she loves him like this — bound and beautiful, need seeping from every inch of him, his pride surrendered with reverence at her feet. all muscle and muscle memory, and still so completely at her mercy.

“good boy,” she murmurs, kissing down his throat. “let’s see how long you last.”

[sophiuhhsthots]

begging on my knees for a nsfw fact abt dean and mal PUHLEASE SOPHIA I BEG

⋆˙⟡♡ if dean hears someone else having sex in another motel room, he makes it his personal mission to outdo them, doesn’t even care about the potential noise complaint 

the second some poor souls in room 207 start going at it loud enough for others to hear, dean’s eyebrows shoot up, a slow, mischievous grin curling onto his lips. he turns to mal with a glint in his eye that screams challenge accepted, tilting his head toward the noise like, you hear that?

“you believe this?” he mutters, already pulling off his shirt like a man on a mission. “someone thinks they can outdo us? us?”

mal raises a brow, unimpressed, until he starts crowding her onto the bed, hands already tugging at the hem of her shirt, his grin bordering on feral.

“you hear that?” he murmurs, unbuckling his belt.

“unfortunately,” mal deadpans, rolling her eyes. “poor girl sounds like she’s never had an orgasm in her life.”

dean grins, teeth and wickedness. “well, we can’t let that be the last thing anyone hears tonight.”

“you’re so dumb,” she laughs, 

“babe,” he cuts in, voice low and steady, “we have a reputation to uphold.”

she doesn’t even get a chance to respond — he’s already got his mouth on hers, hands greedy and insistent, dragging her down onto the mattress like he’s got something to prove. and oh, he does. he makes it his goddamn mission to make her scream louder, beg prettier, make the headboard shake so hard the wall starts thudding in rhythm with them.

dean doesn’t just want to win, he wants to decimate. he wants the neighbors to know exactly who’s in the next room over. the headboard starts hitting the wall with a vengeance, his voice low and filthy in her ear, all grit and praise and smug encouragement —“that’s right, baby, let ‘em hear ya”— like the sound of her is his favorite weapon. and when the couple next door finally quiets down?

he has the audacity to sit back against the pillows, panting, satisfied, and go, “huh. guess we showed ‘em.”

mal, tangled in sheets and laughter, just throws a pillow at him.

and when it’s all said and done, when she’s breathless and glowing and barely able to string words together, he just sprawls out next to her with that cocky little grin and says, “think we won?”

“if we didn’t,” she pants, “we will tomorrow.”

[sophiuhhsthots]

don’t you just love dreaming about dean mf winchester

^ me bc i want him so carnally it hurts

[sophiuhhsthots]

LOVE NOTE : wallpaper

WORD COUNT : 907

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currently, dean’s wallpaper is a photo of mal’s tits squished up against the window of the impala. 

it’s grainy and a little out of focus, taken on a night when they were drunk on each other and the buzz of highway freedom, parked somewhere on the edge of nowhere with the moon high and nothing but stars above. 

mal had dared him, or maybe he dared her — doesn’t matter now. what matters is the photo. her smudged lipstick, the curve of her smile, the glint of mischief in her eyes just barely visible in the reflection. her tits pressed up against the cold glass of the impala’s passenger window, fogging up the surface with every breath. her fingers splayed out on the glass like she was trying to claw her way in or maybe just taunt him from the outside.

it’s ridiculous. and hot. and so very them.

and now it’s his phone wallpaper. tucked just under the clock, front and center. he never shows it to anyone — obviously — but every time he taps the screen, there she is, wild and grinning and half-naked, preserved in pixelated chaos. a perfect memory. one that always, always makes him smirk.

sam catches a glimpse of it once — by accident, in the dark, when dean checks the time — and groans so hard he nearly takes the phone and throws it out the window.

“seriously?”

dean just shrugs. smug as hell. “what? she looks good.”

sam doesn’t want to know. he really, really doesn’t.

but dean? dean tucks the phone back in his pocket like it’s treasure. like it’s lucky. because it is.

mal’s wallpaper is deceptively tame — has to be, considering how often she’s got it out around strangers, diners, cases, motel check-ins. nothing too wild. nothing too incriminating.

just a photo of dean behind the wheel of the impala, golden-hour light pouring in through the windshield, lighting him up like a painting. his left hand’s on the wheel, right hand curled loosely in his lap, rings catching the sun. he’s got his sunglasses pushed up into his hair, and he’s squinting at the road, smirking a little like he knows she’s watching him. like he knows she’s taking the picture.

and he does know — of course he does — but he pretends he doesn’t. and she pretends it’s not the most lovesick photo she’s ever taken. the windows are down. the wind’s playing with his shirt collar. he looks so alive in it. golden and cocky and beautiful.

that’s the one she keeps on her lock screen.

but her home screen? that’s another story.

that one’s a photo from some night months ago, blurry and crooked and stolen in the dark. dean’s asleep, tangled up in motel sheets, lips parted, one arm flung over his eyes. he’s shirtless, half-covered, bathed in the blue glow of the TV that’s still on, casting shadows across his freckles and collarbones. her thigh’s visible at the edge of the frame, pressed right up against him.

it’s grainy. intimate. hers.

no one ever sees that one. but she looks at it all the time. every motel, every late night, every hour he’s out running errands and she’s left behind in bed with the AC humming and her bones aching with want. her gaze lingers there more often than she’ll admit, eyes tracing over the curve of his shoulder like it’ll bring him back faster.

hours later, after the hunt’s gone sideways (because it always does) and they’re back at the motel, scraped up and half-drunk on adrenaline, mallory’s sitting on the bathroom counter with dean between her thighs, both of them still half-dressed and breathless.

there’s a first aid kit open somewhere behind him, abandoned.

he’s got blood on his jaw — not his — and her shirt’s ripped at the shoulder, but neither of them cares. not right now. not when dean’s hands are gripping her thighs like she’ll float away, not when his mouth is hot and desperate against hers.

and then she’s laughing — that low, smoky, dangerous laugh that always short-circuits his brain — and grabbing his phone from the edge of the sink.

“c’mon,” she murmurs, voice wrecked and grinning. “for the collection.”

dean huffs out a laugh against her throat, teeth grazing skin. “sam’s gonna kill us.”

“worth it.”

she holds the phone up — one arm around his neck, the other stretched out, angling the camera just right — and snaps the picture.

it’s blurry as hell. all flushed cheeks and crooked grins, her ripped shirt slipping off her shoulder, his hand up under the hem, fingers digging into the meat of her thigh. dean’s biting his lower lip, looking half-wild, half-worshipping. mallory’s smirking like she owns him — because she does — head tipped back just enough to catch the glint of the motel bathroom lights in her eyes.

utterly feral. utterly them.

she tosses the phone back onto the counter without looking, looping her arms tighter around his shoulders.

“you’re trouble,” he tells her, grinning against her skin.

“you love it.”

“hell yeah i do.”

they don’t bother bandaging their wounds until hours later, when sam pounds on the door of their motel room yelling about noise complaints and common sense and trying to pretend he doesn’t know them.

(the photo, of course, gets saved to a secret album dean keeps titled “classified.”)

(mallory’s got a matching one on her phone. it’s labeled “top secret.”)

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LOVE NOTE : petty

WORD COUNT : 1849

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mal gets petty when she’s frustrated at dean sometimes, and sometimes she’ll just pretend like dean doesn’t exist, just to annoy him. like, he keeps leaving his boots in annoying places? he doesn’t exist this afternoon. he starts talking and mal asks sam if he hears something. dean’s laying on a couch? she sits on him just to be annoying. 

she doesn’t yell, doesn’t slam doors — she just acts like dean has been wiped from the face of the earth and she is totally fine with that.

boots left in the doorway again? dean no longer exists. she’ll step over them, dramatically avoid eye contact, and when he starts talking about something, she’ll turn to sam — very seriously — and ask, “do you hear that? sounds like a breeze. or maybe a mosquito.”

dean, baffled and amused, will try to poke at her side or kiss her neck to win her back. she shrugs him off, still ignoring him like he’s a ghost.

he sits on the couch, trying to play it cool? she flops down on top of him, back to his chest like he’s furniture, arms crossed, muttering something like, “i’m cold and you’re a heater, not a person.”

when he finally starts whining, “mal, come on,” she’ll glance over her shoulder with a saccharine smile and go, “oh, you’re still here?”

she’ll make herself a coffee, none for him. grab a snack, not offer a single bite. tell sam he looks handsome today and completely bypass dean.

sam, for his part, just watches in exhausted silence, used to this particular drama and very, very determined not to get in the middle.

the front door clicks shut after sam heads out, and mal doesn’t even flinch. she’s curled on the couch with a blanket and a movie, expression perfectly neutral, not even acknowledging the sound of dean’s heavy steps heading down the hall.

there’s the telltale thud of boots being shoved begrudgingly into the closet. a pause. a sigh.

then — shuffling.

she hears it before she sees it; the soft sound of denim brushing over the rug, the exaggerated huff of someone suffering through self-inflicted penance.

when she finally looks down, dean’s on his knees, crawling across the living room like a wounded man in a war film, eyes locked on hers, tragic and ridiculous all at once.

“i did it,” he breathes dramatically, reaching her like she’s the oasis in his desert. “they’re not even in the doorway. they’re in the closet, mal. the closet.”

she arches a brow, unmoved. “congratulations. you’re housebroken.”

he whines, laying his head on her lap and grabbing at her waist like she’s his teddy. “i’m a changed man,” he mumbles into her thigh. “do i not deserve love? affection? maybe a kiss?”

“depends,” she says, tone light, eyes still on the screen. “are you gonna keep pretending the floor is where your laundry goes?”

“i have a system,” he protests.

“your system sucks.”

he groans and presses his forehead against her, nuzzling until she finally lets a hand drift into his hair, slow and lazy. he melts.

“love you,” he mumbles, voice muffled by her lap. “even when you ignore me. even when you’re mean.”

“good,” she hums, threading her fingers through his hair. “because i’m gonna keep being mean.”

he just sighs, utterly content. “yeah. i know.”

“you’re so lucky you’re hot,” he grumbles.

“you’re so lucky you’re whipped,” she shoots back, smug now.

he exhales hard through his nose, then grins up at her like a man defeated — and proud of it. “fine. i’ll stay down here. but i want it on record that this is abuse.”

“duely noted.” she smirks, reaching to tousle his hair again. “now be quiet. my movie boyfriend’s talking.”

he grins harder. “bet he doesn’t leave his boots everywhere.”

she shrugs. “he also doesn’t do that thing you do with your mouth.”

he sits up, about to climb onto the couch when she clicks her tongue at him disapprovingly. 

his hands brace on the edge of the couch, knees still on the rug, and he pauses mid-motion — like a guilty dog caught with a sock in its mouth.

he doesn’t get far before she clicks her tongue at him, disapproving and sharp.

that little sound from her stops him cold. he blinks up at her, a perfect picture of wounded surprise, brows furrowed, mouth parted. “what?” he asks, almost offended. “i earned it.”

mal doesn’t even look at him. just calmly reaches for her drink and takes a sip, like she hasn’t just shattered his dreams. “did i say you could come up here?” she murmurs, feigning boredom with the kind of cruel grace only she can pull off.

“mal.” he says her name like a prayer. or maybe he wants it to be a threat. it’s hard to tell with the way he draws it out, pouting, dragging his hand over her knee. “c’mon, baby. don’t be cruel.”

“should’ve thought about that before you left your boots in the middle of the room again.”

he groans, forehead back on her thigh like the world’s ending, like she’s sentencing him to death by couch-floor separation. “i just wanna sit with you, i’ll be good. i swear.”

“but you seem to have forgotten your manners.” she scolds, fighting a snicker. 

he lifts his head just enough to squint up at her, all wide green eyes and wounded pride. “i said i’d be good,” he repeats, slow and sulky, like it should earn him immediate absolution. his thumb starts rubbing little circles into her knee, sweet and calculated, like he’s trying to cast a spell.

“that doesn’t sound like an apology,” mal says, cocking her head, still not letting her expression crack.

“i’m sorry,” he tries, overly dramatic and utterly unserious. “i’m so sorry. i’ll never leave my boots out again. i’ll scrub the floors with a toothbrush. i’ll—i’ll cook dinner and do the dishes. i’ll do what whatever you ask.”he whines, pressing a kiss to her thigh. “c’mon. one little spot. you won’t even notice me. i’ll sit real still. like a very handsome throw pillow.”

“i’m not hearing a ‘please’.”

he groans again — loudly this time, theatric and hopeless — as if the act of humbling himself further might kill him right here on the rug. he slumps dramatically, nose still pressed to her leg, fingers now curling into the edge of her blanket like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this cruel, unjust world.

then, in a small, pitiful whisper, he tries again, “…please.”

mal raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

he lifts his head just enough to try again, this time with his best kicked puppy face. “please, baby. i’m sorry. i’m a caveman. a heathen. a disgrace to cleanliness and floors everywhere. but i’m yours. your very, very sorry boyfriend who just wants to cuddle while you watch your dumb movie.”

“dumb movie?” she repeats coolly, one hand reaching down to gently flick his forehead.

he winces. “excellent movie,” he corrects quickly, scrambling to redeem himself. “cinematic masterpiece. ahead of its time.”

she hums, pleased, brushing a hand back through his hair in slow, absent strokes.

he sighs into the touch, eyes fluttering closed.

she sighs, long and indulgent, then pats the couch cushion beside her with a theatrical roll of her eyes. 

he scrambles up with way too much enthusiasm, before freezing in place. “wait.” she demands, holding up her hand. “gun show.” 

he pauses mid-climb, like someone hit him with a tranquilizer dart labeled “ego boost.” one brow arches in delight, lips tugging into a crooked grin as he straightens up on his knees, backlit by the soft glow of the television.

“you want the gun show?” he echoes, mock scandalized. “mal, it’s the middle of the week. people aren’t ready.”

she smirks, slow and lazy. “who cares? i’m ready.” she lifts her drink to her lips. “flex, winchester.”

he huffs a breath of laughter, then rolls his shoulders like a prizefighter, tossing her a wink. the sleeves of his worn henley strain just a little as he flexes his arms — biceps drawn tight, forearms tense, the whole show perfectly framed by dim lamp light and self-satisfaction.

“ta-da,” he murmurs smugly, striking a faux bodybuilder pose.

mal hums in approval, dragging her gaze from his arms to his eyes, languid and appreciative. “it’s a shame you’re not this obedient when i ask you to put your laundry in the hamper.”

he grins, all teeth and trouble, and finally climbs up onto the couch, sprawling beside her like he’s earned the right to exist again.

“i am obedient,” he argues, curling into her like a golden retriever who’s finally been let back inside. “just… selectively.”

“yeah,” she says, carding her fingers through his hair again. “selectively irritating.”

he hums contentedly. “your favorite kind.”

she pinches his chin, tilting it up to kiss him, slow and gentle before humming against his lips, “be good all the time, kay?” and patting his cheek. 

he leans into the kiss with a soft, satisfied noise, eyes fluttering shut as her mouth lingers on his. when she pulls back with that little hum and a tap to his cheek, he opens his eyes, dazed and utterly besotted.

“yes, ma’am,” he breathes, grinning like a fool. “i’ll be so good, you won’t even recognize me.”

she raises a brow. “that so?”

“mmhm,” he nods, shifting closer, resting his head against her shoulder like a cat curling into sun-warmed blankets. “saint dean. model citizen. poster boy for domestic bliss.”

mal snorts, tossing an arm lazily around his shoulders. “you’d combust in a week.”

he grins against her collarbone. “maybe. but you’d miss me.”

“i’d miss the chaos,” she admits, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “and maybe your dumb face a little.”

“that’s the spirit,” he mumbles, already halfway to dozing off against her. “see? i am a good boy.”

“mm,” she hums, amused. “we’ll see how long it lasts.”

“haven’t i already proven i can last long?” he snickers against her neck, yawning mid-sentence. 

she smirks, fingers lightly scratching at his scalp, her lips brushing the side of his head. “yeah, well, i was talking about patience, not stamina.” she pauses, letting the silence stretch between them before adding with a wicked edge, “though, that part’s not so bad, either.”

he chuckles softly, the sound low and pleased, pressing his face further into her neck. “don’t think you can distract me with your filthy little comments. i know what you’re up to.”

“oh, you do, huh?” she teases, voice low and amused. “and what’s that, genius?”

“i dunno,” he shrugs, sighing contentedly, his arms snaking tighter around her middle. 

“i know, baby,” mallory purrs against his temple, gently running her nails up and down his back.

his breath hitches just slightly at the sensation, the feeling of her fingers tracing slow, deliberate paths across his skin. he sighs again, the sound turning into something soft and warm, like he’s wrapped in comfort and temptation all at once.

[sophiuhhsthots]

LOVE NOTE : officer winchester || best read as a pt.2 to this but can also be read as a standalone ||

WORD COUNT : 4488

────────── ୨ৎ ──────────

he doesn’t even get one foot over the threshold before she’s on him.

the door swings open fast and wide, and then she’s there in a flurry of motion and bare legs, oversized tee riding up just enough to make him forget how to breathe. 

no warning. no hello. just the soft thud of her feet and then she’s airborne, flinging herself into his arms like she’d die if she didn’t.

and he’s ready — always ready when it comes to her. catches her with one arm like it’s muscle memory, like his body knew before his brain did. his bag slips off his shoulder and hits the floor with a heavy thunk but he barely hears it. all he hears is the way she giggles as her legs wrap around his waist, her arms latching around his neck.

and then she’s kissing him — attacking him with kisses, really. quick and messy and everywhere. cheeks, jaw, the corner of his mouth, nose, eyelids. she’s giggling breathlessly against his skin, whispering something like “mine, mine, mine” between kisses, and he’s just standing there with one arm hooked under her thighs and the other cupping the back of her head, dazed and so fucking in love he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“hi,” she murmurs eventually, grinning against his lips, eyes gleaming like sunlight on bourbon.

he huffs out a laugh. “jesus, sweetheart — can i breathe first?”

“no,” she says, and kisses him again, like she’s trying to make up for every second he was gone.

and he lets her. of course he does.

she hears the familiar creak of the porch steps and goes stiff like a spooked cat, practically jumping off of dean with a squeak, landing bare-footed and wild-eyed beside him.

“shit, shit—” she hisses, scrambling to wipe her lip gloss off his face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, (his sweatshirt, of course, hanging off her smaller frame like a stolen trophy). she’s patting at his mouth and chin like she’s trying to erase a crime scene, eyes darting toward the door.

dean’s laughing — laughing, the traitor — grinning with flushed cheeks and kiss-bruised lips as she manhandles his face like a guilty teenager.

“hold still!” she whisper-yells, eyes wide and panicked. “you’ve got glitter on your cheek, dean — glitter! sam’s gonna know!”

“you think sam doesn’t know already?” he mutters around her fussing, lips twitching like he’s dying to say something lewd. “you jumped me like a damn jungle cat — he probably heard your squeal all the way from the driveway.”

“dean, i swear to god—”

and then the door creaks open and sam’s there, eyes squinting like he already regrets walking up.

mallory straightens with lightning speed, face the picture of innocence, her lips still red and a little too kiss-swollen. dean, miraculously, manages to school his expression into something passable, though the pink gloss on his jaw betrays them both.

“hey, sam,” she says, chipper and bright, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear like nothing happened at all.

sam just sighs, slow and exhausted. “you two know this is a shared space, right?”

mallory blinks sweetly. “whatever do you mean?”

dean coughs. “i think he’s just jealous, baby.”

“oh, definitely.” she nods solemnly. “tragic, really.”

sam mutters something about moving out and disappears down the hall, and the second he’s gone, mallory breaks into a fit of laughter, smacking dean in the chest.

“we are so bad at this,” she whispers.

dean grins, pulling her back in. “you kissed it off, but i can still taste that gloss.”

“mm. you want a refresher?”

“fuck yes i do.”

his breath catches when she tugs him in, his hands still half-lifted like he doesn’t know whether to grab her waist or worship her — because christ, she’s always like this. always kissing him like she’s starving, always leaving him aching in doorways and thresholds and the quiet breath between responsibility and want. her lips ghost over his again, soft and sinful, and she whispers it like a promise: “i’ll be in your room.” and then she’s gone.

bare feet on old wood, a skip in her step that’s downright wicked, and by the time bobby slams the back door shut and yells something about tracking mud into his kitchen, she’s already halfway up the stairs — grinning like the devil with a halo. dean stays rooted to the spot for a second, dizzy and lovesick and half-hard, fingers still curled where her shirt tug left its ghost.

he hears bobby grunt in the other room, hears sam grumble something like “don’t even ask.” and all he can do is grin slow, teeth catching his lip as he turns on his heel.

“don’t wait up,” he calls casually, already heading toward the stairs two at a time. “got some... law enforcement matters to attend to.”

then, from the kitchen, “idjits.”

but by the time dean hits the top step, he’s already forgetting the world behind him — because his girl’s waiting.  she’s waiting on his bed, perched on her knees like a pretty decoration, hands politely clasped in her lap.

she looks like something out of a dream — or a damn fantasy cooked up in the haze of too many lonely motel nights. 

the glow from the bedside lamp hits her just right, soft and amber, gilding her skin and the tousled strands of her hair. she’s perched there so sweetly, knees tucked under her on the comforter, back straight, hands folded in her lap like she’s the portrait of innocence. like she hasn’t been corrupting his thoughts all morning. like she didn’t just whisper filth into his mouth before skipping away like it was nothing.

but her lips are bitten red, and there’s a glint in her eyes that tells him she knows exactly what she’s doing. “reporting for arrest, officer,” she murmurs, tilting her head ever so slightly, lashes fluttering like a dare.

dean doesn’t even bother closing the door behind him. he just drops his bag to the floor with a thud, shoulders still tense from the drive, from pretending to be composed in front of sam, from the way her voice still echoes in his ears. and now she’s here. like a present he gets to unwrap with his teeth.

“you waitin’ to be frisked, sweetheart?” his voice is low, rough around the edges, hunger clinging to every word. “’cause you’re gonna have to spread those knees real polite for me first.”

her smile widens, sweet as sin. and she does. she laughs, chucking a pillow at the door. it thuds against the wood with a satisfying smack, sending the door swinging shut on its creaky hinge.

dean doesn’t even flinch. just watches her with that crooked smirk, the one that always starts small and dangerous before it spreads slow, all teeth and intention.

mallory’s laugh lingers in the air like smoke, warm and wicked, and she’s already lazily crawling toward the edge of the bed like she’s got all the time in the world to ruin him.

“didn’t wanna be rude,” she says, faux-innocent, voice dripping with silk and sugar. “can’t have anyone walking in on a criminal investigation, right?”

dean steps forward, boots heavy on the floor, and drags his gaze down her body like he’s got x-ray vision, like he’s mapping out every inch he plans to claim. “no ma’am. that would be a serious obstruction of justice.”

she hums, grinning as she settles back on her knees again, mock-prim. “i’d hate to obstruct anything of yours, officer.”

he raises a brow, already undoing his belt with one hand, the other reaching out to tilt her chin up between two fingers. “yeah?” his thumb brushes over her bottom lip. “’cause i got a real long sentence in mind for you, baby.” god help whoever tries to knock on that door.

“it’s a good thing i’m a law-abiding citizen,” she muses, gazing up at him with a gaze that can only be described as bedroom eyes. lidded and seductive, blinking at him knowingly through long lashes as her teeth sink into her bottom lip.

dean’s smirk curls slow and wolfish, that predatory grin that always makes her stomach twist deliciously. his fingers hook under her chin, tilting her face up just a little more, like he needs a better look at the trouble glinting behind those heavy-lidded eyes.

“law-abiding, huh?” he drawls, voice rough like gravel and heat, thumb dragging across her lower lip until it pops free with a quiet tsk. “funny. i’ve got a whole list of offenses here says otherwise.”

she pouts, just a little, the softest scrunch of her brow as she leans into his touch like a cat begging to be pet. “must be a mistake,” she murmurs. “i’m innocent.”

his eyes darken, amusement flickering into something hotter, hungrier. “baby, if this is you innocent, i’d love to see you guilty.”

“mm,” she hums, sliding her hands up his chest, slow and languid, palms warm against the fabric. “then maybe you should frisk me, officer. just to be sure.”

and he’s already bending, mouthing at her jaw, muttering against her skin like a prayer and a curse all at once. “oh sweetheart, i’m gonna turn this into a federal offense.” 

her laugh bubbles out like champagne, wicked and breathless. “what — mmph, hi,” she giggles, sighing against his lips, “what can i do to get out of going to jail, officer?”

his mouth brushes hers again — just barely — a tease more than a kiss, like he’s tasting her laugh, savoring the sound of it like sugar melting on his tongue. he hums low in his throat, hands already wandering, sliding down her waist like he’s taking inventory.

“depends,” he murmurs, voice thick with mischief, one brow raised as he gazes down at her through lashes heavy with want. “how bad do you not wanna go to jail, sweetheart?”

she grins, saccharine sweet and full of trouble, dragging a finger slowly down the center of his chest. “so bad,” she whispers dramatically. “i can’t possibly survive behind bars. i’m too soft. too delicate.”

he scoffs, backing her toward the bed with a lazy sway of his hips, like he’s got all the time in the world to punish her properly. “delicate, my ass. you’d run that place by noon.”

“but i’d miss you,” she pouts, lower lip caught between her teeth. “so i’m willing to... cooperate.”

he smirks like she’s already confessed every sin she’s ever committed. “cooperate, huh?”

“yes, sir.”

and the sir just about undoes him. he groans low, kissing her hard and fast, like that’s her first test and she passed with flying colors.

“then get on the bed,” he growls, voice molten. “let’s see if we can reduce your sentence.”

“i’m already on the bed.” she retorts amusedly, “you get on the bed,” he huffs out a breathless laugh, something feral curling behind his grin. his eyes drag slowly over her — perched there like temptation incarnate, legs tucked beneath her, smirking like she knows she’s got him wrapped around her little finger and is having the time of her life about it. “bossy,” he murmurs, toeing off his boots with deliberate slowness, one eyebrow arching as he lets his jacket fall to the floor. 

“you gonna cuff me? read me my rights? let me kiss your badge? you made some serious promises last night,” she snickers, lounging back and watching him walk to his closet, reaching for a box on the top shelf.

his grin widens, and there's something dark in the way his gaze sharpens, like he's about to enjoy every damn second of this.

“serious promises, huh?” he echoes, voice thick with playful threat as he pulls the box down from the shelf. he doesn’t even bother looking at it, just tossing it on the bed next to her before crawling up, slow and measured, like he’s savoring every inch of space between them.

"you don't get to tell me what to do, i’m the sheriff here.” he murmurs, all arrogance and temptation as he looms over her, pushing her back against the pillows with one hand. "but maybe i’ll make an exception."

he drags his fingers lightly over her skin, barely a touch, just enough to have her shivering beneath him. his lips hover over her ear, just a whisper of breath against her skin.

“how bad do you really want that kiss, sweetheart?” he asks, low, almost amused. “gonna beg for it? maybe i’ll consider it.”

and there’s that smirk of his — almost smug, like he already knows what she’s going to say, like he’s got all the power here. but he’s wrong. she has all the power, and she’s about to remind him of it in the most delicious way.

“you be a good girl, now.” he rasps, squishing her cheeks in his hand and kissing her pout. he pulls back, digging through the box. she just watches him, a lazy little smirk playing on her lips. he comes back with fuzzy handcuffs and a fake id, one that read; officer winchester, privates investigator.

she bursts into laughter the second she sees it, head thrown back on his pillow, giggles shaking through her like aftershocks. “privates investigator?” she wheezes, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “real professional, officer.”

he shrugs, looking far too pleased with himself as he clicks the cuffs open with a dramatic little flourish. “listen, sweetheart,” he drawls, crawling back up over her, his fake badge dangling from two fingers. “i take my job very seriously. especially when it comes to repeat offenders like you.”

“mm, recidivism,” she hums, lashes fluttering, playing her role to perfection. “terrible, really. i just keep doing bad things.”

“damn right you do,” he mutters, catching her wrists in his hands and pressing them down against the mattress. the metal of the cuffs is cool where it brushes her skin, and his smirk turns downright wolfish. “you ready to be rehabilitated, sweetheart?”

“depends,” she says airily, like she’s not pinned beneath him, like she’s not already melting under the weight of his body and his stare and his goddamn voice. “rehabilitated how, exactly?”

he leans in close, lips grazing hers, whispering against her mouth like he’s letting her in on a filthy little secret.

“hands-on correctional tactics,” he murmurs. “very hands-on.”

she gasps, but it's all performance — she’s grinning, breathless, already arching into him, ready to play along. god help anyone who tries to interrupt them now.

even with her arms cuffed to the headboard, she’s got that smug expression, like she’s won something, even like this — arms pinned, wrists cuffed snug, thighs spread just slightly from where he’d slotted himself between them. her hair’s a mess across his pillows, that little smirk playing on her lips like she’s three steps ahead and just letting him catch up for the fun of it. it drives him insane. “smug little brat,” he mutters, brushing his knuckles down her cheek, all faux fondness with a bite underneath. 

“you gonna ‘read me my rights with your hand down my pants,’ officer? because you promised me that, and you’re a man of your word,” she eggs him on, a cheeky little smirk on her lips.

he groans, head dipping, lips pressing to her jaw in something that’s halfway between a kiss and a curse. “jesus christ, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, teeth just barely grazing her skin.

but still — he’s a man of his word. and he’s nothing if not thorough.

his hand trails down her body with deliberate slowness, brushing over the swell of her hip, fingertips skating just beneath the hem of her shirt. his voice is low and honey-slick as it rumbles against her skin. “you have the right to remain silent,” he breathes, nosing along her jaw toward her ear, “but i know you won’t, not when you’re makin’ those sounds for me.”

her breath stutters, just a little, but that smugness doesn’t falter — it deepens, if anything, her lashes fluttering as she tilts her head back like an offering. “i really don’t think i will, officer.”

his fingers dip lower.

“anything you say,” he murmurs, “can and will be used against you — in the bedroom, the backseat of the impala, the fuckin’ kitchen table if you keep talkin’ like that.”

she lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a moan, biting down on her bottom lip as he finally slides his hand between her legs. “kitchen table, huh? sexy and domestic. never took you for the multitasking type.”

his eyes flash — something wicked, wild, wrecked — as he glances up at her, hand not stopping its slow torture. “careful,” he warns, voice thick and ragged, “i’ve got a nightstick with your name on it.”

she grins, head tipped back against the headboard, wrists still bound but her mouth free as ever. “that a promise, officer winchester?”

“baby,” he growls, leaning in close, mouth brushing her ear, “that’s a threat.”

“kinky,” she snorts. he grins against her skin, a wicked flash of teeth and breathless amusement. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.” his fingers flex just enough to make her hips twitch, and he presses a kiss to her throat, slow and smug and full of that dangerous charm that always makes her legs go soft. “you want sweet, you ask sam,” he murmurs, voice dipped in honey and hellfire. “you want filthy, you come to me.” 

“what makes you think i’d ever go to sam?”

he freezes for half a second, his laughter punching out of him like she’s knocked the wind clean from his lungs. it’s sharp and loud and so full of her it makes his heart lurch and his cock throb all at once.

“jesus christ,” he breathes, forehead falling to her shoulder as he grins, nearly giddy. “you’re such a fuckin’ menace.”

she hums sweetly, smug and unbothered, shifting beneath him just to watch his breath catch again. “you like it.”

“i love it,” he mutters, dragging his teeth along her collarbone. “love when you’re mouthy, love when you’re bratty—hell, i even love when you’re bein’ a fuckin’ pain in the ass.”

he lifts his head, gaze dark and burning, eyes flicking over her like he’s starving and she’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to eat.

“but you’re mine, mal,” he says, voice low, lips barely brushing hers. “you always come to me.”

she doesn't even hesitate. her eyes flash with something wicked and warm, her tone all heat and syrup. “always,” she promises.

and that’s it. that’s all it takes. his mouth is on hers again, brutal and reverent, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of her promise between his teeth.

“enough of dean, bring back officer winchester,” she playfully demands.

he pulls back just an inch, lips kiss-swollen, chest heaving like she’s just knocked the air out of him again — but this time, it’s with that tone. all teasing, all trouble, all her.

his brow arches slowly, something wicked curling at the corner of his mouth. and then it shifts, like a curtain drawn—dean gone in a flash, replaced by that dangerously smooth persona that always has her heart racing and her thighs clenching.

“officer winchester,” he says, low and serious, voice like molasses and smoke. he adjusts his weight, straightens his spine, suddenly all authority and sin wrapped in denim and a badge that hangs askew from his belt. he clicks his tongue once, eyes dragging down her body like a man inspecting a crime scene. “i’ll have you know, ma’am,” he says, voice tight and professional, “that impersonating innocence is a very serious offense.”

he leans in close, barely touching her, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“i’m afraid i’m gonna have to conduct a full search. for evidence.” then he pulls back, flashing his badge — the plastic kind, crooked and worn — right in her face, deadly serious. “any objections, miss?”

she shakes her head — slow, tantalizing — before kissing his badge without her eyes leaving his.

his breath hitches just slightly, and he watches her with a kind of predatory focus, the way she moves, the way she kisses the badge — deliberate, slow, making sure to savor every second of it. the intensity of her gaze doesn't slip for a second, like she's daring him, challenging him. he can feel the heat building between them again, thick, relentless.

"you've got a lot of nerve, you know that?" he mutters, voice rough around the edges, fighting the urge to pull her closer, to lose himself in her like he always does. he pulls the badge away, tucking it into his pocket, his fingers brushing over the edge of her chin as he cups her face, forcing her to look at him.

“you think you're so clever, don’t you, little miss perfect?” he teases, just the hint of a smile tugging at his lips, but there’s nothing playful about the way his eyes narrow.

he presses his forehead to hers, breaths coming a little too quick now. “you don’t think i’ll punish you for that, do you?”

“why do you think i did it?” she purrs, lips barely brushing his. he snorts, kissing down her neck, greedy hands rucking up her shirt. “ma’am, you’re awfully — mmm, naughty. don’t bite me, ma’am.” he laughs, trying to keep up the righteous act.

her laugh is warm and wicked against his cheek, hands already tugging at his shirt like she’s trying to strip the law right off him. “then stop putting your throat so close to my mouth, officer,” she breathes, catching his earlobe between her teeth for just a second — a tease, a threat, a promise.

he groans, deep and ragged, the sound vibrating against her skin as his hands slide down her sides, thumbs dragging over her waist like he owns her. “you keep testing me,” he murmurs, biting at the hollow of her throat, “and i’m gonna start adding charges.”

“oh no,” she gasps, mock-sweet. “whatever will i do with all those charges?”

he pulls back just enough to look at her, all dark amusement and barely-restrained want, eyes flickering down to where her shirt’s riding high. “reckless endangerment,” he counts off on his fingers, “assaulting an officer. resisting arrest. public indecency — you wanna keep going?”

she grins, smug and unrepentant, wrists still cuffed but body writhing under his touch. “that depends, officer,” she hums, licking her lips. “how many charges before i get a conjugal visit?”

“about five minutes, maybe six,” he shrugs, pulling his black tee over his head and chucking it over his shoulder. “six minutes?” she echoes, lashes fluttering as she gives him that slow, sultry once-over, gaze dragging down the line of his chest like it’s something sacred. her smirk grows, lazy and wicked. “that’s not very long, officer. hope you’re not all talk.” 

“ma’am, i assure you.. hey. stop that,” he laughs, catching her ankle as she nudges at his crotch with her foot.

she giggles, biting her bottom lip like the picture of innocence — save for the mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “just trying to see what i’m working with,” she says sweetly, tilting her head as she flexes her foot again, teasing. “you keep making promises, officer. just want to be sure you can deliver.”

he leans forward, slow and predatory, still gripping her ankle as he presses a kiss to the inside of her knee — hot breath, stubble-rough and lingering. “you really wanna test me?” he murmurs, voice dropping low, his grin taking on that sinful edge that always makes her breath catch.

“i’m not scared of you,” she whispers, eyes daring him. “in fact, i’m kinda hoping you arrest me.”

he lets out a breathy chuckle, dragging her leg over his shoulder and crawling up the bed, all fire and gravity. “oh, sweetheart,” he rasps, mouth brushing her thigh, “you’ve got the right to remain loud.”

“cringe. new dialogue,” she laughs. he groans, dropping his forehead to her thigh with a dramatic sigh. “you wound me, ma’am,” he mutters, voice muffled and full of mock despair. “here i am, baring my soul, offering you peak one-liners, and you call me cringe?” 

“you sound like a hotel pay-per-view budget porno,” mal snickers, kicking his ribs gently with her other leg.

he gasps like she’s stabbed him, hand splaying over his heart as he lifts his head with wounded theatrics. “wow. wow. that’s how you talk to a decorated officer of the law?”

“decorated?” she scoffs, laughing as she curls her fingers around the headboard. “your badge says privates investigator, dean.”

he snorts, eyes crinkling as he grins up at her. “and yet you still kissed it.”

“because i’m generous,” she shrugs, stretching like a cat beneath him. “and maybe a little into public service.”

he growls low in his throat, ducking to nip her hipbone. “you better watch it, ma’am. sarcasm’s a punishable offense in this county.”

“yeah?” she hums, breath hitching as his lips skim lower. “what’s the sentence?”

“long. hard. repeated.” his voice is gravel and promise.

“oh, now that’s a line,” she purrs, arching a brow. “see? progress.”

“well, i aim to please, ma’am.” dean snorts, biting her side.

she squirms with a yelp, swatting at him through her giggles. “that is not how you please a lady, officer.”

“ma’am, i disagree,” he says solemnly, grinning like the devil as he does it again — just to hear her laugh, just to see that sparkle in her eyes when she’s writhing and flailing and trying to wriggle away from his playful torment.

“stop it!” she laughs, breathless now, kicking her legs as he pins her hips down with one hand, the other creeping up to tickle her ribs like a man possessed. “you sadistic bastard—”

“you wound me again,” he croons, nose brushing the hem of her shirt as he finally relents, laying his head on her stomach with a soft huff of air. “this is what i get for being a public servant.”

she’s still giggling, fingers threading through his hair almost absently. “you’re a menace,” she murmurs fondly.

he hums against her, smug and content. “yeah, but i’m your menace.”

“unfortunately,” she sighs, but she’s smiling. all teeth and trouble and love so warm it could burn a man alive.

“damn right,” he mumbles, nosing at her side again. “now hush. officer needs his five-minute cuddle break.”

“better not be just five,” she warns, already sinking her fingers a little deeper into his hair.

“depends on if you behave,” he teases, already kissing a trail back up to her mouth. “but knowing you...”

she smirks against his lips. “yeah. good luck with that, officer.”

[sophiuhhsthots]

omg sophia. been PORING over ur content holy shyyyyttteeeee. ik you posted the nsfw alphabet for dean and mal but i NEED more i am fiending for it PLS i beg 😩🙏 i'll take anything you'll give me frfr okay i'll just be waiting over here so patiently like a good girl

hiii yes ask n you shall receive.

⋆˙⟡♡ yk those videos that are boys acting like their girlfriend? i bet younger dean does a lot of those things as a joke to make fun of her

he’ll throw a hand on his hip, pop it out a little, and mimic her voice — always a little higher than it actually is, a little more dramatic. “dean, you’re so annoying.” “dean, stop touching me.” “dean, stop looking at me like that.”

he exaggerates every little thing she does. and he’s spot on about it too.

and the worst part? she can’t even be mad about it.

because, yeah — he’s an asshole. and yeah — he’s making fun of her. but he’s good at it. like, annoyingly good.

he’s got her mannerisms down. the little flick of her hand when she’s dismissing him, the sharp arch of her brow when he’s being a dumbass, the way she crosses her arms and leans her weight to one side like she’s already over whatever he’s about to say.

“dean, stop looking at me like that,” he mocks, popping a hip and giving her his best unimpressed scowl. then he flips his hair over his shoulder (despite it being nowhere near as long as hers) and sniffs. “god, you’re so annoying.”

she should punch him. she wants to punch him. but the problem is — it’s fucking accurate. so accurate that she just stands there, arms crossed, lips pursed, trying not to laugh.

which, of course, only encourages him.

“oh, oh, and my favorite—” he clears his throat, squares his shoulders, then drawls in an exaggeratedly sultry voice, “dean, i swear to god, if you touch me one more time—”

she does punch him for that one. right in the shoulder. hard enough to make him stumble back a little.

he just grins. “oh, babe, you wound me.”

“good,” she snorts. “next time, i’m aiming for the throat.”

he’s insufferable with it. relentless. young dean, full of swagger and bravado, thinking he’s the funniest man alive. he picks up on her so well it’s almost scary. like he stores every little quirk, every tone shift, every half-lidded glare and sharp-tongued mutter in some vault labeled for later use in mockery. it’s his love language, in the most obnoxious possible way.

and he doesn’t just imitate her — he performs her. commits fully. drops his voice into that slightly-too-breathy register, lifts his chin just so, and bats his lashes with all the precision of someone who’s clearly spent way too much time watching her move around motel rooms and parking lots and bars. arms crossed, lips pursed, foot tapping — he’s got it all down to a science.

“dean,” he whines in falsetto, dragging out the syllables and stomping his foot like a toddler throwing a fit, “you didn’t even notice i changed my lip gloss!”

and she just stares at him, wide-eyed, because what the fuck, that was something she said — one time! — and how the hell does he remember that?

but it’s the delivery that kills her. the smug little smirk curling at the corner of his mouth after every line, the way he can’t help but crack up halfway through, shoulders shaking, dimples out in full force. she wants to be pissed. really. but it’s impossible when he’s grinning at her like that, eyes all crinkled, looking so stupidly proud of himself.

and the moment she so much as snorts? game over. he’s in her space immediately, wrapping himself around her like a smug little barnacle, peppering kisses over her cheek and jaw even as she tries to shove him off.

“see? you think i’m funny,” he says, voice muffled against her skin.

“i think you’re deranged,” she says, even as her hand curls into the fabric of his shirt to keep him close.

but he knows. she likes it. the teasing, the way he memorizes her. it makes her feel seen in that unspoken way, like even when he’s being a menace, he’s paying attention. and honestly? she gives as good as she gets. next time he does it, she’s just gonna mimic him right back. pop her collar, grab an invisible beer bottle, drop her voice an octave and go, “yeah, babe, i’m dean winchester, i don’t need a plan, i’ve got a gun and daddy issues.”

needless to say, he’ll be crying.

[sophiuhhsthots]

LOVE NOTE : ovulation’s a bitch

WORD COUNT : 4143

────────── ୨ৎ ──────────

mal’s a freak. normally, dean is ever the willing participant. but right now she’s ovulating and is a certifiably insane, hormonal monster. like, her usual libido is high — high enough to rival dean’s, but right now? dean’s so tired, and he feels like his dick is gonna fall off. 

dean’s on his way to the kitchen, shirtless and exhausted, he catches the look as soon as he rounds the corner — she’s leaning against the wall like she’s got all the time in the world, one brow arched, lips parted like she’s halfway through a thought that’s already too filthy for daytime hours. and the second their eyes meet, dean knows.

mallory doesn’t say a word. doesn’t have to. her eyes flick up and down his body like she’s making a mental list of every place her mouth’s about to be, and that’s it. that’s the trigger.

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, because he’s seen that look too many times this week and he knows exactly what it means. there’s no escape. he’s already been used and abused for three days straight, running on fumes and gatorade, and god help him, he loves it. usually. but right now? he’s sore in places he didn’t know could get sore.

his eyes go wide like a hunted animal. “nope,” he mutters, spinning on his heel and booking it for the stairs like his life — his dick, really — is on the line. mal shifts her weight, slow and predatory, like a jungle cat that smells blood — or, more accurately, testosterone and a half-recovered orgasm.

she laughs, sharp and delighted, as he sprints up the stairs, three at a time, shouting over his shoulder, “i need a minute, mal! jesus, give a guy a break!”

she’s already following, slow and deadly like a panther stalking prey, dragging her fingers along the banister. “you had a minute,” she purrs, “you’ve had several minutes.”

“i’m gonna die,” dean whines, nearly tripping on the runner. 

“aw, baby,” she calls sweetly, footsteps lazy, predatory. “where you going?”

“away!” he pants, scrambling backward like she’s the actual threat for once, one hand braced on the railing and the other trying to fend her off. “i’m a shell of a man! a husk! you’ve drained me!”

dean barely makes it to the top of the stairs before mallory’s on him, all heat and hunger and zero shame, and he yelps when her fingers hook into his belt like she’s ready to drag him down to the carpet and have her way with him right there.

mallory laughs, the sound low and dark and way too pleased. “you’re so dramatic,” she says, trailing behind him like a shadow. “you look just fine to me.”

“you’re a freak,” he groans, diving into his bedroom and trying to slam the door shut behind him — but she’s faster, wedging her foot in with practiced ease and slipping inside before he can even pretend to hold her off.

it doesn’t even latch before she’s pushing it open again, cool as anything, eyes trailing down his frame like she’s mentally stripping him before her hands even get the chance.

“and?” she hums, stepping into his space with terrifying calm, hands sliding under his shirt like she owns him. 

“and,” dean gasps, eyes wide, voice about an octave higher than usual as he backs into his bedroom door, “i think you broke my soul. i’m pretty sure my spine’s permanently curved.”

“you can sleep when you’re dead,” she coos like she’s doing him a favor.

“which is gonna be tonight if you don’t let me hydrate or get a nap or—fuck—something.” he tries to dart past her but she catches his shirt collar, yanking him back like a cartoon villain. he stumbles with a choked-off noise that’s halfway between a laugh and a whimper.

he scrambles backward like she’s armed and dangerous, and she might as well be. “mallory. mal. baby. we’ve done it, like, four times today.” he’s half-laughing, half-terrified, clutching a pillow to his chest like it’s going to shield him from her god-tier thighs and total lack of mercy. 

“uh huh,” she nods, already climbing onto the bed with terrifying purpose. “and?”

“and i need fluids, woman! electrolytes! maybe a priest!”

she’s laughing now, full-bodied and unbothered, crawling over to him with that look in her eye — wild and glowing and entirely too hot for her own good. “i’ll get you a gatorade after.”

“you said that last time!”

“and did i?” she shrugs, straddling him easily. “well…no. but i meant to,”

dean drops his head back onto the pillows, eyes blown wide with that wild mix of dread and awe. “you’re insatiable.”

she leans in, lips brushing his ear. “you love it.”

he groans, somewhere between tortured and thrilled, hands already finding her waist like muscle memory. “god help me, i really do.”

“you’re being so dramatic,” she says sweetly, running her greedy little hands up his chest. “this is science.”

“this is a hostage situation!” dean cries, though his hands are already gripping her waist, because yeah, he’s exhausted, but he’s also an idiot in love. “you’re gonna suck out my soul through my dick.”

mallory grins, triumphant and wicked. “better than a crossroads demon.”

“at least they give you ten years,” he mutters, but there’s no fight in him anymore — not when she’s kissing down his neck like a woman possessed, not when her thigh slides between his legs and he groans, half in defeat and half in delight.

he’s doomed. he knows it. he chose this life.

“just—just bury me in something flattering, alright?” he gasps, as she pushes him down onto the bed.

“i’ll cremate you,” mallory purrs. “less evidence.”

“jesus christ,” dean whispers again, eyes rolling back, “i love you so much.”

“i love you…r dick.” she smiles sweetly, leaning down to kiss him. “and i’ll get you a gatorade after, hm? pinky promise.”

dean groans, loud and guttural, tossing his head back against the mattress like he’s staring at the ceiling for divine intervention. “you can’t say that and then be sweet about it,” he whines, hands already sliding up her thighs like a man defeated. “you can’t weaponize aftercare like that.”

mallory just smiles wider, all fake-innocent and syrupy soft, brushing her nose against his as she kisses him again — slow and deep, like a reward he hasn’t even earned yet. “sure i can,” she whispers, lips still brushing his. “you’re gonna let me wreck you and you’re gonna thank me for the gatorade.”

he shudders under her, eyes fluttering closed like he’s in pain and bliss all at once. “you’re the devil.”

“no,” she purrs, dragging her nails gently down his chest, “i’m your future wife.”

and that? that’s the final nail in the coffin. he’s already pulling her down, muttering something like ‘jesus take the wheel,’ but there’s no saving him now. 

thirty minutes later, he’s sprawled out on the loveseat in his bedroom. she comes back from the kitchen, gatorade in hand. she kicks the door shut, pads over, and drops to the floor between his spread legs, laying her cheek on his bare thigh and batting her lashes up at him innocently.  

he looks like a man who’s seen god — then got dragged back to earth and run over by a truck. his hair’s a mess, his chest is still rising and falling in slow, uneven waves, and he’s got that dazed, glassy-eyed look like he’s not entirely sure where he is. the second the cold gatorade bottle touches his chest, he flinches and groans like she stabbed him.

“you’re a menace,” he mumbles, voice rough and hoarse, barely lifting his head to look down at her. “an actual menace.”

mallory just smiles, that sickly sweet grin that never bodes well for him. “but i brought you electrolytes,” she says, all soft and faux-concerned as she tilts the bottle up to his mouth like she’s hand-feeding grapes to a roman emperor.

dean takes a sip with a dramatic sigh, one hand flopping lazily down to tangle in her hair, the other barely gripping the bottle. “twenty minutes ago you said you loved my dick more than me.”

“i said i loved youuuur dick,” she corrects, sing-song, dragging out the words like she’s explaining it to a toddler. “you’re still included. by association.”

he snorts, drops his head back again, eyes fluttering shut. “i’m gonna die.”

mallory hums, content, and presses a slow, lingering kiss to the inside of his thigh. “not yet, baby.”

he twitches under her mouth, a full-body jolt like someone just defibrillated his soul. his hand tightens in her hair. “jesus christ.”

“i’ll let you nap after,” she promises sweetly, batting her lashes. “maybe.”

“maybe,” he echoes weakly, cracking one eye open. “i’m gonna need therapy after this.”

“you married me,” she grins, smug as hell as she starts kissing her way higher, “no refunds.”

“annul— shit, babe, annulment exists. and di—oh my god, divorce.” he manages through shaky breaths. 

mallory giggles — actually giggles, low and wicked, like his suffering is the funniest thing she’s heard all night. her fingers trace lazy circles on his knee as she mouths at the sensitive skin of his thigh, all featherlight and maddening.

“oh, baby,” she coos, voice syrup-sweet and entirely unbothered by his legal threats. “you think you’d survive the paperwork?”

dean sucks in a breath through his teeth, half-laughing, half-dying. “don’t tempt me. i’ll call sam. he’d represent me.”

she lifts her head just enough to raise an unimpressed brow at him. “sam likes me more than he likes you.”

he blinks, eyes wide like she just hit him with a truck full of truth. “…yeah, okay, that’s fair.”

mallory smirks, triumphant, and starts crawling her way up his body like a slow-moving storm, her hands splayed against his chest, cool from the gatorade bottle she ditched on the floor.

“you wanna annul our beautiful, drunk, non-legally binding vegas wedding?” she murmurs, kissing the corner of his jaw, “you wanna divorce the woman who brought you a glacier freeze after wrecking your whole life?”

he groans again, head hitting the back cushion with a soft thud. “you’re evil.”

“and you,” she grins, hips settling over his again, voice all breathy and pleased, “are so into it.”

dean whimpers, that pretty little pout on his full, pink, kiss-bitten lips, shutting his eyes as if that will help him. 

it doesn’t. if anything, it makes it worse — because mallory leans in like she can sense the shift, like his surrender is a scent in the air, thick and sweet and hers to claim. her fingers trail up his sides, nails just scratching lightly at the curve of his ribs, her lips brushing his cheek with the ghost of a kiss.

“poor baby,” she whispers, voice like velvet over bruised skin. “worn out already?”

dean’s only answer is a shaky exhale and that whimper again, muffled against the back of his hand as he covers his eyes like maybe if he can’t see her, he won’t fold for her all over again.

mallory just hums, mouth curving into something soft and dangerous. she presses her lips to the corner of his mouth and whispers, “i’ll be gentle this time.”

he peeks out from behind his fingers like he doesn’t believe her for a second, eyes glassy and dazed, and murmurs, “you never are.”

“not true,” she scolds softly, prying his hand off his face with tender fingers. “i’ll be so gentle, hm?” she muses, reaching for the gatorade bottle and unscrewing the top, easing it into his hand.

dean’s fingers wrap around the bottle like it’s a lifeline, his thumb pressing against the smooth plastic as if the simple task of holding it could ground him. his chest rises and falls with the weight of his breath, still shaking, but he manages a weak laugh, a breathless sound that has a hint of a groan behind it.

“you say that now,” he murmurs, voice rough, “but we both know gentle isn’t your style.”

mallory grins, that look on her face like she’s about to make his world tilt again. she leans in close, brushing the tip of her nose against his and lingering just long enough for him to feel the heat of her breath.

“maybe,” she drawls, her voice slow and dripping with mischief, “but tonight… maybe i’ll surprise you.”

dean’s head tilts back against the cushion, eyes slipping shut again, trying to focus on the cool bottle in his hand, the sweet relief of it. but the ache in his chest, the pulse between his legs — it’s her. it’s always her.

“if i survive this… i swear,” he mutters, half to himself, as he cracks open the bottle and takes a sip, his fingers brushing hers for the briefest moment as she watches him, something dark and amused in her gaze.

“you won’t die,” mallory promises, her voice barely a whisper, as she watches him drink.

“my dick will.” he whines. 

she snickers softly, shaking her head. “no it won’t, promise.” she hums earnestly. “please, dean? can i just put it in? i won’t even move, pinky promise.” mallory purrs, gazing up at him as her right hand rests at the waistband of his boxers. 

dean’s breath catches in his throat at the feel of her fingers, his eyes fluttering open to meet hers. the playful, dangerous glint in her gaze sends a shock of heat straight through him, but the mix of exhaustion and arousal has him fighting to maintain some semblance of control.

“god, mal,” he breathes, his voice rough, shaky with the effort of holding back. “you’re killing me.”

she tilts her head slightly, that sweet, innocent smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. her fingers trace along the edge of his boxers, just enough to tease, and then, with a playful hum, she presses her lips to his again, slow and languid, like she’s trying to erase the last of his resistance.

“i told you,” she whispers against his mouth, “i’ll be gentle. but you gotta trust me.”

dean’s breath hitches, his chest rising with a deep inhale. it’s almost too much — the tension in the room, the heat building between them. but he’s powerless to stop it. “you’re… you’re killing me,” he murmurs again, the words a mix of plea and surrender.

mallory leans back just enough to meet his gaze fully, her eyes dark, lips still curved into that mischievous smile. “you like it,” she teases, voice low and steady, almost a purr. “i know you do.”

dean can barely keep his eyes open, his lips parted, just managing a breathless laugh. “god, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“maybe,” she hums, the tip of her finger sliding under the waistband of his boxers, just enough to make him feel her, to remind him of how much he’s already lost to her.

“i’ll be so gentle,” she promises again, kissing the corner of his mouth as she gently pulls his boxers down. 

dean laughs softly, not even attempting to stop her. 

“you say that,” he mumbles, lips curving tiredly even as his head falls back against the cushions, exposing the line of his throat. “and then i wake up bruised with bite marks on my thighs.”

mallory grins, impossibly pleased with herself. “that was one time,” she whispers, pressing a kiss just beneath his jaw. “you said you liked it.”

“i did like it,” dean admits, voice breathy, fingers curling loosely in the fabric beneath him. “i just—jesus, mal, i need a break.”

“no you don’t,” she soothes, kissing down his chest now, slow and indulgent. “you need me.”

he groans, low and wrecked, but his hips lift obediently when she tugs his boxers further, pliant under her touch, because even exhausted and half-limp from the last round, his body still belongs to her.

“you’re insane,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut.

“uh-huh,” she agrees sweetly, brushing her lips lower. “but i’m your wife, remember?”

“god help me,” he sighs, one arm draping across his eyes in dramatic defeat, a smile tugging at his mouth all the same.

“won’t even move, promise, baby.” she coos, easing down onto his length. 

“yeah right,” he snorts, doing absolutely nothing to stop her, just sighing softly in contentment, home at last. 

“shh,” she murmurs, settling against him with a slow, satisfied exhale, her fingers splayed across his chest. “don’t ruin the illusion.”

“illusion my ass,” he mumbles, but his hands still drift to her hips, lazy and automatic, like muscle memory. his eyes flutter half-closed, lashes casting soft shadows on his cheekbones, the corners of his mouth curling up like he’s finally, blissfully at peace.

mallory watches him for a second, her expression warm and just a little smug, like she knows she’s got him wrapped around her little finger. “feel better?” she whispers. 

dean hums, all drowsy contentment. “you’re like… a weighted blanket. but slutty.”

she lets out a breathy laugh, leaning forward to kiss his temple. “that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

he chuckles, the sound soft and low in his chest. “just don’t move.”

“wasn’t planning on it,” she lies, settling in like she means it… but she’s already shifting just a little, just enough.

dean groans, not even pretending to be surprised. “mallory…”

she grins against his skin, voice syrupy and dangerous. “oops.”

“fine, i’ll be good.” she muses against his cheek, kissing him softly. 

“you better be,” he breathes, though there’s no real bite behind it — just that quiet, wrecked sort of affection, like he’s already lost the war and doesn’t mind one bit. his fingers trace idle shapes along the small of her back, his lips chasing hers for another kiss, softer this time, like he’s trying to hold onto the calm before the inevitable storm.

mallory just hums, smug and content, her lashes fluttering against his skin as she presses another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “told you i’d be gentle,” she whispers, letting the words linger like a secret. “for now.”

dean exhales a shaky laugh, tilting his head back with a lazy grin. “god help me.”

“you’re still married to me,” she reminds him sweetly, nuzzling into the curve of his neck like she’s getting comfortable. “no backsies.”

his arms tighten around her like instinct, like home. “i must’ve been outta my damn mind.”

“yeah,” she smirks against his throat, “but now you’re just… in me.”

he groans. “mallory.”

“what? i said i’d be good!”

“you lied.”

“you believed me.”

dean sighed softly, huffing out a chuckle. “whatever, gimme a kiss,”

mallory grinned, leaning in to press her lips to his in a slow, lingering kiss. her fingers brushed through his hair, gentle, as if the moment was something sacred amidst their chaos.

“there,” she murmured when they pulled apart just enough to speak. “happy?”

“for now,” he teased, his voice husky, with a playful glint in his eyes. “but i’m pretty sure that kiss wasn’t nearly enough.”

“you’re insatiable,” she said with a smirk, but leaned in for another kiss anyway, this one deeper, more demanding, like she was stealing the breath right out of his lungs.

“i’m the insatiable one?” dean mumbled incredulously against her lips, but his hands tightened on her, pulling her closer.

“yep,” she whispered with a grin. “but you love it.”

“i love you,” he hummed, nosing at her cheek. 

mallory’s breath caught for a split second, the words hitting her like a wave, and she felt that warm rush of affection that she didn’t always let show. her smile softened, that usual smirk melting away for just a moment as she turned her face into his touch, letting the quiet settle between them.

“yeah,” she whispered, brushing her lips across his jaw. “i love you, too.”

he grinned, but it was different this time, softer, less teasing. “good. ’cause i’m stuck with you.”

“you know that’s the deal, babe,” she replied, her voice low and fond as she pressed closer to him, her cheek resting against his chest. “you got no escape.”

dean chuckled, the sound vibrating against her as he held her a little tighter, a content sigh slipping past his lips. “guess i’ll have to deal with it, huh?”

she doesn’t even flinch. just smirks, resting her cheek on his collarbone like she’s got nowhere else to be, the picture of fake innocence. “see?,” she coaxes, “cockwarming. scientifically proven to ease cramps.”

“you don’t have cramps,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“i could,” she says sweetly. “you don’t know. you’re not a doctor.”

“i’m not a machine either,” he shoots back, head tipping back, the gatorade bottle still clutched like a talisman of survival. “mal, i’m running on fumes. i’ve seen things. felt things. i’m not even sure my hips work right anymore.”

“they work just fine,” she purrs, squirming a little in his lap like he didn’t just deliver a monologue about needing life support. “you’ll be okay. you’re strong. resilient. sturdy.”

“i’m not a piece of fucking furniture,” dean whines, even as his hands instinctively find her waist again, his traitor body responding faster than his overtaxed brain.

“you are,” mallory says cheerfully, nuzzling her nose against his jaw. “you’re my favorite chair. my throne.”

“i hate everything that you are,” he mumbles, pressing his face into her neck and trying not to moan when she shifts against him. “and i love you so much it physically hurts.”

she coos, all fake-sweet and victorious. “see? this is what marriage is. compromise.”

“this isn’t compromise,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to her collarbone like he can’t help it. “this is a goddamn siege.”

mallory laughs, full-bodied and smug as hell, rocking her hips just enough to make him hiss. “you’ll live.”

he won’t. he knows he won’t. but he’ll go out the way he was meant to — wrapped up in mallory, drunk on her laugh and her scent and her smile and her chaos.

he looks up at her, dazed and helpless and still somehow the happiest man alive. “if i die, put ‘ravaged by ovulation’ on my headstone.”

she hums thoughtfully, brushing his hair back from his face. “nah. too wordy.”

he quirks a brow, already bracing himself. “what then?”

mallory leans in close, her lips just barely grazing his, her voice a wicked whisper:

“‘he came and went.’”

dean groans like she just stabbed him in the soul. “you’re the devil incarnate.”

“and you,” she grins, tipping the gatorade bottle to his lips with the same care she might give a champagne toast, “are gonna let me ride you until the cramps i don’t have are gone.”

he drinks. because he’s already lost. because his girl is a menace. because ovulation is a bitch.

and because, god help him, he wouldn’t want it any other way.

and if he ends up dragging himself into the kitchen the next morning with bite marks on his collarbone, bruises on his neck, and a thousand-yard stare, well — he did this to himself.

“you’re gonna actually kill me. you know that, right?”

mallory’s lips twitch like she’s holding back a laugh, but her eyes stay locked on his, dark and soft and wicked all at once. “death by pussy,” she says solemnly, like she’s reading his eulogy. “he died doing what he loved, his beautiful hilarious, incredibly humble wife.”

“you’re the worst,” dean groans, head thumping back against the couch again as he stares at the ceiling in open, helpless surrender. “you’re actually the worst.”

“mm, but i’m your worst,” she whispers, taking his face in her hand and squishing his cheeks a little. “and you’re not stopping me, so…”

he whines, throat tight, body caught between instinct and total depletion. his hand drops the gatorade bottle to the floor with a dull thunk, the other coming up to cradle the back of her neck like he’s grounding himself there. “i can’t stop you,” he mutters, already breathless, already too far gone. “you’re hot… and terrifying. it’s a scary combo.”

mallory hums again, pleased, and leans in close enough to press a kiss to his pulse point, warm and fluttering. “you can nap after,” she promises again, voice sugar-sweet. “i’ll even tuck you in.”

“and if i die?” he rasps.

she grins against his throat, teeth grazing lightly. “then i’ll make sure you go out happy.”

dean’s last coherent thought — before he gives in completely, before he lets her have him again despite every bone in his body begging for mercy — is worth it.

he’ll write his will on the back of a gatorade label. leave the impala to sam.

the rest?

mallory already owns it.

[sophiuhhsthots]

LOVE NOTE : three states away

WORD COUNT : 6027

────────── ୨ৎ ──────────

dean’s phone lights up. it’s mal, it’s always mal. she’s home at bobby’s, while he and sam are in nebraska for something with their dad. she decided not to go, obviously, being that she hates john winchester more than anyone else on the planet.

dean squints at the screen, bleary-eyed and half-drunk from whatever bottom-shelf crap he and sam split in the motel room earlier. sam’s already passed out on the other bed, one arm flung dramatically over his face like he’s in a damn tragedy. the TV’s still on, flickering blue over everything, and the light from his phone cuts through it all like it knows who it’s from.

[1:49AM — my girl]

  hey  

need bicep pics or i’ll die

he huffs a laugh under his breath, swipes a hand over his mouth. he can hear her in the texts — hear it like her voice is curling around the syllables, syrup-slow and full of that particular bratty demand she’s perfected since they were seventeen.

he types back, thumbs heavy, lazy.

[1:50AM — chew toy]

  that a medical emergency?

  gonna need a formal diagnosis, babe

but he’s already rolling out of bed, standing in the motel’s yellow bathroom light, angling his phone with the expertise of a man who’s done this before. he flexes, bicep taut, teeth sinking into his bottom lip in a way he knows drives her insane.

click.

another from the front.

another with his shirt pushed up, hint of abs, just to be cruel.

he sends all three without a caption. lets the silence linger.

and then, just to twist the knife:

[1:53AM — chew toy]

  you miss me or just the arms?

  be honest

he knows she’ll lie. she always does. and he’ll love every damn word of it.

[1:53 AM - my girl]

awooga

just licked my phone btw

she knows he’s smirking proudly right now. so, she decides to humble him a bit.

[1:54 AM - my girl]

mostly ur arms but ig you’re not so bad.

dean’s grin kicks in before he even finishes reading — one of those low, private, deeply entertained ones that makes his shoulders drop and his stomach twist. he leans against the chipped sink like it’s holding him up, phone warm in his hand, heart warmer.

[1:55 AM — chew toy]

  “mostly my arms” huh

  real sweet talker you are

  you try that hard with everyone or am i just lucky

he doesn’t wait for her to respond before tossing in another — his favorite kind of bait:

[1:56 AM — chew toy]

  bet if i was there you’d be bitin ‘em

  all whiny and pretty and sayin you don’t miss me

  with my hand down your shorts

he stares at it for a beat, considering, then shrugs and hits send. the motel hums quietly around him, and sam snores like a dying tractor.

[1:56 AM — chew toy]

{attachment : 1 image}

he sends another picture — his hand curled lazily around the back of his neck, bicep flexed, a smirk barely tugging at the corner of his mouth. no caption this time.

[1:57 AM - my girl]

holy fucken shit ur gorg. it’s criminal.

she crawls into his bed, clicking off the bedside lamp.

[1:58 AM - my girl]

i hate you but you’re so damn right i would

also i’m sleeping in ur bed btw

was too lazy to put my sheets on after i washed them

might leave you a lil somethin’

and yes you are lucky it’s because of the gun show that’s the only reason i like you

dean’s hand rakes through his hair, that slow, stunned kind of movement that says goddamn, like she’s under his skin even from three states away. he reads her messages over and over — especially the last one — until his lip’s caught between his teeth and he’s fighting off a groan that would definitely wake sam.

[2:01 AM — chew toy]

  what kinda somethin

  you talkin like… a rock?

  or more like somethin that smells like you and makes me hard?

he paces the motel bathroom, running too hot now, thumbs hovering, not quite done.

[2:02 AM — chew toy]

  cuz if it’s the second one

  i’m gonna start drivin right now

  nebraska to south dakota, no stops, no mercy

he pauses again. then, because he knows her:

[2:03 AM — chew toy]

  also

  don’t get drool on my pillow

  you sleep like a corpse but worse

a really fuckjn hot corpse but still

he pictures her there, curled in his sheets, probably naked just to spite him. smug and bratty and buried in his scent like it’s a comfort she won’t admit to.

[2:04 AM — my girl]

you bitch

also *fuckin

and i do not drool.

i sleep like an angel thank you very much

dean practically chokes on a laugh, biting his knuckle to keep quiet, eyes glinting with the kind of amusement that only she ever drags out of him at two am motel bathrooms, surrounded by mildew and bad decisions. he sinks to the toilet lid, elbows on knees, phone lighting up his face like a ghost.

[2:06 AM — chew toy]

  an angel huh

  funny, cuz i’ve heard the noises you make in your sleep

  like a lil gremlin tryin to possess my mattress

he’s smiling wide now, loose and boyish, totally gone for her in the way that makes him reckless.

[2:07 AM — chew toy]

  but yeah sure

  a real angel

  especially when you’re stealin all the covers and trapping me like a goddamn bear trap

he tacks on a picture — him in bed now, one arm thrown behind his head, sheets low on his hips, still shirtless, that same cocky tilt to his smirk like he knows she’s clutching her phone with fire in her veins.

[2:08 AM — chew toy]

  goodnight, brat

  sweet dreams in my bed

[2:09 — my girl]

nooo don’t go to bed it’s so early you geriatric freak

stay up

i wanna flirt with you

dean’s head tips back with a groan, grinning like he’s been sucker punched by cupid himself and he likes the bruises. phone clutched to his chest for a second like she might hear the laugh that bubbles up in him — low, hoarse, warm as summer asphalt under his ribs.

[2:10 AM — chew toy]

  geriatric freak???

  i’m twenty-one you toddler

  but go on i guess

  flirt away

  i’m all ears n biceps

{attachment : 1 image}

he shifts in bed, the mattress creaking beneath him, and takes another photo — this time it’s blurry on purpose, just his hand tugging the waistband of his boxers low enough to make her ache.

[2:11 AM — chew toy]

  c’mon, angel

  say something filthy

  make the old man blush

[2:13 AM — my girl]

holy gilf

gAWDAMN

{attachment : 1 image}

dean freezes the second that little attachment bubble pops up — thumb hovering, heart pounding like he just got shot at. because he knows her. and if she sent a photo after calling him a gilf, it’s not of her face.

he opens it, and groans. out loud. no warning.

it’s her. in his shirt, all soft and rumpled and riding high on her thighs, legs bare, one of them bent just enough to show the curve of something sinful. her hair’s a mess and her lips are pink and her eyes — god, her eyes — half-lidded and smug and sweet all at once. like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him and lives for it.

[2:15 AM — chew toy]

  you’re trying to kill me

  and honestly

  not a bad way to go

he stares at the photo again, thumb brushing the screen. he wants to bite her. wants her in his lap, on his tongue, clawing at his shoulders and laughing into his mouth.

[2:16 AM — chew toy]

  i’d wreck you right now if i could

  you wouldn’t sleep for a week

  all because you called me a gilf

  you deserve it

[2:17 AM — my girl]

don’t hate me it turns me on

she smirks in his dark bedroom, her mind never ceasing on ideas of just how to torment him.

[2:19 AM — my girl]

whoops there go my panties

gosh darn things just flew right off

dean’s got a fist in his own hair now, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown, sitting in a dim motel room like he’s been hexed. and maybe he has. maybe her voice lives in his bloodstream now, tangled with the way she laughs, the way she teases, the way she ruins him with nothing but a few shitty texts and a photo he’s gonna be thinking about for years.

he drags his teeth across his bottom lip and types:

[2:20 AM — chew toy]

  panties didn’t stand a chance

  poor little things

  bet they were cute too

  lace? cotton? little bow on the front?

  doesn’t matter

  i’d have em in my pocket right now. or maybe wrapped around my dick

he pauses. closes his eyes. inhales slow.

[2:21 AM — chew toy]

  you really want me to lose my mind tonight, huh

  say the word and i’ll fuck my hand stupid thinking about that picture

  bout how warm you’d be under me

  bout how you’d cry for it

[2:22 AM — my girl]

the word

he exhales hard, like she just punched the air right out of him — palms sweaty, throat dry, cock already aching where it presses against the waistband of his boxers. god, she’s evil. nineteen and bratty and sinful and his.

he doesn’t even reply, not with words. not at first.

instead, he finds the voice memo button and hits record. voice low, half-wrecked already:

[2:24 AM — chew toy]

{attachment : voice memo — 0:43}

“you want this, baby? yeah, you do. all that attitude, all that mouth — bet it’d get real soft if i was there, huh? you’d be breathin my name so sweet, so filthy, pullin at my arms like they’re the only thing keepin you grounded. i’d have you cryin in that damn bed you’re stealin from me. you’d be beggin, i know you would. wouldn’t stop ‘til i gave it to you.”

he ends it with a breath — sharp, unsteady.

[2:24 AM — chew toy]

  go on then

  ruin me right back

[2:25 — my girl]

{attachment : 3 images}

[incoming call — my girl]

accept?

he accepts with a swipe, fingers trembling just slightly, phone pressed to his ear like it’s a lifeline. there’s a beat of silence — thick, charged, the kind that prickles up the back of his neck — and then she’s there, her voice all honeyed static and bedroom hush.

“hi,” she says, soft and smug, and it’s the sexiest fucking thing he’s ever heard.

he sinks further into the motel mattress, free hand gripping the sheets like she’s underneath him already. “jesus christ, mal.”

she giggles. giggles. like she hasn’t been wrecking him from three states away with nothing but texts and one wicked photo. “you sound a little outta breath, old man.”

“you send that and expect me to be fine?” he rasps. “you’ve got a mean streak.”

“i’m sweet,” she purrs. “you said so yourself. your lil angel.”

“you’re a demon in thigh-high socks.”

“wrong. your demon in thigh-high socks.”

his groan is immediate, wrecked and low and involuntary. he lets the phone fall to his chest for a second, like he can’t breathe with her voice so close, then brings it back. “you touchin’ yourself, sweetheart?”

a pause. breath hitching through the speaker. “…yeah.”

he could die. right now. happy, hard, haunted.

“yeah?” he murmurs, palm dragging down over his stomach. “how’s it feel?”

“not the same,” she whispers. “miss your hands. your mouth. it pisses me off that you’re better than me at it. and your fuckin’ voice — jesus, dean, you sound like sex.”

“you’re the one makin’ me sound like this,” he breathes. “you sittin there in my shirt, in my bed, touchin that sweet pussy and callin me names.”

she moans, sharp and desperate, and it goes straight to his spine.

“say it again,” she pants.

“say what?”

“that it’s yours. that i’m yours.”

he groans again, hand gripping his cock now, slow and firm. “you’re mine. mine, mal. fuckin’ branded.” his breath stutters, lips parted against the speaker. “nobody else gets you like this. nobody else gets this mouth.”

“dean—”

“say my name again,” he growls.

“dean,” she gasps.

he’s close, too close, the sound of her falling apart spilling over the line like gasoline on fire. his name in her voice is a fucking prayer, a confession.

“i’m gonna come thinkin about you,” he chokes. “bout those pictures. bout you leavin me somethin sweet on my sheets.”

“do it,” she cries. “do it for me, baby—please—”

he does. with her name in his mouth and her voice in his ears and a photo burned into his memory that he’ll never recover from.

they both go quiet. not awkward. not tense. just quiet, breathless, like the storm just passed and left them in the stillness of something sacred.

after a beat, she hums, satisfied and sleepy. “you still there?”

“barely,” he mumbles, boneless and blissed out.

she laughs, and it’s soft this time. tender.

“told you i’d leave you somethin’.”

“gonna frame that photo,” he says. “put it over my grave.”

“you’re so dramatic.”

“you’re so hot.”

they lie there, hundreds of miles apart, hearts beating like they’re in the same bed.

“love you,” she murmurs. unprompted. small and sure.

his breath catches.

“love you,” he echoes. “always.”

and she falls asleep to the sound of his breathing, steady on the line.

he stays up a bit longer, just thinking of her — naked, snuggled in his bed, that post-orgasmic glow she always seems to don.

the motel room hums in that way only cheap places do — air conditioner buzzing, fridge kicking on with a rattle, the static hush of late-night television still playing to no one. sam mutters in his sleep, rolls over, but dean doesn’t notice. not really. not when his mind’s a thousand miles away, soft-focused on the picture she painted with nothing but her voice and a sin-slick smile.

he can see it like it’s projected on the back of his eyelids — her, tangled in his sheets, all bare limbs and flushed cheeks and that sweet, smug little grin that only shows up after she’s come apart for him. her hair a mess on his pillow, skin still dewy with heat, chest rising slow beneath the fabric of his shirt. his shirt. she always steals it like it’s owed to her, like she belongs in it more than he ever did.

he presses his phone to his chest, feels the thrum of her still there — like she never stopped talking, like her voice is stitched into the lining of his ribs. he swears he can smell her, that warm mix of perfume and sweat and something that’s just her, something wild and unmistakable. makes his throat tight. makes his hands twitch, like they’re reaching for the slope of her hip in the dark.

he’d give anything to be in that bed with her now. to press his lips to her bare shoulder, pull her close, bury himself in the silence that only she makes feel like home. he aches with it. not just the want, not just the heat — but the closeness. the herness of her. loud and soft and maddening in equal measure.

he sighs. rubs a hand over his face. doesn’t even bother to hide the smile that creeps in — slow, private, helpless.

“brat,” he mutters, under his breath, fond as hell.

then he turns off the light and lets the darkness take him, her name the last thing curled against his tongue.

dean’s eyes crack open slow, groggy and thick-lidded, one arm flung over his face like a mirror of how sam looked hours ago. his phone buzzes against his chest where it must’ve slipped down sometime in the night, screen lighting up with her name, and god — just like that, he’s wide awake.

he blinks once. twice. lets the message soak in.

[9:27 AM — my girl]

  shit sorry didn’t hang up i swear my phone died

he huffs a laugh, throat dry and voice rough with sleep. phone still warm from being held all night, like it remembers her too. he reads the text again, already grinning, already imagining the mess she probably is — bare legs kicked over his sheets, panic-typing with those frantic thumbs of hers like she just woke up and realized she’d accidentally left a window open into her soul.

he types back, quick and teasing, still smiling like an idiot in yesterday’s boxers:

[9:29 AM — chew toy]

  uh huh

  so what you’re tellin me is i got to fall asleep to the sound of your breathing

  like some lovesick teen in a coming-of-age movie

he rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand, biting back the flutter in his chest that her name always kicks up. then, after a second,

[9:30 AM — chew toy]

  also

  you snored

  like, a lot

  like a lil gremlin trapped in my phone

she doesn’t snore, but he never stops teasing her about it. he hits send with a quiet snort and waits, already knowing she’ll have something ridiculous to say. already loving her more than he knows what to do with.

[9:31 AM — my girl]

tsk tsk

all you do is lie

and liars don’t deserve this but you get it anyway because i’m feeling charitable

{attachment : 1 image}

it’s her, cuddled in his sheets, the black comforter pulled up right under her chin. mr. bunny in hand, a sleepy little smile playing on her lips, and little wrinkles on her cheek from where she laid in one place for too long.

he stares.

like, really stares — everything in him going still and reverent, like she just sent him a damn masterpiece. his girl, curled up in his bed, wrapped in his sheets, clutching that stupid little bunny she’s had since she was a kid, and somehow she’s still the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. that tiny, smug, sleepy smile wrecks him. the sheet-pressed wrinkles on her cheek make his heart seize up in his chest.

he exhales slow. presses his knuckles to his mouth. god, he’s so fucking gone for her.

[9:34 AM — chew toy]

  oh my god

  you’re not even real

he swipes a hand down his face, groaning out loud.

[9:35 AM — chew toy]

  look at you

  all smug and cozy and domestic

  how the hell am i supposed to fight monsters and be normal after this huh

  you’re out here makin me wanna build a damn picket fence

he pauses, then tacks on:

[9:36 AM — chew toy]

  mr. bunny made it into the pic too??

  unbelievable

  no one’s ever looked that cute and been that evil at the same time

and just because he can’t help himself, just because she’s got his heart squeezed in her little fist:

[9:37 AM — chew toy]

  love you, you know

  even when you steal my bed and send me photos that make me ache in places i didn’t know had nerve endings

he doesn’t send a picture back. not yet. he just stares at hers for another full minute, grinning like a dumbass, feeling warm and ruined and home.

[9:38 AM — my girl]

mommy n baby miss you daddy <3

his head drops back against the crappy motel pillows with a groan so full-bodied it rattles out of his soul. this fucking girl.

he fists the sheet near his hip, laughter bubbling low in his chest, somewhere between unhinged and head-over-heels. she’s insane. she’s insane. and he loves her more than anything on god’s green, godforsaken earth.

[9:39 AM — chew toy]

  oh fuck no

  i just got a cavity from that text

  you tryna give me heart palpitations AND a boner before breakfast?

   also fuck, that’s so not fair

he lifts his phone, snaps a selfie — messy hair, pillow crease on his cheek, lashes still heavy from sleep. the kind of photo he wouldn’t send anyone else. the kind of photo that says i’m yours, even when i look like this.

[9:40 AM — chew toy]

  daddy misses you too

  he’s hard already

  needs his girl

  you’re lucky i’m not there

  i’d have you moanin ‘daddy’ like it’s your full time job

  make you say it until your voice goes hoarse and your legs won’t close

a beat. then, because he can’t resist:

[9:41 AM — chew toy]

  kiss mommy for me

  tell her daddy’s on his way home soon

and he’s bringing a belt

he tosses the phone onto the mattress beside him and scrubs his hands down his face, caught somewhere between laughter and a full-blown meltdown.

then he lets out the softest fucking sound — somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh, all affection, no defense. mommy n baby. she’s insane. she’s his. and god, if he doesn’t miss her so bad it feels like a bruise under his ribs.

he collapses back onto the motel bed, one arm flung across his eyes, phone held to his chest like it’s the only thing tethering him to her.

[9:43 AM — my girl]

dean winchester do not say such things in front of such impressionable young rabbits

dean practically howls, pressing his fist to his mouth to muffle the sound so he doesn’t wake sam, who’s still dead to the world across the room like a goddamn log.

he grabs the phone again, eyes watering from how hard he’s laughing, that warm ache spreading through his chest like sunlight spilling under a door.

[9:43 AM — chew toy]

  mr. bunny’s been through worse

  you think he didn’t see the way you rode me the other day?

  poor bastard was a foot away from the action

  traumatized. spiritually ruined.

  he deserves hazard pay

[9:44 AM — my girl]

being cucked by a stuffed bunny is wild in retrospect

he can’t stop grinning, thumbs still flying. this is how it always is — fire and filth and affection all tangled up in each other, impossible to separate.

[9:44 AM — chew toy]

  i’ll make it up to him

  bring him a tiny whiskey bottle or somethin

  some bunny cigarettes

  a lil therapy

[9:45 AM — my girl]

he says to just bring your ass back here yesterday because he wants siblings

dean chokes — literally chokes — on absolutely nothing, just air and implication and the sheer nerve of her. he drops his phone on his chest, staring at the ceiling like it might offer divine intervention or maybe just a moment of composure. it doesn’t. not when his entire body is tensing with laughter and something warmer, deeper, heavier that curls in his gut like a promise.

he picks the phone back up, still grinning like the absolute menace she’s made him into.

[9:46 AM — chew toy]

  mr. bunny is not allowed to talk like that

  he’s supposed to be an innocent bystander

  not my fluffy little pimp

mal snorts, rolling her eyes at his humor.

[9:47 AM — chew toy]

  …also what kinda siblings we talkin here?

  like, soft, stuffed cotton ones

  or the kind that take 9 months

his smirk turns lazy, dangerous, all teeth and heat and affection he’d never admit out loud.

[9:48 AM — chew toy]

  ’cause if it’s the second kind

  might wanna warn the neighbors

  gonna get real loud around there when daddy gets home

[9:49 AM — my girl]

you gonna cuff me for the noise complaint, officer?

dean makes a sound halfway between a groan and a laugh, because goddamn. she’s too quick with it — sweet little menace wrapped in sleepy sheets and filth, and he loves her for it. he drags a hand down his face, already picturing it: her in cuffs, that grin, that look she gets when she’s just begging to be ruined.

[9:50 AM — chew toy]

  ma’am, i’m afraid you are the noise complaint

  and yeah, i am gonna cuff you

  strictly for the safety of the public

  and also to see how long you can beg before i give you anything at all

  gonna toss my badge on the nightstand

  read you your rights with my hand down your panties

  like “ma’am, you have the right to get railed”

he pauses, breathing out a laugh, fingers dancing over the screen.

[9:52 AM — chew toy]

  no trial. no bail.

  life sentence in my lap.

she snickers, rolling onto her front as she types.

[9:53 AM — my girl]

my my. whatever shall i do? what a shame this is.

is there anything i can do, officer?? *bats lashes*

dean stares at the screen, one eyebrow cocked, lip curling slow like a wolf with blood in his teeth. he can see it — her on her stomach, kicking her feet behind her, batting those lashes like she’s not the devil in disguise. she knows what she’s doing. and he’s already a goner.

[9:54 AM — chew toy]

  hmm. well, that depends, miss

  you willing to cooperate with the investigation?

  might go easy on you if you confess to being the sexiest damn girl alive

  though i gotta warn you

  the punishment for that is pretty severe

  might have to handcuff you to the headboard

  run a full… thorough body search

he leans back against the headboard, grinning like a sinner in church.

[9:56 AM — chew toy]

  and if you ask real nice

  maybe i’ll let you kiss my badge before i ruin you

[9:57 AM — my girl]

it’s a good thing i’m a law-abiding citizen, sir.

i just can’t go to jail! i look terrible in orange :(

dean huffs a laugh, low and throaty, thumb already flying across the screen. she’s so damn good at this — playing it up all sweet and fake-innocent, knowing full well she’s the one with the devil on her shoulder and him wrapped around her pinky finger.

[9:58 AM — chew toy]

  oh sweetheart

  you think you’re not already in trouble?

  orange might not be your color

  but i bet you’d look real cute in cuffs and nothing else

  you keep talkin like that and i will show up at bobby’s

  badge, cuffs, the whole damn uniform

  gonna kick down your door and say i got a warrant for your arrest

  on multiple counts of bein too fuckin pretty

he’s smirking now, biting his bottom lip, imagining the look on her face — those wide, faux-innocent eyes, the gasp, the pout.

[10:00 AM — chew toy]

  and the sentence, miss?

  you, me, and 40 years of hard fucking labor

[10:01 AM — my girl]

only forty?

he groans under his breath, tossing his head back against the motel headboard with a grin that’s equal parts reverent and wrecked. god, she kills him. every damn time.

[10:02 AM — chew toy]

  sweetheart

  i was tryin to be generous

  but if you’re askin for life without parole…

he pauses. thumbs still. smile curling slow and devilish.

[10:03 AM — chew toy]

  guess i’ll just have to make sure you never walk straight again

  start servin your sentence tonight

  i’m comin to get you.

  gonna cuff you to the headboard and read you your rights

  real slow. real thorough.

  right to remain gagged

  anything you moan can and will be used against you in the bedroom of law

[10:05 AM — my girl]

bring bunny some earplugs

[10:06 AM — chew toy]

  he’s gettin a tiny lil blindfold too.

  poor guy doesn’t need to see what daddy’s about to do to mommy.

her fingers twitch around the phone, teeth digging into her bottom lip like she might bite down hard enough to draw blood. cheeks flushed, legs tangled in the sheets, she kicks them once out of sheer, girlish delight.

[10:07 AM — my girl]

  you’re gonna scar him for life

  he’s just a baby

  but i guess it is a good lesson in what happens when you misbehave

she tosses the phone aside for a moment, flopping onto her back, grinning so hard it hurts her jaw. when she grabs it again, she’s already laughing.

[10:09 AM — my girl]

  think you’re man enough to handle me and bunny at the same time, officer winchester?

[10:10 AM — chew toy]

don’t fear, ma’am, i was trained for this.

she lets out a delighted gasp, dramatic as ever, clutching the phone like it might run away from her. she reads it once, then again, then a third time, giggling into her pillow like a teenager with a summer crush and a secret too big to carry.

[10:11 AM — my girl]

  a real hero…

  putting in the work to protect and serve

sucking you off is included in community service right?

  that’s the law, i read it in one of sam’s stanford books

  hope you got the cuffs polished, officer.

[10:13 AM — chew toy]

of course, ma’am. my fuzziest handcuffs, just for you

her toes curl. the smirk on her face turns smug, satisfied, kittenish. she stretches out across his bed like a cat in a sunbeam, the phone cradled in one hand, the other tangled lazily in her hair.

[10:14 AM — my girl]

  fuzzy? mm. such a gentleman.

but she prefers when you hold her down yourself

  til she’s all sweet and sorry and saying please

{attachment : 1 image}

she grins wickedly and snaps another picture — a close-up this time, of her mouth parted just slightly, a little trail of her fingertip pressed to her bottom lip. the caption: “you gonna teach me a lesson, officer?”

[10:16 AM — chew toy]

fuck you’re so mean. makin me hard at ten in the fucken morning. sam’s five feet away, baby

her laughter is silent and devious, muffled into the pillow she half-buries her face in. she knows exactly what she’s doing, knows he’s squirming in his seat or pacing the motel room like a caged animal, knows sam’s somewhere nearby probably side-eyeing him without a clue.

[10:17 AM — my girl]

  poor baby. all stiff n twitchy and nowhere to go.

  maybe if you’re good i’ll send you a video.

  real quiet. real slow.

  you can sneak off to the bathroom like a little perv and think about how you left me all alone.

[10:19 AM — chew toy]

don’t bully me i’ll cum :(

she snorts, kicks her feet up like she’s sixteen again, wicked grin twisting her mouth as she clutches mr. bunny in her arm, all venomous and saccharine.

[10:20 AM — my girl]

  you’re so fragile.

baby’s gonna make a mess in his jeans before breakfast?

  should i tell you’re a good boy?

  rub your back?

  tell you what a strong man you are for not nutting the second i texted you?

[10:22 AM — chew toy]

go fuck yourself

his phone vibrates in his hand and he groans — sharp, low, bitten off at the end like it physically hurts. he’s already slouched deeper into the passenger seat, legs spread and jacket bunched around his hips, like somehow that’ll hide the way he’s squirming.

sam doesn’t look up, just mutters, “you good?”

“yeah,” dean grits out. “great. awesome.”

he opens the message.

mal snickers, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip and slipping a hand under the covers.

[10:24 AM — my girl]

yes sir. wanna see?

he reads it and immediately chokes on his coffee — actually coughs, loud enough for sam to glance over with suspicion in his eyes. dean waves him off, muttering some bullshit about “wrong pipe” as he fumbles for his phone under the table, pupils already blown wide, mouth slack.

[10:24 AM — chew toy]

  you’re fucken evil

  yes

  show me what i’m missing, baby

  bet you’re already wet just thinking about me

  cmon. be good. lemme see

[10:26 AM — my girl]

dripping.

{attachment : 1 image}

she chuckles softly, her fingers coming back glistening, arousal stringing between the tips of her lithe middle and ring fingers. she snaps the photo, sending it off.

[10:27 AM — chew toy]

  fuck

  god, baby, you know exactly what i need to see

  you’re killin’ me

he takes a shaky breath, trying not to get too caught up in the heat of it, but it’s impossible. the image she sent has him on edge, barely able to focus on anything other than the burn in his gut. sam’s talking about some random thing, but dean’s too far gone to care, his thumb hovering over his phone, mind only on her.

[10:28 AM — chew toy]

  if you keep this up, i swear to god, i’m gonna lose my shit.

  fuck

i need to touch you so bad

[10:29 AM — my girl]

already on it, drive safe xo

[10:30 AM — chew toy]

  goddamn, i love you.

  i’ll be there as fast as i can.

[10:31 AM — my girl]

love you more xx

the words are barely out before he’s already pushing everything aside — his mind, his focus, all of it narrowing on the single thought of getting home to her. the road ahead might be long, but his impatience burns brighter than the headlights. he knows exactly what he’s coming back for.

he doesn’t even get one foot over the threshold before she’s on him.

the door swings open fast and wide, and then she’s there in a flurry of motion and bare legs, oversized tee riding up just enough to make him forget how to breathe. no warning. no hello. just the soft thud of her feet and then she’s airborne, flinging herself into his arms like she’d die if she didn’t.

and he’s ready — always ready when it comes to her. catches her with one arm like it’s muscle memory, like his body knew before his brain did. his bag slips off his shoulder and hits the floor with a heavy thunk but he barely hears it. all he hears is the way she giggles as her legs wrap around his waist, her arms latching around his neck.

and then she’s kissing him — attacking him with kisses, really. quick and messy and everywhere. cheeks, jaw, the corner of his mouth, nose, eyelids. she’s giggling breathlessly against his skin, whispering something like “mine, mine, mine” between kisses, and he’s just standing there with one arm hooked under her thighs and the other cupping the back of her head, dazed and so fucking in love he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“hi,” she murmurs eventually, grinning against his lips, eyes gleaming like sunlight on bourbon.

he huffs out a laugh. “jesus, sweetheart — can i breathe first?”

“nope,” she says, and kisses him again, like she’s trying to make up for every second he was gone.

and he lets her. of course he does.

[sophiuhhsthots]

sigh, dreaming of a 1950’s supernatural au where i’m dean’s pretty little housewife

[sophiuhhsthots]

LOVE NOTE : tramp stamp

WORD COUNT : 2626

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he’s tracing invisible lines with his fingers, dragging them over the subtle contrast, humming in appreciation. “you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent, like he’s in awe. when she gets a new freckle or one of her moles catches his eye, he’ll press a kiss to it, like he’s cataloging each one. “gonna start connecting the dots,” he teases, mapping out invisible constellations on her shoulder with the tip of his finger.

“get a pen,” she hums lazily, turning the page of her book. she’s laying on her stomach, dean’s cheek pressed to her upper back.

“don’t tempt me,” he mumbles, lips brushing her skin as he speaks. his hand smooths over her waist, fingers tracing absent patterns along the dip of her spine. “i could make a masterpiece outta you.”

she snorts, flipping another page. “wouldn’t be the first time.”

he grins against her back, pressing a kiss to the warm skin of her shoulder. “damn right.”

“you can, if you want.” she says, quieter this time.

dean stills for a moment, then lifts his head just enough to glance at her. “yeah?”

she nods, barely, her fingers idly toying with the corner of the page. “sure,”

he doesn’t hesitate. he shifts off of her, reaching over to grab a pen from the nightstand. “you’re gonna regret givin’ me free rein,” he warns, uncapping it with his teeth.

mallory just hums, resting her chin on her folded arms. “doubt it.”

dean clicks his tongue, already pressing the tip of the pen to the small of her back. “guess we’ll see about that.”

“well…. don’t draw anything obscene.” she protests, inspecting her nails.

“obscene?” dean scoffs, feigning offense. “babe, c’mon. i’m a man of class.”

mallory just hums, clearly unconvinced. “mhm. so no dicks.”

“no dicks,” he agrees solemnly, dragging the pen across her skin in slow, deliberate strokes.

she feels the slight scratch of it, the way he pauses every so often, adjusting his grip on her hip. “what are you even drawing?”

“masterpiece,” he says simply.

“elaborate.”

“nope.”

mallory huffs, but she lets it slide, letting him work in peace. a few minutes pass before he leans back, grinning.

“alright, moment of truth,” he says, capping the pen with a dramatic flourish.

mallory pushes up onto her elbows, twisting to catch a glimpse in the mirror across the room. when she sees what he’s done, she bursts into laughter.

on the small of her back, just above the waistband of her pajama shorts, in dean’s signature scrawl: property of dean winchester.

“you’re ridiculous, you know that? you gave me a fricken tramp stamp.” she hums, but there’s no bite to it.

dean chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. “it’s a classic, babe. works every time.”

she rolls her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips gives her away. “yeah, sure. ‘property of dean winchester,’ huh? real subtle.”

“hey,” he says with mock offense, “it’s got a ring to it, alright?”

“i can’t believe you actually did this.” she shakes her head, still laughing softly as she glances at it again in the mirror.

dean shrugs, looking like he’s entirely too proud of his handiwork. “hey, you didn’t say i couldn’t.”

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” she mutters, playfully nudging him with her elbow before flopping back down on the bed.

he just smirks, leaning down to kiss the small of her back, where he left his “masterpiece.” “i know.”

“okay, my turn.” she hums, taking the pen from his hand and pushing him down so he’s laying on his front and she’s sitting on his lower back.

“yes ma’am.” dean raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling up.

mallory grins, pleased by his immediate compliance. “good boy.” she teases, tapping the pen against her chin as she takes a moment to admire his broad back.

she leans forward, her left hand on his left shoulder blade and the pen on his right. she scrawls out the words in impeccable penmanship, muttering at him to stay still.

dean lets out a low hum of agreement, his body tense under her touch, but he doesn’t move. “you’re serious, huh?” he teases, voice laced with amusement as he watches her from the corner of his eye.

“oh, I’m serious,” she responds, her tone light but firm, focused on the neatness of the letters she’s carefully drawing.

he can feel the cool tip of the pen on his skin, but the way she’s leaning over him, her body pressed against his, makes it hard to focus on anything else. he swallows, an eager grin pulling at his lips. “you’re gonna make me regret this, aren’t you?”

“maybe.” she flashes a wicked grin, her fingers lightly grazing his back as she works. “but it’s worth it, don’t you think?”

his heart rate picks up, his smirk turning into something more sincere, the playful challenge in her voice stirring something in him. “depends on what you’re writing, darlin’.”

“you’ll see,” she purrs, finishing the last stroke of her message.

she leans back, admiring her work, before giving him a satisfied look. “there we go, all done. you can move now.”

dean slowly pushes himself up on his elbows, glancing over his shoulder to try and read what she’s written.

“hang on,” she hums, reaching for the polaroid on the nightstand, snapping a shot of it.

“the suspense is killing me,” he snickers, watching her wave the polaroid for it to develop.

“oh please, it’s been ten seconds.”

his eyebrows raise in surprise, a grin tugging at his lips. “if lost, return to mallory” he snickers, reading it aloud.

mallory lets out a soft chuckle, clearly pleased with herself. “yep, that’s what it says. it’s a public service, really. if anyone finds you wandering off, they’ll know exactly where to bring you.”

dean laughs, a low, amused sound, as he shifts to sit up fully, glancing at her with a mix of pride and playfulness in his eyes. “so, what, you’re marking your territory now?”

“absolutely,” she smirks, tossing the pen aside and sliding her arms around his neck. “it’s just a little reminder that you belong to me, in case anyone forgets.”

dean shakes his head, but there’s no denying the way his chest swells at her words. “you know, i think i kinda like this.”

“good,” she hums, leaning in to kiss him, soft and slow, the warmth of their connection making everything else fade into the background. “because you’re not getting it off anytime soon.”

he chuckles against her lips, pulling her closer. “guess i’ll just have to get used to it, then.”

“good. can’t have you getting lost forever, now can i?”

dean’s laying on his stomach again, one arm lazily draped off the bed. mal crawls onto him, laying on his back.

he lets out a low grunt at the sudden weight of her, shifting just slightly beneath her before settling again. “jesus,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep, “you’re like a damn cat.”

mallory hums, nuzzling her face against the bare expanse of his shoulder, her arms slung loosely around his waist. “i like it here,” she says simply, pressing a lazy kiss to his skin.

he sighs, content, the tension in his muscles melting as he lets her sprawl out over him. “yeah, yeah,” he murmurs, turning his head just enough to catch a glimpse of her from the corner of his eye.

his lips twitch into a tired, amused smirk. “guess that makes me your personal mattress now, huh?”

mallory just hums again, fingers lazily tracing the curve of his spine. “mm. best mattress i’ve ever had.”

he huffs out a laugh, shifting slightly under her but making no real effort to move her off. if anything, he settles even further into the bed, letting her weight press him down. it’s grounding, the way she clings to him, the way she just melts into him like she belongs there.

“just don’t start kneading me like an actual cat,” he grumbles, but there’s no real bite to it. his voice is low, warm, laced with something softer.

mallory grins against his skin. “no promises.”

she lays her cheek on his shoulder, her hand coming up to gently trace his profile with her fingertip as she sighs softly.

he sighs again, softer this time, his lashes fluttering as her fingertip ghosts over his cheekbone, down the bridge of his nose, tracing the curve of his lips. his skin is warm beneath her touch, and he lets her do it, lets her map him out like she’s committing him to memory.

“y’know,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, “if you wanted to stare at me all night, you could’ve just said so.”

mallory huffs a quiet laugh, her thumb brushing over his bottom lip before she taps it lightly, like she’s shushing him. “shut up,” she mutters, but there’s no real heat behind it.

he smirks, just barely, the corner of his mouth twitching against her touch. “make me.”

she doesn’t bother with a reply — just presses her lips to the spot she’d been tracing, a lazy, lingering kiss against the side of his mouth. his smirk fades, his expression going all soft, and he exhales slow and deep, his hand sliding over hers where it rests against his cheek.

“g’night, mal,” he murmurs, his voice dipping low, something warm curling around the syllables of her name.

she closes her eyes, her breath evening out against his skin. “night.”

a moment passes, and she stirs. “wait,” she says so softly it’s almost a whine.

dean’s brows twitch, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “what,” he mutters, half-asleep, voice gravelly and warm.

“i want a kiss.”

his lips quirk, but he still doesn’t open his eyes. “needy,” he murmurs, voice teasing but fond, the word dripping off his tongue like warm honey.

mallory huffs, shifting against him, her arms tightening around his waist. “yeah,” she says simply, unashamed, her breath brushing against his jaw. “so?”

his eyes blink open then, heavy-lidded and dark in the dim light. there’s a laziness to his movements as he turns his head, just enough so their noses brush, so she can feel the warmth of his breath against her lips. “so, nothing,” he echoes, low and slow, before closing the distance.

the kiss is soft, unhurried — just a press of lips, the kind that lingers, like he’s tucking her away in the quiet space between sleep and wakefulness. his fingers twitch against hers where they still rest against his cheek, like he’s fighting the urge to pull her closer, to sink deeper.

when he pulls back, she hums, content, her lashes fluttering as she nuzzles into the crook of his neck. “mm,” she sighs, a little dazed, a little sleepy. “’s better.”

dean chuckles, low in his chest, his own eyes already slipping shut again. “good,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “now go to sleep.”

but mallory just presses another kiss to his shoulder, holding him a little tighter, and he thinks — just before he drifts off — that he wouldn’t mind if she woke him up like this every night.

it’s warm. too warm. but she doesn’t care.

mallory wakes up first, which never happens.

the room’s washed in that soft, grey morning light, the kind that makes everything feel a little slower, a little quieter. dean’s still dead asleep, his whole body heavy against hers, his arm like a vice around her waist. she glances at the clock on the nightstand, groaning quietly. too early. way too early.

she blinks blearily, still groggy, buried deep beneath dean’s weight. his arm is slung over her, his bicep a solid, heavy thing pressing her snug against his chest. his face is tucked into the crook of her neck, his breath steady and slow, fanning across her skin in soft, rhythmic puffs.

she shifts slightly, but he just makes a low noise in the back of his throat and tightens his hold, like he can sense her trying to slip away even in sleep.

“dean,” she murmurs, voice thick with drowsiness, her fingers pressing against his ribs. he doesn’t stir, only exhales a deep, contented sigh and burrows closer.

she huffs, but it’s fond, her lips quirking as she lets herself relax again, pressing her face against the top of his head. the heat of him, the weight — it should be stifling, suffocating even, but it isn’t. it’s grounding. comforting in a way she doesn’t have the words for.

she stretches as much as she can without disturbing him, her foot brushing against the cool sheets — and that’s when she remembers.

the pen. the writing. the property of dean winchester still scrawled across her lower back.

she stifles a laugh into the pillow, wriggling a little under dean’s weight.

he grumbles, tightening his grip without even waking up fully. “quit movin’,” he mutters, voice all gravel and sleep.

“you’re crushing me,” she whispers, elbowing him half-heartedly.

he just hums, nuzzling into her neck. “you love it.”

she does. she really, really does.

but before she can say anything smart, there’s a heavy knock at the door.

“hey,” comes sam’s voice, muffled but clearly impatient. “you guys up? we gotta hit the road soon.”

dean just groans, dragging a hand over his face. “five more minutes, sammy.”

the door creaks open before either of them can argue — and sam steps halfway into the room, already rattling off something about motel checkout times — and stops dead.

mallory cranes her neck to look at him, her cheek still squished into the pillow, hair a mess, dean draped all over her like a damn security blanket.

sam’s eyes widen — and then, horrifyingly, narrow — like he’s seen something he can’t unsee.

mallory’s brows knit. “what?” she grumbles.

sam points, accusatory. “uh—mallory. you’ve got…something on your back.”

she blinks, confused for half a second, until she remembers.

dean, somehow even less helpful, just snickers into her neck. “yeah, she does,” he mumbles, utterly smug.

sam looks absolutely mortified. he’s already backing out of the room, hand thrown up like a shield. “nope. nope. not my business. i don’t wanna know. i don’t need to know.”

the door slams shut.

mallory drops her forehead into the pillow, groaning in secondhand embarrassment.

dean’s laughing so hard now he’s shaking against her. “he’s such a prude,” he chokes out between wheezes.

“he totally is,” she snickers, elbowing him again, her whole body shaking under his.

he just keeps grinning, totally unrepentant. “property of dean winchester. permanent marker, sweetheart. you’re stuck.”

“it was a pen, you moron.”

“yeah? still counts.”

she twists under him, slapping at his shoulder until he finally, reluctantly, rolls off her. she sits up, trying to peer over her own shoulder, grimacing.

dean just props himself up on one elbow, admiring his handiwork with a shit-eating grin. “looks good. real good.”

she glares at him, grabbing the nearest t-shirt off the floor and yanking it over her head. “if that doesn’t come off in the shower, you’re dead.”

“worth it,” he says immediately, flashing her a wicked grin.

mallory just shakes her head, but she can’t hide the way her mouth tugs up into a reluctant smile. she chucks a pillow at his head on her way to the bathroom.

behind her, she can hear dean still chuckling to himself, totally and shamelessly pleased.

and, if she’s being honest, when she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror — messy hair, sleep-creased face, and that ridiculous scrawl across her back — she can’t help but smile, too.

because, yeah.

maybe she does belong to him a little bit.

and maybe she kinda loves it.

[sophiuhhsthots]

LOVE NOTE : photo booth

WORD COUNT : 807

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they’re wandering around a mall, and mal drags him into a photo booth.

she spots it out of the corner of her eye — tucked between a claw machine and one of those stupid little massage chairs no one ever actually uses — and her whole face lights up.

“oh my god,” she gasps, yanking on dean’s arm before he can even register what’s happening. “get in. get in.”

“what? no—mal,” he groans, dragged half-laughing across the tile, nearly sloshing iced coffee all down the front of his jacket. “babe, c’mon, we’re not sixteen—”

“exactly,” she grins, shoving him through the little vinyl curtain. “so you don’t get to complain.”

he lands with a thud on the bench, grumbling but secretly grinning, because of course he is. she wedges herself onto his lap before he can scoot over, one leg slung across his thighs, her knee bumping the wall. the booth smells like popcorn and cheap plastic, the little light flickering like it’s been half-dead since 1993.

“you’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but his hands are already on her hips.

“smile,” she says sweetly, hitting the button. the screen starts counting down.

the first photo is blurry, her kissing his cheek and him mid-laugh, trying to dodge it.

the second’s clearer — he’s grinning now, all teeth and dimples, and she’s holding his face in both hands like she owns it, eyes half-lidded, lipgloss a little smudged.

the third, she’s licking his neck.

“jesus,” he laughs, twisting away, which only makes her giggle harder.

“one more,” she breathes, flushed and gleaming and bright with mischief, eyes locked on his like they’re the only two people in the world. “don’t move.”

he doesn’t.

in the last frame, she kisses him full on the mouth, deep and soft and slow — his eyes fluttering shut, hers already closed, his hand splayed across her jaw and neck.

the strip prints a minute later, curling into the little metal tray like something sacred.

they tuck it in the glove box. right next to condoms and fake IDs and emergency cash. and every time dean opens it, he pretends not to stare.

but he does. every damn time.

sometimes, on long drives when the highway stretches out forever and the radio’s nothing but static, dean fishes the photo strip out of the glove box and flicks it against the steering wheel. he never shows it to sam. never says a word about it. just traces the edges with his thumb and lets the corners of his mouth tilt up, soft and helpless.

mallory always pretends not to notice. she’ll lean her head against the window, one foot propped up on the dash, pretending she’s asleep — but there’s a smile tugging at her lips too, lazy and secret.

once, months later, after a hunt goes sideways and they’re both bleeding and laughing about it in the impala’s front seat, she plucks the strip right out of his hand.

“you’re such a sap,” she teases, voice raspy with exhaustion.

“yeah,” dean says, without missing a beat. “for you? absolutely.”

and she kisses him again, right there on the side of the highway, blood on her knuckles and love in her bones.

they’re stupid and reckless and way too young to know any better. but god, they’re happy. at least for a little while.

one day, months later, mal catches dean sitting on a motel bed, just admiring it.

“oh my god,” she says, holding it up to the light, grinning so hard it aches. “were you just sitting here… staring at this?”

dean scrubs a hand over his face, groaning. “jesus, mal. don’t make it sound pathetic.”

“it’s not pathetic,” she says immediately — and softer than he expects. she crawls onto his lap like she belongs there, the photo strip still dangling between two fingers. “it’s sweet.”

“great. exactly the vibe i’m going for,” he mutters, but his arms are already wrapping around her, automatic, instinctive. like breathing.

she glances at the photos again — their younger, wilder selves captured forever in a busted old mall booth — and then at him. same green eyes. same stupid smile that makes her feel like the world might actually be good.

“you’re such a sap,” she says, but it’s all fondness, her thumb brushing along his jaw.

he tilts his head back, lazy and smug. “yeah, well. you’re the one who picked me, sweetheart.”

“tragic mistake,” she teases, dropping the photo strip carefully on the nightstand before tugging his mouth to hers. he tastes like toothpaste and a little like bourbon, and he’s smiling against her lips, the bastard.

neither of them remembers to turn off the light. the photo strip stays right there — tucked beside the bed, half-hidden under a receipt and a room key — like it’s still something sacred.

because it is.

always will be.

[sophiuhhsthots]

LOVE NOTE : penance

WORD COUNT : 2430

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dean wears guilt like it’s stitched into his skin, and for him, sex is like penance.

he doesn’t really know how to say i’m sorry the right way. not with words. not with apologies that feel too small for the magnitude of the guilt clawing at his insides. but with his hands? with his mouth, his body — he knows how to use that. knows how to worship, to offer, to bleed for her in ways that don’t require explanation.

it’s not about control — it’s about surrender.

because when dean’s wrecked by guilt, when he’s convinced he’s failed her, hurt her, disappointed her in some irreparable way, he gives himself to her like a man trying to atone. every touch is reverent. every kiss, a whispered confession. he’ll trace her collarbones with trembling lips, mutter apologies into her skin like prayer. his hands will ghost over her ribs, her hips, like he’s asking permission — like he’s trying to memorize her, prove to her that he still knows how to care, even if he’s bad at it outside the sheets.

sometimes, he keeps his eyes shut the entire time. like he can’t bear to see her face, not when it’s looking at him with so much love he doesn’t think he deserves. and she hates that. hates when he won’t look at her, when she can feel the weight of his penance pressing into her instead of passion.

“this isn’t how you say sorry,” she’s told him before, voice tight, eyes glassy.

but he just shakes his head, kisses the inside of her wrist, and whispers, “it’s the only way i know how.”

and sometimes, she lets him. lets him curl around her like he’s trying to protect her from the sins written into his spine. lets him love her like he’s begging for forgiveness with every breath. and when it’s over — when they’re tangled in the dark and he’s still whispering “i’m sorry” into the crook of her neck — she runs her fingers through his hair, presses a kiss to his temple, and says:

“you don’t have to earn me.”

but he doesn’t believe it. not really.

because guilt clings to dean like a second skin. and sex, for him, isn’t just about pleasure. it’s about redemption. about finding proof — however fleeting — that he can still be wanted, still be worthy, even when he feels anything but.

the way these two love each other — it’s not soft, not clean. it’s messy and tangled and bruised at the knuckles. but god, is it real. it’s earned. they tear each other apart and then hold each other together in the dark, and it’s everything.

the way dean looks at her like she’s the last good thing he’ll ever get, and how mal knows that — knows he thinks she’s too good for him — and it infuriates her. she’d burn down heaven for him and he still thinks he has to earn her.

because mal sees it. sees the way he watches her when he thinks she isn’t looking — like she’s not real. like any second now, she’ll vanish. sometimes, when it’s late and he thinks she’s asleep, he’ll trace the slope of her shoulder with his thumb, gentle and reverent, like he’s memorizing her in case the world steals her away. and she hates it. hates the way he loves her like he’s already lost her.

and dean — he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. it’s muscle memory by now. loving her quietly. loving her guiltily. like he’s not allowed. like happiness is some forbidden thing, and she’s the brightest, sharpest corner of it. he fucks like he’s making an offering. like if he gives enough of himself, she’ll stay. and mal’s no stranger to roughness, but sometimes he goes too soft, too quiet, and she can feel the sadness in it. the grief. the worship. and that’s when she grabs his face, not soft, not tender — urgent.

“look at me,” she snaps, voice low and unflinching. “you’re not begging for scraps. you have me.”

and that’s what breaks him. not the fights. not the monsters. not even the deaths. it’s her voice, low and certain, saying i’m not going anywhere.

he kisses her like he doesn’t believe her, and she kisses him like she’s going to make him.

and mal — she might not say “i love you” much, not the way he wants to hear it. but the way she touches him? the way she pulls him in when he tries to pull away? that’s love. her version of love is chasing him down in the dead of night, dragging him back from whatever self-destructive bullshit he’s doing. it’s pulling the car over and screaming at him because she’s scared. it’s kissing him hard, mean, angry, because he scared her and she didn’t know if she’d get the chance again.

and when she does say it — when it slips out on a whisper or a sob or a scream — he crumbles. every single time. because for all his bravado, he doesn’t think he deserves it. not really. not from her. she’s fire and fury and midnight incarnate. and he’s just a sinner who got lucky.

but mal doesn’t want a saint. never has. she wants him. all the blood and bruises and burnt edges of him. she loves him because he’s messy. because he’s real. because he never gives up, even when he’s breaking.

and dean? he’d bleed for her. has. will again. but when she cups his cheek, eyes sharp and steady, and says, “i don’t want your blood, i want you,” he finally, finally starts to believe her.

she’s still furious. not the hot, shouting kind of mad, no. this is quiet. cold. the kind of angry that makes the air heavy, makes every breath feel like a warning. mallory’s standing by the window, arms crossed, jaw tight, her eyes fixed on nothing in particular. the storm outside mirrors the one behind her eyes.

it’s especially prevalent when he treats his life as less important than others.

dean lingers by the doorway, looking like he’s been carved out of guilt and stubbornness, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. he opens his mouth to speak — but doesn’t. then tries again.

“mal—”

“don’t.”

it cuts through the room like a blade. he flinches.

and she finally turns to him. slowly. deliberately. “you don’t get to do that,” she says, voice soft but trembling with fury. “you don’t get to shut me out, make some half-cocked plan to throw yourself at death, and then expect me to just… be okay with it.”

he swallows hard. “i wasn’t trying to—”

“you were,” she snaps, stepping closer. “you always are. and i’m tired of watching you bleed for everyone but yourself.”

his eyes shine, too wet, too fast. “i just—i didn’t know what else to do.”

“then say that,” she says, her voice breaking at the edges. “say you were scared. say you didn’t have a plan. but don’t pretend like you didn’t know it’d hurt me.”

he looks at her like she’s the last thing tethering him to the earth. and maybe she is. he steps forward, tentative, like he’s approaching a wild animal. “i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“but you did,” she breathes.

and then he’s in front of her, cupping her face with shaking hands. “i know. i know, baby. i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”

she doesn’t move. not at first. not until he lets out a tiny, broken sob and presses his forehead to hers, whispering again and again, “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry.”

her hands come up, slow and uncertain, pressing flat against his chest like she might push him away — but she doesn’t. she just stands there, clutching his shirt, trembling under the weight of everything they’ve been through.

he’s crying. silent and rough. like he’s ashamed of it. and she hates that. hates how easily he crumbles when he thinks she’s going to leave.

“i’m still here,” she whispers, voice tight. “but you have to stop doing this. you have to stop trying to die for everyone.”

he nods, quick and desperate, like he’ll agree to anything if it means she won’t walk away.

and when he kisses her, it’s not to shut her up. it’s not cocky or smug. it’s grateful. reverent. like she’s the only thing that’s ever saved him.

he kisses her like it’s an apology. like it’s a prayer. like he’s trying to memorize her, catalog every sigh and shiver and sharp little intake of breath. his hands are still trembling where they cup her jaw, but she doesn’t pull away — not this time.

instead, she grabs the collar of his jacket and yanks him in, teeth catching on his bottom lip in something that’s not quite a kiss and not quite a punishment. he groans, low in his throat, letting her take what she wants from him. because she always could. because he always lets her.

“don’t think this means you’re off the hook,” she mutters against his mouth, voice breathless, fierce. her hands are already shoving his jacket off, fingers clumsy with urgency.

“wasn’t counting on it,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of her mouth, her jaw, the spot just beneath her ear that makes her breath hitch. “you can yell at me after.”

“you’re goddamn right i will.”

her back hits the wall, his hands settling on her hips as she hikes one leg around his waist, the angle messy and desperate. there’s no finesse, no slow burn — it’s a fever. a need to feel, to claim, to hold.

his mouth is on her neck, teeth scraping skin like he wants to leave a mark, and she tugs his shirt up, nails dragging along the line of his spine, making him hiss.

“you like that?” she taunts, lips against his temple.

“you know i do,” he rasps, grinding against her in a way that pulls a soft, involuntary moan from her throat. “you drive me fucking insane, mal.”

“good,” she says, breathless, nails digging into his shoulders. “then we’re even.”

he laughs, low and wrecked, before catching her mouth again, and this time it’s filthy. all tongue and teeth and muffled, desperate sounds. his hands slide up her thighs, gripping like he needs to remind himself she’s real, she’s here, she’s his.

they don’t make it to the bed — not this time. not when they’re like this. too much emotion, too much pent-up fury and love and fear and ache. it bleeds into every touch, every gasp, every hurried motion. it’s not gentle. it’s not soft. it’s raw.

and when he finally sinks into her, it’s with a shuddering breath and a whisper of her name like it’s the only thing holding him together.

and she exhales, threading her fingers through his hair, dragging his face to hers. “yeah, baby,” she murmurs, hips meeting his in a rhythm that’s as much comfort as it is release. “i’ve got you.”

with them, love and anger aren’t clean-cut, compartmentalized things. they blur together, burn too hot. they try to fix things with their bodies before their words catch up, and sometimes? sometimes it just doesn’t work.

he moves inside her like he’s trying to outrun something — guilt, grief, the war waging behind his eyes. and maybe she lets him. for a while. lets him use her like an anchor, lets him pretend they’re okay. but she feels it. the crack in the foundation. the shift in the air.

she chokes on a moan as his hips slam into hers, pleasure threading through the fury still simmering low in her gut. he’s kissing her like he’s starving, and she kisses back with teeth, nails digging angry little half-moons into his shoulders.

“you think this fixes it?” she gasps against his mouth, voice sharp even as she’s panting. “you think fucking me makes everything okay?”

his breath stutters. he doesn’t answer.

and that pisses her off more.

“say something, dean,” she bites, her hand fisting in his hair and yanking his head back so she can look at him — really look at him. his pupils are blown wide, mouth parted, sweat slicking his temple, but his eyes? they’re guilty. glassy. distant.

and that’s what breaks her.

“god, fuck you,” she spits, even as her body clenches around him, traitorous in its reaction. “you don’t get to shut me up like this.”

he groans — half in pleasure, half in pain — and grips her hips hard enough to bruise, thrusting deeper like he’s trying to lose himself in her.

“i’m not—i’m not trying to shut you up,” he grits out, jaw clenched. “i just—fuck, mal, i need you.”

“yeah?” her voice wobbles, but her eyes burn with fire. “you need me so bad you won’t listen to me?”

he falters. just for a second. and it’s enough. she pushes at his chest, not enough to throw him off, but enough to make her point. his rhythm stutters.

“mal—”

“get off,” she says, breath shaking, not even sure if she means it.

he freezes. doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. his weight is heavy against her, his heart pounding like a war drum against her chest.

“please don’t make me,” he whispers, eyes begging, but he starts to shift like he will.

and she just — grabs his face, holds him there.

they’re both breathing hard. she’s still full of him. and it hurts, the ache in her chest, the raw scrape of emotion in her throat.

“this isn’t how you love me,” she says, voice low, broken. “you don’t get to disappear into me when you’re scared. i’m not a hiding place, dean.”

he flinches, forehead dropping to hers, and she feels the tremor roll through him. “i’m sorry,” he breathes. “i don’t know how else to keep you.”

“you don’t have to keep me,” she snaps, tears hot in her eyes. “you just have to be here.”

and there’s silence. heavy. bruising.

then — his hands tremble where they hold her. his next thrust is slower, deeper, and he kisses her, soft this time. almost reverent.

“okay,” he whispers. “okay.”

but it doesn’t feel even. it feels like drowning.

and god help them both, they don’t stop. even as they’re crying, cursing, clawing at each other like they’re each other’s salvation and damnation in equal measure.

because sometimes they fuck to forget.

and sometimes they fuck to remember.

and sometimes, like now, they fuck because it’s the only language they can speak when the words hurt too much to say.

[sophiuhhsthots]

LOVE NOTE : dean’s perfect thighs

WORD COUNT : 14.5k holy moly

CW : || 18+ || thigh riding (because dean’s thighs make me a little crazy batshit insane.) || biting (just expect it from them at all times tbh), || dirty talk || kind of silly pet names || dean’s got a real bad dacryphilia kink || unprotected piv — don’t be stupid like them || dean’s so fucken smug it makes me wanna cum die || dean’s quite condescending but it’s hot || marathon sex, uhhh i think that’s it idk i hate writing content warnings

from sophia : hello lovelies. i will write better, real smut soon, i pinky promise. also, is this way too long? absolutely. is anyone going to read the whole thing? unlikely. do i care? no. because it was fun to write. enjoy. xo

────────── ୨ৎ ──────────

mallory sighed, the sound soft and content, as she stretched out on the couch with her head nestled on dean’s lap. her cheek was pressed against the solid warmth of his thigh, and her fingertips danced lazily over his skin, tracing invisible patterns. his jeans were tossed haphazardly over the arm of the couch, leaving him in just his boxers and that black zeppelin shirt she loved, which did nothing to hide the expanse of his chest or the subtle flex of his stomach every time he shifted under her.

dean was comfortably reclined on the couch, lounging back and halfway watching the ‘friends’ rerun that was playing on the tv. a beer bottle he wasn’t really drinking dangled from his fingertips over the armrest, the other hand trailing up and down her spine.

“what’re you doing down there?” dean asked, his voice low and lazy. he didn’t sound annoyed — just curious, a hint of amusement laced in his tone.

mallory was convinced that dean winchester’s thighs were one of the most criminally underrated things about him. sure, everyone noticed the broad shoulders, the cocky smirk, the green eyes that could pin you in place. but his thighs? his thick, muscular thighs that strained against denim like they were hand-crafted to ruin her focus? they didn’t get nearly enough credit, and she was determined to fix that, even if she was the only one who truly appreciated them.

“nothing,” she murmured, her lips brushing his thigh when she spoke. her fingers traced a line over the edge of his boxers where they rode up just slightly, exposing more of that golden skin she loved so much. “just thinking.”

“’bout my legs?” his smirk was audible, even though she wasn’t looking at him.

her fingers moved absentmindedly, tracing light patterns over the skin of his leg. dean’s thighs were — well, they were something else. thick and muscular, built from years of hunting, running, fighting, kicking in doors, and chasing down monsters. they were solid beneath her touch, and she could feel the faint shift of muscle under his skin as he shifted ever so slightly, adjusting his weight. the warmth of him seeped through, grounding her in a way nothing else could.

her fingertips trailed up toward where his boxers bunched slightly at the top of his legs, her nails lightly scratching his skin just enough to make him jolt and huff out some noise of mock-protest.

“jesus, mal,” dean muttered, his voice low and rough, though he didn’t seem particularly inclined to stop her. he glanced down at her, his hand resting heavy on the small of her back as she turned her face to press her lips softly against his thigh, just because she could.

“you know,” she murmured, her voice soft, almost dreamlike, “you’ve got nice thighs,” she mumbled into his skin, her words muffled but sincere. her fingertips continued their exploration, running up and down the length of his leg in slow, lazy strokes.

dean huffed out a laugh, his hand sliding up to tangle in her hair. “you think so? you’re really out here admiring my thighs now?”

“yeah,” she said, her tone light but her fingers reverent as they continued their slow path over his skin. “they’re so underrated. i mean, look at them. or, well—” she tilted her head slightly to look up at him, a sly smile creeping onto her lips. “i guess i’m doing the looking for both of us.”

he chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through him and into her. “can’t say i’ve ever given them much thought.”

“well, you should,” she said matter-of-factly, returning her attention to her favorite subject. her fingertips brushed along the faint lines and contours of his thigh, feeling the way his muscles flexed even when he was just sitting there. she let her nails drag lightly over his skin, watching as goosebumps followed in their wake. “they’re strong. and really hot.”

“you’re ridiculous,” dean said, but there was no heat in his words, just amusement. still, his free hand found its way to her hair, his fingers threading gently through the strands as she continued her quiet worship.

“i’m serious,” she insisted, turning her head slightly so her lips pressed against his thigh in the softest kiss. “these things are a work of art, winchester. you should be proud.”

“yeah, okay,” he muttered, though his voice was tinged with a warmth he couldn’t quite hide. “if you say so.”

“i do say so,” she shot back, grinning as she nipped lightly at his skin, just enough to make him jump a little.

“hey,” he said, swatting at her playfully. “watch it.”

her voice was soft, her hand still moving, fingers skating lightly along the inner edge of his thigh. she could feel the warmth radiating off of him, could hear the slight hitch in his breath when she hit a sensitive spot. “they’re like… a masterpiece. so solid, so strong.” she glanced up at him, smirking. “ideal for biting. for laying on. for sitting on.”

but mallory only laughed, turning her head to press another kiss to his thigh, this one softer, more lingering. her fingers continued their lazy exploration, trailing over the faint scars and imperfections that she knew by heart. every mark told a story, and she loved them all.

“you know,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter now, almost thoughtful, “these thighs of yours have saved a lot of lives. mine included.”

dean’s hand in her hair stilled for just a moment before he resumed his slow, soothing motions. he didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes softened, his lips twitching into something gentler than a grin.

mallory glanced up at him, her smile more subdued now but no less genuine. “you’re not so bad, y’know?”

he didn’t answer right away, but his hand left her hair to brush against her cheek, his thumb tracing the edge of her jaw. “yeah,” he said softly, his voice low and rough. “i know.”

and just like that, they settled into the silence again, her head resting on his thigh, his hand in her hair. the world outside might’ve been chaotic, unpredictable, but here, with him, everything felt steady. solid. real. and as mallory’s fingers continued their slow, adoring path over his skin, she couldn’t help but think that this — this quiet, unspoken closeness — was her favorite part of being with dean.

and for mallory, there was no better place to be than here, stretched out across him, her fingers and lips exploring the parts of him she adored most, the parts she felt he never gave himself enough credit for. because to her, every inch of dean winchester was worth worshipping.

but mal’s never been too good at the silence, the stillness.

“hey. quit biting me.” dean snickered, not really doing anything to stop her.

“they’re too tempting,” she replied simply, her fingers soothing over the spot she’d just bitten. her cheek pressed back to his leg, and she let out a contented sigh. “too perfect to ignore.”

dean just shook his head, his hand falling to the back of her head, his fingers tangling lightly in her hair. he didn’t try to move her or stop her — it wasn’t like he could, anyway. mallory always got her way, especially when she was like this.

she stayed there, tracing patterns on his skin, her touch reverent and absentminded all at once. and dean? well, he couldn’t really complain. not when she made him feel like he was the only thing in the world she ever wanted to touch.

mallory smiled to herself, watching as dean shifted slightly beneath her, clearly trying to suppress the sharp breath that threatened to escape his lips. she knew exactly what she was doing, knew exactly how much power she held in this moment. she let her fingertips trail up and down his thigh once more, teasing him, before her gaze flickered up to his face. his eyes were half-lidded, but the smirk on his lips was unmistakable.

“you keep that up,” dean warned, his voice already darker, rougher. “and you’re gonna get more than you bargained for.”

she didn’t respond right away, just leaned in, pushing up his shirt and letting her lips brush the skin just above his boxer waistband. the warm scent of him surrounded her, and she couldn’t help but smile again, savoring how real he felt under her hands. then, without another word, she sank her teeth into the thick muscle of his thigh.

his reaction was immediate — his whole body tensed, and his breath caught. he shot her a look, surprised at the intensity of the bite, but the smirk didn’t leave his face. if anything, it grew more amused, more dangerous.

“really?” he muttered, his hand now tightening in her hair as if he was considering pulling her away — but he didn’t. he never did.

mal just hummed in contentment, sinking her teeth a little deeper, feeling the muscle beneath her mouth flex as she bit down, her tongue flicking over the imprint she’d left behind. she knew exactly how he felt about it, how he loved that she wasn’t afraid to claim him in whatever way she wanted. he was perfectly content to be her personal chew toy — six-foot-two and all hers to sink her teeth into.

the slight growl from his chest was all the encouragement she needed, and she kept going, her grip on his thigh firm, determined. his leg tensed under her, and she felt the muscle shift beneath her touch. she could practically hear him biting back a laugh, but he didn’t tell her to stop — not once.

“you’re unbelievable,” dean murmured, the words laced with equal parts amusement and fondness.

“uh huh,” mal muttered back, her teeth still grazing the flesh of his thigh, now more relaxed in her hold, relishing the feeling of him beneath her.

“you know, if you keep doing that, you’re gonna give me some sort of a complex,” dean teased, but the heat in his voice gave away the truth of it — he liked the attention.

“maybe i should, then.” she replied lightly, her eyes trailing over his thighs once more.

dean chuckled, his fingers tightening in her hair again, this time gently pulling her away from his thigh. “you’re lucky i’m too tired to argue right now.”

she raised an eyebrow at him but didn’t pull away. didn’t even dignify him with a witty retort.

he just sighed, a small, exasperated sound that didn’t have much weight behind it. he let his hand fall from her hair, resting back against the couch as she settled back into her place, cheek once again pressed to his thigh.

“hey. pet me.” she whined, complete with a huffy little pout as she reached for his hand and put it back on her head.

“so demanding,” dean muttered, the affection in his voice thickening every time he spoke.

“also,” she added. “you’re obsessed with my thighs, why can’t i be obsessed with yours?”

dean let out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, head tipping back against the couch cushion as he looked down at her sprawled across his lap like she belonged there. she always had. “i am not,” he lied in protest.

mallory scoffed, utterly unconvinced, dragging her nails down his leg with the kind of slow deliberation that made his muscles twitch. “dude. you are. don’t lie to me.”

“yeah, well,” dean drawled, lips twitching, “they’re usually right in my face. what do you expect me to do, ignore ‘em?”

she gave him a smug little smile, the kind that made his stomach do something stupid. “you could try.”

“not a chance in hell, sweetheart.” his voice dipped, syrup-thick and smug. his hand slid back into her hair, fingers lazy as they twisted a few strands around themselves. “you walk around in those tiny little shorts all summer like you’re asking for trouble.”

mallory hummed, thoroughly pleased with herself, her cheek pressed to his thigh as her fingers found their rhythm again. soft. reverent. like she was mapping out sacred ground. “maybe i am.”

dean’s gaze dropped to her, warm and golden and impossibly fond. “you’re gonna kill me one of these days,” he muttered, but there wasn’t an ounce of frustration in his tone. only adoration, like the thought of dying by her hand — or her mouth — wasn’t such a bad way to go.

“mm. better me than a wendigo.”

“you’re not wrong,” he said, sipping from the beer he still was barely drinking.

after a long beat, dean murmured, “you really think my thighs are that hot?”

she cracked one eye open and grinned. “i think your thighs could end wars.”

“now you’re just messing with me.”

“nope,” she said, popping the ‘p’ and dragging her lips across his inner thigh again, teeth just barely grazing the skin. “i’m being completely serious.”

dean sucked in a breath through his teeth, his free hand tightening slightly in her hair. “you’re dangerous.”

“you like it.”

he didn’t argue. just looked down at her, his eyes soft even when his smirk wasn’t. he brushed his thumb along the edge of her jaw, the gesture feather-light, and said, “yeah. i really do.”

mallory’s smile softened, the mischief in her expression giving way to something quieter, something sweeter. she turned her face just enough to press another kiss to his skin — a real one, slow and warm and full of everything she didn’t say out loud.

but it doesn’t stay soft for long. it never does.

it starts like it always does — with too much silence and not enough contact between them. mallory’s still stretched across his lap, her fingers having long since abandoned their innocent patterns in favor of more pointed exploration. she’s restless, wired and electric under her skin, and dean can tell. he can always tell. he’s not much better, already half-hard from the slight tickle of her fingertips on his inner thighs.

his hand is warm where it rests on her back, fingers splayed wide like he’s holding her in place. but she moves anyway — shifting, dragging herself up slowly until she’s straddling his thigh instead, her chest barely brushing his as she settles. there’s that glint in her eye again, the one that says i’m about to ruin both of us and you’re gonna thank me for it.

dean tilts his head, that lazy, knowing grin already spreading across his mouth. “what’s this, sweetheart?” he asks, voice thick with amusement, his hands drifting to grip her waist. “gettin’ comfy?”

“you’re comfy,” she says simply, but there’s heat in her voice, low and curling. her hands slide up his chest, palms flat against the fabric of his zeppelin tee, and she shifts — just a little, just enough for the muscles of his thigh to press right up against where she wants him most.

and dean feels it. god, he feels it.

he watches the way her eyes flutter when she rocks her hips forward, slow and teasing, chasing friction that’s not nearly enough. his grip on her waist tightens just a little, not to stop her — never to stop her — but to guide, to encourage.

“c’mon, baby,” he drawls, his voice lower now, rough and sweet like gravel soaked in honey. “you wanna use me, huh? go on, then. take what you need.”

mallory doesn’t hesitate. her fingers clutch his shoulders, nails digging into the cotton of his shirt as she finds a rhythm, grinding against him with growing intensity. every shift of her hips drags the seam of her shorts against him just right, sparking something electric low in her spine.

dean watches her like he’s watching art come to life — his lips parted just slightly, a flush rising beneath his scruff. his thigh flexes beneath her every so often, just to see what it does to her, and he’s rewarded every time. she shudders, gasps, grinds harder.

“fuck,” she breathes, her forehead pressing to his, her eyes screwed shut as the pressure builds. “dean—”

“that’s it, sugarplum,” he murmurs, voice thick, hands sliding up beneath the hem of her shirt to press against bare skin. “make a mess of me. i don’t mind.”

and he doesn’t. he never does. he’ll let her use him all damn night, won’t even complain. won’t stop until her thighs are shaking and her voice is hoarse from whimpering his name into the crook of his neck.

because mallory like this? desperate, grinding, nails in his skin and lips against his throat?

she’s his favorite sin. and he’ll let her ruin him however she damn well pleases.

he should be arrested. but he says it because he knows she’s too far gone to bite him for it. it’s deliberately condescending, syrupy sweet and smug as hell, and he uses it specifically when she’s got her thighs around him and can’t think straight.

he’ll murmur it into her ear with a crooked smile, fingers digging into her hips while she’s too busy grinding against his thigh to clock the utter disrespect of it. and he lives for the moment she does realize — when she jerks her head up, eyes wild, and he just grins like, “what? don’t like my pet names, sugarplum?”

she glares at him, all flushed and furious and still very much using him to get off, which only makes his grin wider.

he weaponizes sweetness. that boy will coo “my poor baby can’t even think straight, huh?” while she’s panting into his mouth and dragging her nails down his back. he’ll drop a low, “use me, princess, i got you,” like he’s being chivalrous instead of actively ruining her.

she’ll seethe. he knows it. she’ll snarl about it later. call him dumb and roll her eyes.

and dean’ll just smirk, hands behind his head, lookin’ all pleased with himself. “you didn’t seem to mind a second ago.”

it’s their favorite little game, neither of them ever really wanting to win — they just like the fight, the tension, the thrill of pushing each other right to the edge. and right now? she’s damn near vibrating from it.

her breath catches every time he flexes beneath her, solid muscle rolling under his skin like he knows exactly how much pressure she needs and how to withhold it just enough to keep her hungry. she’s straddling his thigh like it’s a lifeline, soaked through her panties, hips stuttering, hands clawing at his shoulders like she might pull him apart if he doesn’t let her have it.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, all faux-gentle and unbearably smug, fingers bruising her waist as he helps her move. “just like that, sugarplum. knew you’d figure it out.”

her head snaps up, flushed and feral, glare sharp enough to kill but she doesn’t stop. she can’t. her rhythm’s gone desperate now, hitching and sloppy, and dean just raises an eyebrow, smirking like he’s got all the time in the world.

“oh, don’t look at me like that,” he drawls, that filthy rasp curling around his words. “you were the one who climbed into my lap, remember?”

“fuck you,” she hisses, but it comes out as more of a whimper. there’s a tremble in her thighs now, her whole body tensing, chasing that high she swore she wasn’t going to beg for.

“maybe later.” he grins, leaning in close, lips brushing her ear. “right now, you’re busy.”

his hand slips under her shirt, warm and steady against the small of her back, holding her right where he wants her. he watches, eyes dark, mouth parted, as she rides him faster — hips twitching, chest heaving, breath hitching with every grind. and when she finally tips over the edge, when she gasps and shudders and bites down on his shoulder to muffle the sound, he groans low and filthy, hips bucking just once beneath her, like the sight alone nearly did him in.

“that’s my girl,” he murmurs, all lazy affection and shameless pride, brushing his lips against her temple while she trembles in his lap. “look at you. makin’ a mess on my leg.”

she lifts her head, hair mussed, cheeks burning, eyes dark and glassy. and dean? still smirking like the bastard he is, one hand stroking slow down her spine, the other gripping her thigh possessively.

“you done?” he asks, voice low and thick, eyes dragging over her like he already knows the answer.

she shakes her head.

and he laughs, low and wrecked and delighted. “yeah, didn’t think so.”

they’re insatiable. disgustingly in love. absolutely unfit for polite company.

and it’s unbearable. because dean only lets her be in control for so long — loves watching her chase it, loves when she uses him like a toy, but eventually that edge snaps back like a rubber band and he’s got needs, too.

so when she’s still panting, trembling, still grinding against him like she can wring out another one if she just tries hard enough, he catches her wrists in one hand and flips her onto her back so fast she gasps. body sprawled across the motel mattress, flushed and fucked-out and stunned for all of two seconds before she’s smirking up at him, biting her lip like she dares him to get mean with it.

and he does. oh, he does.

“my turn,” he mutters, voice dark and thick with want, mouth already trailing down her neck, nipping and biting like she’s his last damn meal. “you get off grinding on me like that and expect me to not lose my mind?”

his hands are everywhere — palming her thighs, tugging down her underwear, slipping under her shirt like he’s gonna tear it right off. and she’s laughing now, breathless and delighted, legs wrapping around his hips like she’s welcoming the onslaught.

“you’re such a drama queen,” she teases, tilting her chin up, exposing her throat for him like she knows he’ll bite it.

“says the girl who came on my thigh like it owed her money.”

he mouths at her collarbone, tongue dragging slow, and she whines — actually whines — at the feel of it. his stubble’s rough, his lips soft, and his hands are way too confident for someone who’s supposed to be taking his turn.

“i’ll give you somethin’ to cry about, sweetheart,” he murmurs against her skin, dragging a hand between her legs, groaning when he finds how wet she is. “jesus, you’re still dripping. you needed that, didn’t you?”

and she hates how much she does — hates how she shudders at his voice, how her hips cant toward his hand with reckless abandon, how her whole body just melts under his weight like it’s exactly where she belongs.

“fuck me,” she breathes, looking up at him like he hung the moon.

he grins — slow and crooked and downright dangerous — and leans in, nudging her nose with his.

“you wish, sugarplum.”

and then he slides two fingers into her like it’s a promise and a punishment in one. keeps his thumb pressed tight to her clit, watches her fall apart all over again, watches her squirm — and when she tries to kiss him, he pulls just far enough back to make her chase it, that cheeky bastard.

they’re a mess of sweat and snark and unspeakably obscene noises now, tangled together like neither of them can bear the distance, like every inch of skin is sacred and burning.

and dean? still smirking.

“you gonna be good for me now?” he teases, low and wicked, fingers curling just right.

she claws at his shirt, teeth bared in something like a grin, like a threat.

“make me.”

and as she asked, she’s wrung out and panting, hair stuck to her temple, thighs trembling around his head — and dean? he’s right there between her legs like he’s home, all smug mouth and greedy fingers, like he can’t help himself.

his voice is rough when he groans into her, tongue dragging slow and sinful, mouthing at her like he’s savoring the aftershock. like every twitch, every whimper, every little jerk of her hips is his, and he wants to see how far he can push it.

“dean,” she gasps, breathless, fingers yanking at his hair. “dean.”

and he just hums like she’s giving him a compliment. like this is a five-star review. his hands are wrapped around her thighs, keeping them pinned open even though she’s squirming, trying to pull away. he’s not letting her go anywhere. no, no — she started this. she rode his thigh like a cocky little brat, and now he’s gonna see how many times he can ruin her before she forgets her own name.

“what’s wrong, sugarplum?” he mutters, all hoarse and sticky, lips brushing her clit like a goddamn threat. “thought you needed this. you asked for it, too.”

she tries to snap back at him — some sharp little insult, probably, all teeth and pride — but it dies on her tongue when he sucks her clit between his lips, gentle for half a second before he starts flicking his tongue over it just to be cruel.

and that’s it. she arches off the mattress with a sob, hands clawing at his shoulders, trying to ground herself in him, in anything — but he doesn’t stop. he doesn’t budge.

“ow, fuck,” she keens, trembling, mouth slack with disbelief. “dean, i can’t—”

“you can,” he growls, like he’s trying to convince them both, eyes flicking up to hers, wild and wrecked and possessive. “you will. be a good girl and take it for me.”

and gosh, he sounds obsessed. like he’s addicted to her noises, her smell, the way she grips his hair and chokes on his name every time he gets her close. she’s soaked and flushed and falling apart, and all he wants to do is watch.

because it’s not even about making her come anymore. it’s about seeing her like this — wrecked, completely unravelled, flushed and feral and just barely holding it together. and it’s all for him.

his fingers are back in her now, slow and precise, curling like he knows exactly where her body bends, and she’s so wet it’s filthy, the sounds echoing in the motel room like sin incarnate.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, lips swollen, chin slick with her. “look at you, sweet thing. so fuckin’ pretty when you’re cryin’ for it.”

and when she comes again — shaking, sobbing, a breathless, high-pitched moan of his name — he just grins, practically gleams.

“dean winchester,” she gasps, voice shredded.

he leans up, kisses her inner thigh, then her hipbone, slow and mock-sweet, eyes dancing.

“king of overstimulation,” he says, licking his lips and wiping his face with the back of his hand. “i earned the crown, baby.”

she throws a pillow at his head, still breathless, still twitching.

and he ducks, catches it, and laughs, cock hard against the mattress, eyes still locked on her like she’s the prize at the end of the world.

because dean’s got that kind of obsessive streak, you know? the one that doesn’t let him stop once she’s already trembling, already begging. the one that makes him keep going for himself, because her whimpers are his favorite sound and her thighs clenched around his head is his favorite place and her nails in his scalp is his favorite drug.

he’s murmuring against her — “what’s the matter, sugarplum?” like it’s a curse, a prayer, a fucking taunt — and he’s grinning while she bucks against his mouth, because she’s overstimulated and furious and completely unraveling. and that’s when he flattens his tongue over her clit again, slow and firm, unchanging, watching her come undone from it. watching her squirm, try to pull back, try to push closer, not knowing what the fuck to do with herself. she’s practically sobbing, but it only makes him hungrier. he lives in that chaos.

she wants to push him off, climb onto him, and give him a taste of his own medicine, but even mal knows her limits.

she’s not going anywhere, not with her thighs trembling like that, not with her breath catching in her throat every time he even shifts beneath her. she’s spread out on the bed, chest heaving, legs still twitching every now and then, and dean’s just lying there next to her like the smug little menace he is, his fingers trailing lazy circles on her hip, innocent as can be.

“you good, sweetheart?” he murmurs, barely hiding the smirk in his voice, like he doesn’t know she’s wrecked beyond belief, like he didn’t just keep his mouth on her for what felt like hours. and when she glares at him with that dazed, glassy-eyed look, all she can do is sort of whimper in response, her throat too dry, her body too fried.

he leans in, nuzzles her jaw, kisses the corner of her mouth. “you look so pretty when you can’t move,” he murmurs, low and warm and proud of himself in the worst way.

and he’s hard the whole time. hasn’t even touched himself. he’s aching for it, but he’s still just watching her come back to herself, watching the way her lashes flutter, her fingers twitch against the sheets. he wants her to beg for it. wants her to ask — no, need him, ruined and pliant, aching for him all over again before she’s even finished catching her breath.

because he’s patient like that. cruel like that.

“lemme know when you’re ready, angel,” he hums, nosing at her throat now, licking salt from her skin. “got nowhere else to be.”

and the worst part? she knows damn well the second she does move, the second she gives even the smallest hint — he’s gonna flip her over and wreck her all over again.

he’s being so fucking condescending and smug with it too, all honeyed sarcasm and glinting teeth, because he knows exactly what he’s doing, how his words hit when she’s in this state — naked, boneless, wrecked already, and still twitching from the last orgasm. his voice is warm, teasing, like molasses poured too thick, and when he says it —

“how ’bout just the tip, doll? huh? think you can handle that?”

— it sounds almost sweet, almost gentle, but it’s so obviously a lie. he’s already shoving his boxers down with one hand, the other still stroking slow up and down her trembling thigh like he’s lulling her into submission, like he’s coaxing rather than commanding. and he’s so hard, flushed and throbbing, and it’s obscene how casual he is about it.

he lines himself up and just rests there, the head of his cock pressed against her, not pushing in, not yet, just letting her feel it. warm and heavy and right there. and his voice drops even lower, just a breath over her ear. “you can take that much, can’t you? just the tip. won’t even move, swear.”

but he’s grinning — that wolfish, devil-may-care kind of grin that always means he’s about to do the exact opposite of whatever he just promised. and when she stirs, hips barely lifting in this sluggish little grind, maybe even gives a pitiful little please — that’s it. that’s all he needs.

he pushes in, just barely, and groans like he’s been waiting years for it. she gasps, already overwhelmed, and he chuckles against her neck, licking a stripe up her pulse point like she’s his favorite thing on the planet.

“attagirl,” he mutters. “knew you had it in you.”

then he bottoms out all at once, slow but cruel, and just stays there, keeping her stretched and stuffed and clenching around him while she writhes under the weight of it.

“see?” he breathes, all smug. “that wasn’t so bad, was it? promise i’ll stay still this time, kay? gotta give my pretty baby a minute to breathe, don’t i?”

it’s so dean, the way he softens his voice just to contrast the downright filthy way he’s treating her. he’s speaking like he’s giving her a break, like he’s being so merciful, but the press of him — deep, unrelenting, stretching her open while her thighs shake and her chest rises in quick, overwhelmed little gasps — says otherwise.

he’s not moving. not thrusting. not yet. just holding her there, impaled and trembling and so full she could cry. and the worst part? his hands are gentle, too — thumbs brushing slow circles against her hips, a featherlight kiss pressed beneath her ear. tender, even, like this is love-making instead of just another bout of sweet, sticky torture.

“you doin’ alright, sweetheart?” he hums, like he doesn’t know she’s hanging on by a thread. like he doesn’t feel the way she clenches around him every time she exhales, helpless to the fullness, the heat, the ache.

he kisses her again. soft. sweet. infuriating.

“just let me sit in it for a sec,” he whispers like he’s asking for her sake, not his own. “s’not my fault you’re so tight. just bein’ respectful, baby.”

and the little smirk he gives her when her whole body shudders? that’s the tell. because he’s enjoying it. he loves watching her squirm on his cock, loves knowing she can barely think straight, that she can’t do anything about it — not yet.

“mm. look at you,” he murmurs, hips shifting just a fraction, enough to make her breath hitch. “didn’t even touch you and you’re already clenching like that. you really missed me, huh?”

dean winchester: menace of the century, sworn enemy of mercy, patron saint of just a little more, baby, please? he’s still buried inside her to the hilt, still holding her like she’s porcelain and precious and breakable — just so — and when she finally starts to relax around him, body melting beneath the weight of his, that’s when he shifts.

just enough to make her whine, to make her nails curl into his back again and her breath stutter sharp through her teeth.

“shh,” he croons, saccharine-sweet, nosing at her temple like he’s not actively torturing her, “i know, baby. i said i’d stay still. i know i did.” and his voice is so soft, so gentle, so achingly sweet, it almost makes her forgive him — right up until he rolls his hips again, just the tiniest, filthiest little grind, and it lights her up.

“but you’re squeezin’ me so good, sugarplum,” he murmurs like it’s her fault, like he’s the one being seduced. “can’t help it. you feel like fuckin’ heaven.” he pulls back a single inch and then pushes back in slow, torturously smooth, and god, he moans like he’s never known anything better.

“just a tiny bit,” he says again, so condescending and indulgent and fake-reasonable she could scream. “tiny little thrusts. itty bitty ones. you won’t even notice, i swear.” and then he does it again — hips rocking with maddening restraint, like he’s making a point of how slow he can go, just to draw it out. to keep her teetering right on the edge of pleasure and madness.

his breath is hot against her ear when he mutters, “see? i’m still bein’ so gentle, you’re still bein’ such a good girl for me.” and the little lilt in his voice, that smug-ass smirk she can feel without seeing — it’s evil, pure and simple.

to put it simply — she’s wrecked. fucked out and glassy-eyed, flushed from cheek to chest, blinking up at him like she doesn’t even remember what breathing feels like anymore. her fingers flutter helplessly at his shoulders, his jaw, the nape of his neck, like she can’t decide where to hold on. all she knows is that she has to — has to keep touching him or she’s gonna slip right out of her own skin.

and dean? dean is eating it up.

he’s got that lazy, lopsided grin. — the one that says i won, even though the war was over the second she let him in. one of his hands stays firm on her thigh, keeping her spread open for him, and the other smooths up her side like he’s trying to soothe her, even as he rolls his hips again, just enough to make her gasp.

“poor thing,” he murmurs, mock-pity dripping off his tongue like honey. “you’re real worked up, huh? thinkin’ stopped a few orgasms ago.”

she whimpers, legs twitching, nails sinking back into his skin, and he groans like it hurts in the best way. “god, i love you like this,” he mutters, grinding in again, slower than sin, watching the way her mouth falls open, her lashes flutter, her breath catches. “all fucked out and needy. clingin’ to me like i’m the only thing keepin’ you together.”

then he leans in, nose brushing her cheek, voice gone deep and dark and sweet as poison. whiskey-warm and honeyed, so loving but so mean.

“you want it, don’t you? want me to wreck you all over again. you’re too far gone to pretend you don’t.” and the worst part is — he’s right. she’s whining under him, shivering every time he shifts, her body betraying every ounce of pride she might’ve had left.

he kisses the corner of her mouth, slow and smug, then hums, “don’t worry, pretty. i’ll be gentle, i’ll be so gentle. promise.” right before he pulls out an inch and slams back in with a sharp little snap of his hips — just one, enough to make her cry out, full-body tremble curling her into him.

then he laughs, low and rough. “oops.”

he’s all syrup and silk, a wolf in a velvet coat, playing at being gentle with his voice while his body’s got no intention of showing mercy. he’s devoted, sure, but that doesn’t mean he’s not also a little bastard about it.

he coos to her like she’s delicate, like he’s not got her trembling under the weight of him, tears glossing her lashes, breath catching in little sobs every time he shifts. he moves slow, like he’s doing her a favor, hips grinding in deep and steady, never giving her enough to find relief, just enough to keep her on the edge. again. and again. and again.

“there we go,” he hums against her jaw, brushing sweat-slick hair from her cheek like he’s the sweetest man alive. “you’re bein’ real good for me now, baby. takin’ me so well.”

her nails scrape down his spine and he shudders, fucks a little deeper just from the feel of it, but still keeps that same maddening rhythm. no sudden thrusts, no pace to chase — just relentless pressure, cruel in how slow it all is. and all the while he’s talking — god, he won’t shut the fuck up. he never does.

“knew you could take it. knew you’d let me keep it right here,” he mutters, cock dragging inside her with a slow roll of his hips. “just needed some encouragement, huh? ‘cause i asked so nicely, didn’t i?”

she makes a broken little sound beneath him, one hand clinging to the curve of his shoulder, the other curling tight in the sheets. her legs twitch around his hips and he laughs — a soft, sinful thing, pure delight.

“you close again already?” he whispers, like he’s shocked, like he’s not designed her to fall apart just like this. “poor baby. you gonna make a mess just from a little sweet talkin’? from me bein’ all gentle and nice?”

he’s mocking her, voice syrupy and soft as molasses, hands still petting her sweet like she’s breakable, even as he draws another trembling cry from her throat. and he loves it — loves watching her come apart under kindness she knows better than to trust.

“don’t worry, doll,” he murmurs, kissing her temple with sickening sweetness. “daddy’s got you.”

she can take it, and he knows it. she always can. she just needs to ask real pretty, needs to come undone a little, voice all breathy and raw, lips parted and eyes glassy, too blissed out to be sharp-tongued anymore. that stubborn spark fading into something soft, pleading, because god, she needs it now.

and when it comes, it’s barely a whisper—“please, dean… need you to fuck me, i can’t—i can’t—” slurred and broken, almost incoherent with how overwhelmed she is, the desperation unraveling from her mouth like thread from a spool.

and fuck, does that do something to him.

he groans like he’s been holding back forever, buries his face in her throat, breath hot and shaky. but he still plays it slow for a beat longer, almost like he doesn’t believe she’s really begging yet, not quite. he wants her wrecked, wants it all — the trembling thighs, the glistening lashes, the needy whines and the way her hips chase him even when he pulls back.

“oh, now you’re askin’ nice,” he hums, all smug and syrup-slick. “see? knew you had it in you. just needed a little motivation, huh?”

his hips snap forward suddenly, hard enough to knock the air from her lungs, and he grins at the sound she makes — guttural and raw, like it got dragged out of her from the inside.

“that what you wanted?” he growls, voice all grit and velvet, hand braced by her head as he starts to really move now, driving into her with all that held-back force, all that aching, electric need. “that what you were beggin’ for, baby?”

and god, the rhythm is punishing — deep and precise, his thrusts all muscle and intent, no more teasing, just the kind of fucking that leaves her dizzy, wrecked, clinging to him like she might float away otherwise.

his voice stays low, but it’s raw now, slipping through clenched teeth with every breath. “so tight like this, fuck — god, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so hard — feels like you’ve been waitin’ for this all day.”

her nails dig into his back, and he loves it — loves the way she breaks beneath him, how her moans get higher and needier with every stroke. he dips his head, kissing her sloppily, not even trying to be neat anymore, tongue dragging over her lower lip as he pants, “takin’ me so good — my best girl, look at you — gonna come for me again, sweetheart? ‘cause i’m not stoppin’ till you do.”

she’s already glassy-eyed, trembling, so close she’s practically strung out on it. every thrust sends another spark up her spine, makes her hips jerk, her mouth fall open in these hitched, choked-off moans like she can’t catch her breath. her fingers are curled so tight into dean’s shoulders they’re shaking, nails dragging half-moons into his skin, but he doesn’t even flinch at the sting — he fucking loves it, just clenches his jaw and drives into her harder, deeper, right where she needs him.

“that’s it, baby,” he rasps, his voice all smoke and sin, “come on, i got you — gonna let go for me? yeah? c’mon, be a good girl — just like that.”

and that’s all it takes.

her whole body tightens underneath him, one last desperate cry clawing out of her throat before she shatters completely — legs spasming, hips stuttering, vision going white around the edges. and the tears just spill, helpless and hot, rolling down her cheeks as she sobs out his name like it’s the only word she knows. it’s too much, too good, and she can’t stop it, can’t hold it — so it all comes pouring out at once, messy and raw and beautiful.

dean’s eyes darken, wide with the thrill of it, that glint of worship mixed with something almost unholy. and he doesn’t stop — not right away. he slows, sure, but he keeps moving, just enough to keep her feeling it while her walls keep fluttering around him, still riding the waves of it, every little tremble and twitch making his cock throb inside her.

“that’s my girl,” he breathes, almost reverent, brushing the hair out of her face, kissing her cheeks where the tears have already soaked her skin. “fuck, baby… that’s it, that’s it… you feel so fuckin’ good when you cry for me.”

he shushes her gently even as he keeps rolling his hips, so slow, so deep, still coaxing every last aftershock out of her like he’s savoring it — because he is. she’s clutching at him, completely spent, whimpering through the overstimulation, and he kisses her like he’s trying to soothe it even as he keeps giving it.

“too much?” he murmurs, even though he already knows the answer — already feels the way she clenches around him in reply, already hears the little noise she makes in her throat that sounds more like ‘please’ than ‘stop’. he grins, soft and wicked, pressing his forehead to hers.

she whimpers, her eyes shut tight, button nose scrunched up and cheeks flushed and glowing. “dean,” she pants, her hands limply pushing at his chest. “s’too much,” she cries, whining when he leans downs and licks her tears away.

his chest rumbles with a laugh — low, indulgent, laced with affection and that same dark heat he always gets when she’s like this, when she’s all flushed and wrecked and crying his name. he catches her wrists as they weakly push at him, pins them gently to the bed above her head, fingers lacing with hers like it’s nothing but a kiss.

“i know, baby,” he murmurs against her cheek, nuzzling into her, licking another tear off the curve of her jaw like she’s something sweet, like he’s been starved for her. “you’re doin’ so good for me. look at you… takin’ me so well.”

and he doesn’t stop — not even for a second. just keeps grinding into her slow and steady, deep and mean, right where she’s already gone soft and sensitive, wringing out every last tremor her body’s got to give. his thrusts are deliberate, each one a little drag that makes her shudder and keen, makes her lashes flutter like she’s about to come apart all over again.

“shhh, s’okay,” he coos, all saccharine and sharp, cruel in that honeyed way he gets when she’s too far gone to call him on it. “you said you could take it. you begged for it, didn’t you? begged me to fuck you stupid — an’ now you are, huh? can’t even think straight.”

she sobs, hips arching helplessly under the weight of him, pretty mouth dropped open like she’s forgotten how to use it. her legs tremble around his hips, trying to close, trying to escape, but he just presses her knees apart again with his own, keeps her open, keeps her his.

he lets go of one wrist just long enough to cradle her face, his thumb brushing the wetness from her cheek, his expression softening — just for a moment. “don’t cry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice sticky with pride. “we’re almost there. you got one more for me, yeah? just one more. give it to me, baby, come on.”

and god, she wants to — wants to so bad, even if her body’s not sure it can. she’s crying harder now, tears slipping fast and hot from the corners of her eyes, chest rising and falling with little gasping moans, too full and too sensitive and too close.

and he sees it — feels it — the way she starts to tense again, her walls fluttering around him like a pulse. he leans in, lips right against her ear, voice nothing but velvet and sin.

“there she is,” he whispers. “there’s my girl.”

poor mal doesn’t stand a chance, not with the way he’s talking to her, not with the way he’s still buried deep and grinding slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring her. it’s too much. she’s too full, too sensitive, her whole body shaking like it doesn’t know whether to pull him closer or push him away.

her fingers twitch in his, hips trying to buck, but she can’t find a rhythm — can’t find anything at all except the sound of his voice and the ache between her legs.

“d—dean,” she chokes out, her voice so wrecked and soft it barely makes it past her lips. “can’t—i c-can’t—”

“yes you can,” he hums, calm and patient, like she isn’t unraveling beneath him. “you are. look at you. makin’ such a mess, baby. can’t even talk.”

and it’s true. she tries to say something else — tries to protest, or beg, or maybe just breathe, but it all spills out as broken syllables, hiccuped cries, stuttered nothings that don’t make a lick of sense.

“uh-uh—hah—d-dea—feels—ngh—” she gasps, eyes fluttering open just to roll right back again, tears still streaking down her cheeks. “too g-good, it’s—i—oh god—”

he’s grinning, smug as hell, watching her go all glassy-eyed and gone under him. she’s clenching around him again, trembling so hard her thighs threaten to close, and he just tightens his grip on her wrists and keeps fucking her through it, slow but unrelenting.

“there’s my girl,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to hers, lips brushing hers when he speaks. “gettin’ all dumb on my cock. you love it, don’t you? love when i fuck the thoughts right outta your pretty little head.”

and she does. she nods, frantic and whimpering, lips mouthing out an affirmative without sound, not even realizing she’s crying harder now that she’s coming again — clenching and fluttering and sobbing so sweetly around him he could die.

he groans low in his throat, so proud and feral all at once. “fuck, that’s it, baby. give it to me. come on, come for me. wanna feel you fall apart, c’mon—”

she does, with a little cracked sob that slices right through her, her body arching off the bed as she spills over the edge — mindless and twitching, babbling his name like a prayer, like a confession, like he’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

it doesn’t end there — not with the way he’s looking at her like he’s found religion in her. he’s still buried deep, thick and hot inside her, and she’s still pulsing around him, even now, her whole body trembling like it hasn’t caught up yet, like it doesn’t want to come down.

he kisses her — soft and deep, tongue slow in her mouth like he’s trying to anchor her. his hands stroke gentle down her sides, over her ribs, along her thighs, like he’s grounding her, mapping her out, reminding her where she is. where he is.

“there you go,” he murmurs when he pulls back, lips brushing her cheeks, her nose, her jaw. “breathe for me, sweetheart. jus’ like that.”

she lets out a shaky exhale, hands twitching where they rest against his chest, her nails leaving tiny crescent moons against sweat-slicked skin. her eyes flutter open, barely, just enough to find his. they’re glassy, wet, helpless.

he grins again — softer this time, but still wicked. “you cry so pretty, baby. makes me wanna do it all over again.”

and she whines, broken and exhausted, trying to shake her head but not even managing that. he laughs, low and fond, thumb wiping at the teartracks down her cheeks.

“relax,” he coos. “m’not gonna fuck you stupid again. not yet. you earned a break.”

he rocks his hips just barely, enough to make her gasp, to make her squirm and twitch and bury her face in his neck like that might make the overstimulation go away.

“but you feel so fuckin’ good, honey,” he mumbles, nosing at her hair, at her ear. “still flutterin’ around me. so tight. it’s like you wanna keep me here.”

she whimpers again, voice so soft it’s barely there. “you’re so mean.”

he laughs again, all smug and in love and incorrigible. “yeah, but you like me like this, don’t you?”

and she does. god help her, she really, really does.

he’ll stay there a little longer, buried inside her, petting her until the tremors fade. whispering praise like prayers. telling her how good she is, how proud he is, how perfect she is. and then — when she starts to shift under him, just barely, when her hips twitch like maybe she does want it again — he grins slow and dangerous.

“‘nother round, baby?”

“need a minute,” she pants, her temple resting against his cheek as he leans down over her, propped up on his elbows just to be closer.

“yeah?” he breathes, voice low and gravelly, warm against her ear as he noses into her hair. “you got it, sweetheart. minute’s all yours.”

he shifts just enough to get more comfortable, just enough to deepen the stretch, and her breath hitches — soft and sharp, like it snuck out against her will. he hums, pleased, hands coasting up her sides slow and idle, like he’s in no rush at all, like he could stay here forever.

“m’not movin’,” he promises, though the devil in him makes it sound like a lie. “swear. just like this. not gonna fuck you ‘til you ask for it.”

she groans — not because she doesn’t believe him, but because she does. because he’s so patient when he wants to be. too patient. the kind of patient that kills her.

her body’s still twitching under him, raw and buzzing, but he’s so warm, so heavy and solid and grounding, his heartbeat thudding steady against her chest. she feels him everywhere. in her. on her. around her. and when he breathes in deep, she can tell — he’s still trying to memorize her.

“you’re so good like this,” he murmurs, lips brushing her temple. “so soft. so full. you’re doin’ so fuckin’ good, baby.”

her fingers curl into his shoulder weakly. she’s not pushing anymore. not trying to escape. she’s just holding on.

“minute,” she whispers again, hoarse and dazed.

“uh-huh,” he hums. “take two, if you want. take ten. not goin’ anywhere.”

his hips twitch again. not a thrust, not really — just a reminder. a warning.

she shudders beneath him, her lips parting with a small sound she doesn’t quite mean to make. and that — that makes his cock twitch inside her.

he grins against her hair.

“unless you’re ready now,” he says gently, with all the care in the world and none of the innocence.

“nuh uh,” she breathes, shaking her head, her temple bumping his jaw. “not yet. ‘n i mean it this time.”

“yeah?” he murmurs, biting back a grin, because god, she sounds so wrecked when she tries to be firm — like she’s just barely holding herself together with frayed thread and stubbornness. her voice is soft and strained, trembling with the effort it takes not to give in. not to melt for him. and it only makes him want her more.

“alright, alright,” he soothes, letting his nose trail down the line of her jaw, slow and indulgent. “no funny business. just holdin’ you, that’s all.”

he kisses her cheek — soft, reverent, infuriating — and sighs like he’s the one fucked dumb.

but the way he shifts his hips, just a little, to get more comfortable? she knows better. it’s deliberate. it’s always deliberate with him.

she whimpers, lashes fluttering, and he moans — low and rough, like he felt it in his spine.

“shit, baby,” he breathes. “you’re still clenchin’ around me like you want somethin.”

her nails drag down his back, not hard enough to scratch, just enough to say shut up, dean, but he’s already laughing — quiet and smug, the kind of laugh that vibrates in his chest and settles between her legs.

“hey, you’re the one chokin’ my cock,” he adds, all faux-innocent, pressing his forehead to hers again. “you sure you’re not ready? not even a little?”

her hips jerk against his without meaning to, and he groans again, shoving his nose into her hair like he’s struggling now — like she’s the one tempting him.

“god, you’re trouble,” he pants, voice fraying at the edges. “gonna be the fuckin’ death of me, you know that?”

he kisses her again. her nose. her cheek. her chin. and then he just waits, body trembling with restraint, giving her the space she asked for — but not the peace. never that.

“i can feel my pulse in my stomach,” she mumbles, trying to catch her breath.

he huffs a laugh — low and smitten, because christ, even when she’s half out of her mind, she’s still got that deadpan, matter-of-fact delivery that makes his whole damn chest ache.

“yeah?” he murmurs, kissing the side of her mouth, barely a brush. “that good, huh?”

his thumb strokes lazy circles into her hip, grounding her, keeping her tethered to the moment. not that she’s going anywhere — he’s still inside her, still so deep it’s like they were meant to fit this way, made for this mess.

she nods weakly, her eyes still shut, lips parted, trembling just a little. “hurts,” she breathes. “but it’s good.”

he grins, soft and wicked. “yeah, sugar. it better be good.”

he’s got half a mind to tease her about it, really let that smug streak run wild, but something about the way she shivers beneath him makes him press in closer, like he can shield her from the aftermath of her own desire. his hand slides up, fingers spreading wide between her shoulder blades.

“just breathe, baby,” he murmurs, all low and warm and devil-sweet. “got you. not movin’. not yet.”

but his hips twitch anyway — just a nudge, just a reminder — and she gasps, clutching at him again like she’s still too full, too sensitive, too everything.

he smiles against her skin, all affection and mischief. “oops.”

“whyyy?” mal whines, all long and drawn out and petulant. “can’t take it,” she huffs, sniffling quietly. “why are you like this?”

“oh, baby,” dean coos, mocking and fond, brushing her hair off her damp forehead with the gentlest touch he can manage. “that’s a loaded question.”

he presses a kiss there like penance, like prayer, like it’ll make up for the way he’s still pulsing inside her, twitching with restraint. he won’t move — not quite yet — but he’s thinking about it, and she knows. of course she knows.

“can’t take it,” she mutters again, sniffles catching in her throat, lips wobbling into a pout that he’d kiss away if she didn’t already look like she might cry harder from the attention. “you’re so mean.”

“i know,” he murmurs, brushing their noses together, soft as sin. “but you like me like this.”

she whines again, all needy and dramatic, and he grins, because god, she’s cute when she’s wrung out and sulking. every inch of her radiates exhaustion and overstimulation, her body humming with aftershocks, muscles twitching beneath his palms.

“tell you what,” he breathes, nuzzling against her cheek. “you answer your own question, and maybe i’ll stop.”

she sniffles again. “no you won’t.”

“nope,” he says cheerfully. “but i like when you try.”

and he rocks his hips, just once — slow and deliberate and deep — just to prove it, to watch her crumble all over again.

“deannn,” she pouts, perfectly manicured brows knitting together in dismay as she clings to his shoulders.

“i know, baby,” he croons, dragging it out, syrupy sweet and cruel, like he’s comforting a kid who dropped their ice cream and not his girlfriend who’s long since gone pliant under him, trembling and teary and too full. “poor thing. so sensitive now, huh?”

his hands smooth up and down over her waist, her ribs, her hips, her tits — like he’s trying to soothe her, like he isn’t still buried inside her to the hilt, throbbing against the soft, fluttery ache of her. he noses along her temple, murmurs against her skin, “so pretty. you should see yourself right now.”

she makes a noise, somewhere between a whimper and a sob, burying her face in his neck like maybe she can escape the warm, unrelenting weight of him. her fingers flex on his shoulders, nails dragging lightly down his back, a silent plea.

“s’too much,” she mumbles, barely a breath, but she doesn’t tell him to stop.

he hums low in his throat, all pleased and mean and so in love. “yeah,” he says, rocking into her again, so slow it’s devastating. “but you can take it, sugar. you always do.”

mal’s reduced to trembling thighs and slurred words and wet little hiccups, her breath catching every time he shifts inside her, even accidentally. she’s boneless beneath him, clinging to his shoulders like she’ll float away without something to anchor her, her poor overstimulated body stuck in this trembling limbo between agony and bliss.

“i c-can’t,” she sobs, voice all shaky and raw, and dean shushes her gently even though he’s grinning like a devil.

“shh, baby, you’re okay,” he lies sweetly, so fucking sweetly, brushing her hair back from her face and watching her eyes flutter, unfocused and shining with tears. “you’re doin’ so good for me, mal. bein’ so good, lettin’ me take care of you like this.”

he dips his head to kiss her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, his hips barely moving, just enough to keep her gasping, keep her pulsing and clenching and needing.

“hurts,” she whispers, and it does — it’s too much, too deep, too everything — and yet her legs hitch around his waist anyway, like her body can’t help it, like it’s desperate for more even as it falls apart beneath him.

“i know,” he breathes, tender, almost reverent, like her pain’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “feels good though, doesn’t it, baby? can’t stop now. not when you’re this close — feel how close you are? just a little more for me. just one more. just a little one, please, baby?”

and that’s all it takes. one more thrust, slow and unrelenting, and she’s gone — gone, head thrown back, pretty lips parted in a soundless cry, her whole body clenching up around him so tight it nearly knocks the air from his lungs. she sobs through it, breath hitching and crumpled like it physically hurts to come again, like she’s never gonna stop shaking.

and dean? dean just groans, deep and dizzy and half in awe. “fuck, baby,” he pants, watching her unravel. “you’re so fuckin’ pretty when you cry for me.”

she’s so deep in it now she can’t tell which way is up — hips twitching under his weight, lips parted around a sound she can’t quite form, her hands fluttering like she doesn’t know whether to push him away or pull him closer.

“i don’t — i dunno,” she stammers, breath hitching, all flushed and wrecked and confused, and dean just hums low in his throat, like he loves this — loves her like this.

“don’t need to know, baby,” he murmurs, brushing his nose along her jaw as his hand smooths down her thigh, coaxing it back around his hip. “just take it. that’s all you gotta do. i’ll figure the rest out.”

he shifts just slightly and her breath catches, a trembling sob tearing out of her as her back arches and her nails dig into his shoulder.

“see?” he says, cocky and warm and cruel in the softest way. “you want more. you always want more. love that about’cha.”

she whines in protest, even as her legs wrap tighter around him, even as she bucks her hips in search of friction like she doesn’t want him to stop. she’s aching, messy, and oversensitive, but she’s so wet it’s obscene, pretty pink cunt dripping, so desperate for him like she doesn’t even know how to stop needing.

“dean,” she sobs again, eyes fluttering open just long enough to look at him — glass-eyed, teary, pleading.

and god, he looks at her like he’s starving.

“you can take it,” he whispers, smug and sweet, brushing a kiss to her temple. “you always do.”

“dean,” she pants, whiny and desperate. “i need, shit, i. ohhhhhh — i uh. i need…”

“you need what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, all saccharine and slow like molasses, voice dipping low against her ear. he’s not even moving now, just inside her, stretching her out and keeping her there like it’s the only place she belongs. like he’s the one holding her together.

his hand strokes up her thigh, barely-there and teasing, fingertips ghosting just high enough to make her squirm.

“use your words, c’mon,” he says, mock-gentle. “i know that pretty little head’s all fogged up, but i bet you can manage a sentence for me, can’t you?”

her breath hiccups, high and trembling. her thighs tremble around his hips and her hands flutter uselessly across his chest, unsure if she wants to cling or shove or just cry. her face is so flushed it’s glowing.

“fingers,” she gasps, finally, voice cracking as she arches beneath him, a wrecked little thing. “please, dean,”

“aw, sweetheart.” he hums, clicking his tongue. “why didn’t you say so?” and he’s cradling her jaw, prying her teeth apart and easing his thumb past her full, pink lips.

but she’s so pliant for him now, so docile and dazed and drowning in it, blinking up at him with those big glassy eyes like she’s lost every coherent thought she’s ever had. her lips close instinctively around his thumb — like she was made for it — and he groans, low and unfiltered, watching the way her cheeks hollow just slightly around him.

“there you go,” he coos, all faux praise and sugar-sweet venom, his other hand finally slipping between them to find her clit, slick and swollen and so sensitive he feels her jolt just from the brush of his knuckles. “there’s my good girl.”

and she moans around his thumb, muffled and needy, her hips stuttering like she wants to move, like her body’s working on instinct now because her brain’s long since abandoned ship. she sucks on him greedily, thighs flexing around his waist, her walls fluttering around him where he’s still buried so deep, so full.

he circles her aching clit slowly — cruel and precise — just the right pressure to have her gasping, to have her eyes rolling back and lashes fluttering, like she can’t decide if it’s heaven or hell.

“look at you,” he breathes, his voice all rough edges now, equal parts reverent and wrecked. “fuckin’ made for me, huh? all strung out and messy, just from a couple fingers and my cock sittin’ pretty inside you.”

she whimpers again, completely lost, eyes fluttering open just long enough to meet his gaze — then he presses down just right and she’s gone, completely done for, breaking apart like something fragile, sobbing around his thumb like she’s ashamed of how hard it hits her.

“shhh,” he soothes, all smug satisfaction behind the tenderness, brushing a kiss to her temple even as he keeps working her through it, greedy for every twitch and every cry. “s’okay, sugar. i got you. again?”

she can barely shake her head, slinging her arm over her eyes to block out the golden rays of late afternoon sunlight that steam through the white slats of the blinds.

dean chuckles, breathless and wicked, pressing a kiss just beneath her ribs before slumping down beside her. he doesn’t say a word at first — just reaches to gently peel her arm from her face, folding it over his chest instead, right where she belongs.

“c’mon, don’t go all shy on me now,” he murmurs, nuzzling into her hair, his voice warm and lazy. “i’m the one who should be embarrassed. got a little carried away, huh?”

she makes a small, indignant noise — less of a word and more of a complaint — and he grins like she’s the funniest thing on earth. her body’s limp and boneless, her breath is finally slowing down into something that isn’t just gasps and hiccups.

“jesus christ,” she mutters at last, her voice hoarse and cracked from overuse. “you broke me.”

“you’re welcome,” dean says smugly, eyes half-lidded as he lazily drags his fingers along the curve of her thigh. “bet you’ll still crawl back for more.”

“not if i can’t walk,” she gripes, though she doesn’t bother moving — just tightens her grip on his side and lets her face smush into his shoulder like she’s trying to burrow there and never come out.

he hums low in his throat, letting his fingers trace idle circles against her skin, his body still sticky and warm against hers, the air thick with sweat and sunlight and satisfaction.

“you did so good, baby,” he whispers, mouth brushing her temple. “so fuckin’ good. proud of you.”

and she hates how her breath catches at that — hates how it makes her chest ache, how it makes her heart twist with something that feels a little too close to tenderness. because no matter how rough he gets, no matter how smug and mean and unbearable he is in the heat of it, after — he always, always takes care of her.

“’m never lettin’ you touch me again,” she lies into his throat.

he just snickers, tilting his head so his lips skim over her brow. “sure you’re not.”

her eyes open just a little, realization hitting her like a freight train. low and behold, he’s still hard. “dean,” she breathes, tilting her head to look up at him and sounding like she’s about to start crying again.

his gaze is already on her — like it never left, like it never could. he’s got that infuriating half-smile tugging at his mouth, all sweet and guilty, like he knows exactly what she’s just figured out and is enjoying every last second of watching it dawn on her.

“hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles along her cheek, soft as anything. like he didn’t just ruin her. like he’s not still thick and twitching inside her, warm and ready and dangerous. “you doin’ okay?”

she doesn’t answer, just blinks up at him, lip wobbling, breath hitching in that way that means she’s either about to beg or sob or both.

and dean — oh, he’s delighted. downright gleeful.

“oh no,” he coos, all faux-concern and honeyed condescension. “what’s the matter, sugarplum? you look like you seen a ghost.”

her fingers dig weakly into his side, more of a whimper than a protest leaving her lips. “you’re still — dean, you’re still hard,” she whispers, scandalized, overwhelmed, so soft and broken it almost doesn’t sound like her.

he huffs a laugh through his nose and shifts his hips just enough to make her feel it — just enough to make her gasp and go taut all over again. “yeah,” he breathes, nosing along her cheek, kissing the corner of her eye. “i know. been tryin’ to be good, let you rest, but you feel so fuckin’ good, baby. so good. i couldn’t help it.”

“can’t — can’t do it again,” she mewls, even as she clings to him like she’s afraid he’ll vanish. “can’t, dean, i — i mean it, i can’t.”

“i know, i know,” he soothes, petting her hair, slipping his hand under her knee to hike her leg back around his waist. “you don’t gotta do anything, okay? just let me stay like this. promise i won’t move. just wanna feel you, that’s all.”

but it’s a lie, and they both know it.

“dean,” she whines, “i want to, but i can’t. i think i’ll pass out.” she’s frowning, on the verge of tears — this always left her more empathetic than usual. “i’m sorry.”

his whole face softens at that — something in him melting under the weight of her apology, like she just told him the saddest thing in the world. the smirk fades from his mouth, replaced by something gentler, something real. and it’s almost worse than the teasing, how tender he gets when she’s like this. how seriously he takes it, even after all that pretending.

“hey,” he breathes, one hand coming up to cradle the side of her face, thumb stroking beneath her eye as he leans in close. “none of that, okay? you don’t gotta be sorry, baby. never gotta be sorry.”

she sniffles, lips parting like she’s about to argue — but she doesn’t, because he’s already pressing his face to hers, already brushing his nose against her temple like he’s trying to soothe the ache right out of her body.

“i got you,” he murmurs, voice so low and honest it nearly breaks her in half. “you gave me everything, sweetheart. everything. i’m not gonna take more than you’ve got.”

his hand slips down, resting over her stomach, grounding and warm. “just breathe, yeah? you’re okay. i’m right here.”

and he stays like that, still and thick and stuffing her just right, peppering her face with kisses — cheeks, forehead, eyelids — just letting her be, letting her come back down while he holds her like a secret he never wants to give up.

“my best girl,” he drawls against her skin, soft as a prayer. “you did so good.”

she’s still trembling a little, muscles twitching under the weight of aftershocks and overstimulation, and her voice is that soft, sticky thing — all syrupy vowels and softer consonants, like she doesn’t quite know how to speak anymore but has to say something anyway.

“thank you,” she whispers, barely audible, brushing her nose against his jaw like a kitten trying to burrow into the warmth. “thank you, ‘m sorry, i didn’t mean to —”

and dean cuts her off with a kiss. soft. slow. reverent. one of those kisses that says shush, baby, without a single word.

“none of that,” he says again, a little firmer this time, but still gentle. “you were perfect, y’hear me? so fuckin’ good for me.”

she whimpers — can’t help it — her arms winding around his neck, clinging like he’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the planet. and maybe he is.

“just… felt too much,” she breathes, a shaky little sigh escaping her lips as she nuzzles into the crook of his neck. “but it was so good, dean, i swear. i liked it. i liked it so much.”

and god, that does something to him. he swears he feels it in his bone marrow, the way she praises him all hazy and grateful, like he gave her the world.

“i know, pretty,” he murmurs, brushing her hair back from her forehead, kissing her temple. “i know you did. could feel it, remember? way your pussy kept takin’ it, even when your mouth said stop.”

he shifts just a little, adjusting the blanket around them, careful not to overstimulate her more than she already is. still thick inside her, but motionless now, just warmth and pressure and that undeniable claim.

“all wrung out, huh?” he teases, but it’s so fond, so soft it barely counts as teasing. “got my best girl cock-drunk and crying in my arms. jesus christ, sweetheart. you’re gonna kill me.”

she giggles — a watery, cracked little sound — and buries her face deeper into his neck. “’m not tryna kill you.”

he chuckles, heart flipping over in his chest. “could’ve fooled me.”

“how the hell do you have the stamina of a goddamn olympian?” she whines against his neck, a pitiful, dismayed, petulant little thing.

he laughs, low and smug, the sound rumbling right against her lips where they’re pressed to his throat. his hand slides up her spine, palm splayed between her shoulder blades, steadying her like she might float away if he doesn’t anchor her there.

“baby, you really think olympians have anything on me?” he teases, and it’s so stupidly cocky she could slap him if she had the strength. “sweetheart, i’ve got heaven and hell trying to kill me on a weekly basis. you think a little marathon session with my best girl is gonna put me down?”

she groans, all breathy, squeezing his bicep in protest. “you’re literally insane,” she mutters, voice slurring from exhaustion. “like actually certifiable.”

he grins against her hair, proud of that. like it’s a damn trophy.

“takes one to love one, sugarplum,” he says, the nickname smug and stupid and soaked in fondness. “you’re the one who let me wreck you six times and thanked me for it. or was it seven? heh, lost count.”

she kicks his shin weakly beneath the sheet, more a pout than power, and lets out a long, dramatic sigh against his neck. “don’t remind me,” she whines. “i still can’t feel my legs. i think i saw god.”

dean presses a kiss just behind her ear, right where her pulse still flutters wild and fast. “yeah?” he murmurs, smug and doting all at once. “hope you said hi for me.”

she tries to swat him again. no such luck. ends up clinging tighter instead, her voice a whisper now, tender and raw. “don’t go anywhere, okay?”

he wraps his arms tighter around her, their legs tangled, noses brushing. “wasn’t plannin’ on it, baby. not for anything.”

“okay,” she breathes, lips barely brushing his. “give me like… uh. i dunno. ten minutes, then i promise i’ll help you out. i’m sorry again.”

he kisses her before she can apologize again, soft and slow and a little amused, like he’s pressing a smile into her mouth. his thumb strokes lazy circles over her hip, grounding her, steadying her in that weightless, blissed-out place she’s still floating through.

“you got nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart,” he murmurs, forehead resting against hers, voice gentled to a low, gruff murmur like it’s just for her. “you’re the one who got ruined six ways from sunday. i should be thankin’ you.”

his nose brushes hers, affectionate and boyish, despite the deep throb still aching between his legs. he could wait. he would wait. hell, he’d wait hours if she needed, not just ten minutes. watching her come undone like that? having her melt against him, sobbing and babbling and sweet and soft and his? yeah. he could live off that for a while.

“but ten minutes?” he teases, lips tugging into a smirk. “you sure? not fifteen? twenty? you looked real close to astral projecting there for a sec.”

she smacks his chest with a tired hand, the contact more a tap than anything else, but at least she hit him this time. “ten,” she repeats stubbornly, even though her voice still trembles a little. “i mean it. pinky promise.”

he hums, nuzzling her cheek. “no rush. take all the time you need,” he says sweetly — and then, just to be him, he adds with a grin, “i do like a good show of gratitude, though. don’t be afraid to go above and beyond.”

“you got it, boss.” she huffs amusedly, all dazed and sated. “also, since when am i ‘sugarplum’?”

“since today,” he says, all smug and unbothered, one hand lazily smoothing up and down her back like he’s petting a sleepy cat. “you don’t like it?”

he sounds so disgustingly pleased with himself. he is pleased with himself. he’s got her melted into a puddle against his chest, skin flushed and glowing, voice gone soft and lazy like sun-warmed syrup — and she’s still sharp enough to challenge him, which he finds unbearably hot.

she groans softly, burying her face against his neck. “i don’t not like it,” she mumbles, voice muffled and petulant. “just didn’t realize i was dating a guy who says shit like sugarplum.”

“oh, sweetheart,” he grins, shifting to press a kiss to her forehead, warm and proud. “you’re dating a guy who’s gonna call you every corny name in the book if it makes you whine like that.”

she scoffs, weakly swatting at his side, but her smile gives her away. “you’re ridiculous.”

“mhm,” he agrees easily, pulling her tighter to his chest. “but you love it.”

“unfortunately.”

“say it.”

she rolls her eyes and flops dramatically against him, her voice flat but fond. “i love it.”

“you love me,” he corrects smugly.

“debatable.”

“uh-huh.”

he kisses her again, this time on the tip of her nose, then her cheek, then her jaw. her laugh is airy and exhausted and so stupidly full of affection it makes his chest ache.

“ten minutes,” she murmurs, already halfway to sleep. “then i’m yours.”

he grins against her temple, smug as ever. “sugarplum, you’re always mine.”

“i take it back. it’s dumb.” she mumbles fondly, barely loud enough for him to hear.

“too late,” he murmurs, lips brushing her hairline, his voice soaked in honeyed arrogance. “you already smiled when i said it. that’s a verbal contract, sweetheart.”

she hums, somewhere between exhausted and amused, and smacks his chest weakly with the back of her hand. “verbal contract my ass,” she grumbles, but she doesn’t pull away from the lazy trail of his fingers stroking along her spine.

“mhm,” he says again, noncommittal but deeply self-satisfied. “signed, sealed, delivered. my sugarplum.”

“you’re the worst.”

“you said you loved it.”

“i was compromised,” she mumbles, burrowing deeper into him like she’s trying to fuse them together, all her sharpness blunted by overstimulation and fondness. “don’t hold me to anything i said post-orgasm.”

“sorry, sweetheart,” he croons, dropping a kiss to the shell of her ear, “but those are the only promises i believe.”

her breath catches, half-laugh and half-moan, because god, he’s insufferable. and she’s so far gone she can’t even argue with him properly, just lets her arm drape across his chest like she’s staking a claim.

they stay like that for a moment, bodies tangled up, sun cutting through the blinds in sleepy golden streaks, both of them so warm and bare and perfectly still. and then, quiet and barely audible:

“…you better never say it in front of sam.”

dean snorts, absolutely diabolical. “oh, i absolutely will.”

“dean,” she warns, lifting her head just enough to glare at him.

he just smirks and kisses her square on the mouth. “that’s sugarplum to you, actually.”

“gross,” she hums against his lips.

“mm, yeah?” he teases, nipping gently at her bottom lip, still drunk off her, all smug and slow. “didn’t sound so gross when you were cryin’ for my dick few minutes ago.”

she groans — long and low and dramatic — then buries her face in his shoulder like if she hides long enough, he’ll forget how pathetic she sounded begging him. “i hate you.”

“no,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering closed as his hand trails lazily over the curve of her hip, his voice going syrupy and soft, “you love me. even when i’m gross.”

“especially when you’re gross,” she admits reluctantly, her voice all muffled and small against his neck. “that’s the problem.”

he chuckles, full-bodied and golden, chest rising and falling against hers. “don’t worry, sweetheart,” he says, kissing her temple, “i’m only gross for you.”

the room falls quiet for a breath. her hand curls loosely around the chain of his dog tags, and her legs hook around his, and everything goes still and full.

then — somewhere down the hall — a soft creak.

dean freezes.

“…was that sam?” he whispers.

she lifts her head, eyes wide, lips parted. “…i swear if he heard you call me sugarplum—”

“he’s never gonna let us live it down.”

“you,” she hisses, pushing at his chest. “he’s never gonna let you live it down.”

“worth it,” dean says without hesitation, grinning like a menace. “i’d say it again. sugarplum.”

“you’re sleeping on the floor.”

“floor’s fine. as long as i get to call you my—”

“dean.”

“sugarplum.”

mallory groans against his neck, muttering something unintelligible that sounds suspiciously like “you’re the worst person i’ve ever loved.”

he snickers, pleased as can be, and curls his arms tighter around her like a blanket he’s never letting go of. “mm, ‘course i am,” he murmurs into her hair, “but you still wanna marry me and have my gross little babies.”

“ew,” she mumbles, voice raspy and wrecked, “you make it sound so romantic.”

he’s grinning again — smug and sunlit and terrible. “well, we are a romance for the ages. tragic. epic. rated R for language, violence, and obscene amounts of—”

“don’t finish that sentence,” she warns.

he hums innocently. “…love?”

she groans into his neck, biting him a little, just for show, and he laughs, all low and bright like her annoyance is the best part of his afternoon. “okay, okay, i’ll behave.”

“liar.”

“scout’s honor.”

“you were never a scout.”

“exactly.” he smirks, ducking to kiss her jaw with a sweet little press of his lips. “now c’mon, sugarplum. let’s nap.”

“stop saying that,” she grumbles, but she’s already folding into him like she belongs there, pulling the blanket over them both.

and he — warm and smug and half-in-love with how whiny she gets when she’s tired — just closes his eyes and mumbles, “fine. peaches.”

“dean—”

“pudding’.”

“stop.”

“babycakes.”

“i will kill you.”

“you’d miss me.”

“…yeah,” she whispers, voice suddenly so quiet and fond it hurts a little. “i would.”

he opens his eyes at that, just to look at her. tousled and flushed and clinging to him like a heartbeat. she’s glowing in the afternoon sun, eyes lidded and lips kiss-bitten. and she’s his. all of her. even when she’s complaining. especially when she’s complaining.

“then i guess it’s a good thing,” he says, curling a hand around the back of her neck and bringing her forehead to his lips, “that i’m not going anywhere.”

“super good.” she sighs softly as he kisses her forehead.

dean just melts, right then and there — something about the way she says it, all dreamy and quiet and full of that sweet, dazed affection, makes his chest ache in the softest kind of way.

“yeah?” he whispers, brushing his nose against hers, his voice all sleepy-smug and tender. “super good, huh?”

she hums, nodding the tiniest bit, her eyes already fluttering shut again. her fingers toy lazily with his, not really trying to do anything, just needing to touch him as if he’s not still buried inside her.

“mmhm. ‘cause of you,” she mumbles, and god, it’s barely a sentence, but it’s everything to him.

he kisses her forehead again, just a little longer this time, his lips lingering in her hair. “that’s my girl,” he murmurs. “my best girl. nothin’ better than takin’ care of you.”

and he means it — every slow syllable of it. he could die happy like this, honestly. tangled up in her, the sun warming her skin, her heartbeat slow and safe against his chest.

her breathing evens out almost completely, soft and steady, and he stays there just watching her — barely even blinking.

[sophiuhhsthots]

LOVE NOTE : mal’s insatiable oral fixation

WORD COUNT : 3451

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mal’s oral fixation isn’t just a habit — it’s a need, a constant, like her body’s way of grounding herself. whether it’s chewing gum, sucking on a lollipop, or absentmindedly biting her nail, she’s always doing something. it’s like she can’t sit still without needing that sensation, that movement, something to keep her focused.

but the worst part? it’s contagious. dean’s learned this the hard way. he’ll be sitting there, watching her chew on the edge of a pen or rolling a cherry lollipop between her lips, and it’ll drive him wild. he won’t even realize it until he’s staring a little too long, his own lips parted slightly, the thought of her lips moving so fluidly too much to ignore.

and god forbid she ever decides to do that thing where she runs her tongue along her bottom lip or gently bites her lip while thinking. it makes him lose track of time, of words, of everything. he knows he’s not supposed to make it a thing, but how could he not? it’s so second nature to her, and yet, every time, it hits him like a freight train.

it’s not a big deal, but it’s the little things, like when she curls up beside him, quietly pulling his fingers between her teeth, that really get to him. she’ll smile against his skin, and he’s lost. just lost.

that moment was a real turning point. he was just cradling her face, lost in the moment, his thumb grazing over her soft, plump lip — soft, smooth, like everything he’d ever wanted to touch. the kind of moment where everything felt right… until she did that. sucked his thumb right into her mouth without warning, her eyes locked on his with that damn look. that look that said she knew. she knew exactly what she was doing, and she knew how it made him feel.

dean froze, his whole body going stiff. his thumb — just gently pressed against her bottom lip — was suddenly in her mouth, and his breath hitched. her eyes? intense. he couldn’t tear his gaze away. it was like she was drawing him in, not with words, but with the simple, gentle way she sucked on his thumb, like she was tasting him, savoring him, and it drove him wild.

the most frustrating part? she barely seemed phased by it, just casually holding his hand in place, her lips and tongue working in slow, deliberate motions, like she was in no rush to let him go. he was trying so hard to keep his composure, to keep from showing how it was affecting him, but god, it was like his whole body was on fire. his chest tightened, and his heartbeat was in his ears, louder than anything. it wasn’t just that, — it was the quiet, slow burn of want building up.

and when she finally let go, that lingering, almost teasing smirk? he was a mess. couldn’t stop thinking about it. couldn’t stop replaying the way her mouth had felt against his thumb, the way her eyes had promised something, something dangerous, something he couldn’t let himself want but did.

it was a turning point for him, for sure. he’d never look at her lips the same way again.

and he was gone from that moment on. it was like she’d unlocked something in him, some little secret part of him that wanted to feed into her habit, her need. but in the way that only dean could — totally unashamed, completely indulging her in ways that made him feel like he was just as addicted to it as she was. he got the gum, the lollipops, always the mint and cherry — just the right flavors to keep her distracted, to keep her wanting more, all while he took advantage of those little moments, slipping his fingers or tongue into her mouth, pressing past those lips with a certain deliberate care.

it wasn’t just about getting her worked up. no, it was the power he had to make her melt with something as simple as a kiss, something as innocent as a piece of candy. it was a game, but the stakes were high, and he liked it that way. he loved seeing her eyes widen, that subtle little shift in her body when she realized what was happening, when she realized he was the one who was now indulging her, feeding into it, giving her just what she needed without saying a word.

and damn, every time he pressed his thumb past her lips, or slipped his fingers in for just a second too long, he could see the shift. see the glint in her eyes — satisfaction, yes, but also a hunger, an edge. he was right there with her, living in those quiet, stolen moments when their world felt small, and nothing else mattered but the way her lips moved around him, the way she let herself be just a little bit vulnerable with him.

he’d found the key to her, and he was obsessed with how easily he could make her crave it, make her crave him.

and those kisses? every time they happened, they became more urgent, more needy, like he couldn’t get enough of her. it wasn’t just about the moment anymore; it was like a hunger had bloomed in him. whenever he kissed her now, his hands would scramble to hold her closer, like he was afraid she might slip away from him. his tongue, always slick and demanding, would find its way into her mouth as if he needed to taste her, to feel her melt against him. each kiss became deeper, his lips parting more eagerly as if every time was a desperate attempt to claim her, to make sure she knew how much he craved her.

and when she let him, when she leaned into it, god. it drove him crazy. the way her body would soften against his, the way her breath would catch just before she gave in. he was always a little lost in it, a little frantic when she responded, her hands threading through his hair, pulling him in closer, daring him to go further.

sometimes, it felt like they couldn’t breathe, like there wasn’t enough air to satisfy them, but that didn’t stop him. every time he’d get a taste of her lips, his mind would short-circuit, and it would be all he could think about. he’d push for more, slipping his tongue deeper, giving her the kiss that he needed. not just because he wanted her, but because the intensity of it — the way she melted under his touch — made him feel like he was finally getting something he’d always wanted.

mal’s got him wrapped around her little finger. every kiss, every little touch — she knows what she’s doing. she’s been getting better at it too, teasing him, pulling him in deeper, and letting him think he’s in control while she stays two steps ahead. it’s like a game for her, one that she’s totally winning.

when he leans in, desperate to taste her again, she knows exactly how to make him ache for it. she’d let him take the lead just enough to get him riled up, then pull back at the last second, watching as he gets frustrated, lips swollen and needy, eyes flickering between irritation and desire. but she’s in no rush. she’d let him stew, let him get lost in the hunger while she enjoyed every second of it.

sometimes, when he gets too caught up in it, she’d just smile — sweet, innocent — and lean in slow, just enough to brush her lips against his, barely a whisper of a kiss before she pulls back. his eyes would darken immediately, that edge of desperation creeping in, and mal would just chuckle to herself.

it wasn’t just the kiss anymore. it was about power. and mal? she knew how to wield it. dean might think he’s the one getting the upper hand, but she was already a few steps ahead, enjoying every moment.

mal just likes to watch dean squirm, maybe when they’re in the middle of a kiss, and she’s got him right where she wants him — her lips pressing against his, and then suddenly, just as he deepens it, she pulls away slightly, teasing, and runs her tongue lightly over his bottom lip. not enough to be sensual — just enough to make him freeze, his breath hitching, and his brain short-circuit for a second.

she’d do it with that playful smirk, knowing exactly how it messes with him. maybe she’d even look him dead in the eye, daring him to respond, like she’s daring him to take control back. but it’s not just a tease — it’s a test. because she loves watching him get caught off guard like that, seeing that flicker of surprise in his eyes before he recovers, before he lets himself fall right back into it.

he’d be scrambling to get back to the kiss, maybe a little rougher than before, but mal? she’d be snickering internally, satisfied with how she got under his skin, and she’d do it again. and again. just to see him lose himself in the need for her. it’s a dance, and she’s leading, whether he likes it or not.

she’d be smug as hell, grinning with that knowing look whenever she gets dean to that point where he can’t hold back anymore. she knows exactly how to push him to the edge, testing his patience and seeing just how far he’ll go before he caves. and when he does, when he’s spitting in her mouth like it’s the most primal thing, like he has to, that satisfaction would flood through her veins.

mal would probably gasp, a little caught off guard by the raw intensity of it. but then, just as quickly, she’d own it, a pleased smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, her eyes sparking with mischief. she’d catch him off guard with a slow, deliberate kiss, her tongue dancing against his, tasting the remnants of his heat, and she’d relish the moment. she’s not even pretending to be modest about it — no, she’d enjoy knowing she has him in the palm of her hand. she’d get even bolder, teasing him with that “look what i made you do” kind of smirk, daring him to push it even further.

it’s all part of the game for her, and she loves every damn second of it.

the escalation between them is inevitable. it starts out casual, playful even — just a tease, a little testing of boundaries. but as with everything between dean and mal, it doesn’t stay simple for long. that first time, when dean shoves his fingers in her mouth, his eyes half-lidded with that smugness of his, mal plays along — maybe a little too into it for her own good. but that’s the thing about them, isn’t it? it’s never really “casual.” even when it starts that way, it’s always so loaded with something deeper, something raw. and once they start going down this road, there’s no stopping it.

fast-forward, and they’ve made a habit of this. dean’s hands on her jaw, pulling her in, his thumb pressing into her skin, his fingers slick with the intensity of it all, making sure she feels every little bit of control he’s taking. mal? she’s not going to back down. she leans into it, lets him do whatever he wants, her eyes a smoldering challenge. he pries her lips apart, gentle but desperate. when he lets that slow string of spit fall onto her waiting tongue, it’s not just the act itself — it’s the trust, the way they both know what this means. it’s filthy, it’s indulgent, and it’s everything they want from each other, no shame involved.

and yeah, it makes them desperate. the build-up, the tension, the way they’re both getting off on this dirty little game — it’s electric. the more they play, the more they crave it. it’s something only they share, something unique, something that binds them together in a way words never could.

this whole thing? it’s not just about lust — it’s about power, about control, about the quiet, aching intimacy that exists in the space between one breath and the next. it’s about the way mal grounds herself with sensation, with the press of something sweet between her lips, and the way dean unravels at the seams every time she does. it’s the kind of fixation that doesn’t fade — it sharpens. every glance, every touch, every heat-soaked kiss becomes another thread tangled in the web they weave around each other.

the moment he first slipped his thumb past her lips? the first strike of the match before the whole world caught fire. because of course she did it without a word — mal doesn’t need to ask, doesn’t need to explain. she knows how much power lives in her mouth, and she knows exactly how to wield it. it’s instinctual. primal. and when dean freezes, lips parted, pupils blown wide? she feels it like a victory. no smirk necessary — just the slow, deliberate swirl of her tongue over his thumb, and his sanity crumbles quietly in her hands.

and dean, poor thing, he’s so far gone. at first it rattled him — this need, this pull, this magnetic ache that only she could cause — but now? now he feeds it. now he craves it. he starts slipping gum into her mouth without thinking, picking up cherry lollipops just because he likes watching her eat them, and sometimes, when they’re alone, he’ll just offer his fingers, silently, and watch as she takes them without hesitation, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

but it’s never just about the touch — it’s the eye contact. the silence. the way her lips wrap around his knuckle, slow and precise, and the way his breath stutters, chest rising too fast, hand tightening on her hip. it’s the way they push and pull, trading control like cards in a high-stakes game. and oh, when she teases him? when she runs her tongue along his thumb just to watch the color rise to his cheeks, that wild look in his eyes? it destroys him.

mal plays the long game. she likes watching him need. likes feeling his hunger roll off him in waves, barely restrained. she pulls away just enough to make him chase her, and every time he catches her, it’s more intense than the last. more urgent. like his mouth on hers is the only thing tethering him to this world.

and when he gets desperate? when his mouth is slick and warm and begging without words, when he’s shoving his fingers in her mouth like it’s the only place they belong — god, she lets him. she opens up for him like she was made for it, lets him press the weight of his desire into her tongue, her lips, her throat. it’s a surrender that feels like power, and she’s drunk on it.

because yeah, she might’ve started it — but now he’s addicted too. now he’s giving in, letting her ruin him in the softest, dirtiest ways. and she loves it. loves how breathless he gets when she sucks on his thumb, how helpless he sounds when she swirls her tongue around a lollipop with a look that promises far more than sugar.

it’s a language they both understand — one of mouths and hands, of tongues and teeth and breath. and with every kiss, every filthy, sweet little moment, they’re writing a story only they could tell. a story about obsession, about need, about the delicious ache of always wanting more.

dean never stood a chance. not even for a second. from the moment she tilted her head just so, lips wrapped around the stem of that cherry lollipop, eyes glinting with mischief like she already knew how this story ended — he was a goner. dean winchester, all swagger and bravado, undone by a girl with that goddamned devil-may-care smile that could burn the whole damn world down.

he’d tell himself he was in control, that he was playing the long game, that he had the upper hand. but deep down, beneath the leather and the bravado, he knew — he knew — he was already hers. every smirk, every kiss, every time he slipped his fingers past her lips with a lazy sort of hunger… it rewrote him. rewired him.

she didn’t even have to try. that was the worst part. she breathed, and he lost his train of thought. she laughed, and it echoed through him like a melody he’d never stop chasing. and when she kissed him, slow and deep and maddeningly sure of herself — he didn’t just fall. he shattered. willingly. beautifully. completely.

he never stood a chance, not against that mouth, not against those eyes, not against the way she made surrender feel like the sweetest kind of victory. and really… he wouldn’t have it any other way.

he’ll tap his fingers against her bottom lip, slow and deliberate, just to see if she’ll open her mouth for him. she always does. always. no hesitation, just this soft, silent obedience that makes his breath catch in his throat. it’s not submission — not really — it’s something worse, something deeper. it’s trust. it’s connection. it’s mal saying, without ever saying it, i want this too. i want you.

and when she does, when she parts her lips and lets him slide two fingers in, she closes around them with that same slow burn, tongue flicking lazily, eyes locked on his like she’s got all the time in the world. dean’s knees damn near buckle every time. his free hand curls into her hair, tight, grounding himself in the reality of her — of this — while she hums around his fingers like it’s second nature.

they’ve turned it into a language. mal speaks with her mouth, her lips, her tongue — with the way she bites, sucks, tastes. dean answers with his hands, his sighs, the way he’ll press her against the nearest wall and kiss her like he’s starving. it’s not always about sex, but it always ends up there. how could it not? when everything about her mouth is designed to undo him?

sometimes it’s soft, though. sometimes they’re just lying in bed, her head on his chest, and she reaches for his hand, threading his fingers into her mouth like it’s a security blanket. he strokes her hair with the other, lets her settle there, content and warm, her breath soft against his skin. those moments wreck him the most. because it’s not about teasing or power then — it’s just her needing to feel something, and him giving it to her.

he starts noticing more things — the way she chews on her straw when they stop for drinks, the way her lips curl around the edge of a cigarette she doesn’t even light, the way she’ll mouth at the seam of his shirt when she’s half-asleep on him. it’s like her mouth is always moving, always seeking. and he wants to be what she finds. always.

so he feeds the fixation. not just with candy or fingers, but with attention, with permission. he lets her, wants her to — because every time she closes her mouth around him, it’s like she’s saying i’m here. i’m real. i’m yours. and every time, dean falls a little harder, a little deeper into the chaos of her.

and mal? mal knows. she knows exactly how deep it runs, how bad it’s gotten. she sees the way he stares, the way his breath stutters when she bites into a cherry lollipop and her lips gloss red. she smirks around the stick, twirling it in her mouth, knowing full well what she’s doing to him. it’s all part of the game. her need, his obsession — feeding into each other like a circuit with no end.

and god, when she drops it — when she presses him back, straddles his lap, and replaces that lollipop with his mouth — it’s like a dam breaking. they kiss like they’re trying to swallow each other whole, like their mouths are the only way they know how to communicate. and maybe they are. maybe that’s the truth of them. messy, wild, insatiable.

mal’s oral fixation? it’s more than a quirk. it’s the epicenter of something bigger — a storm that starts between her lips and ends somewhere deep in dean’s chest, where her touch, her kiss, her mouth lives inside him long after she pulls away.

and neither of them wants to stop. not now. not ever.