cained | 👻🎈🤡🥧

[ His hand is almost searing hot on her skin but it still sends a shiver bolting down her spine; every touch is heightened, electrified, and this is far from the first time she's been with anyone but it's like she's forgotten what it feels like. Or maybe — and more truthfully — she's never had it this good. She's hyperaware of every little breath and gesture, eager to learn just what makes his breath hitch, what makes his voice do that, and how does she make him do it again? She's busy mouthing kisses along the line of his throat as he unclasps her bra, humming against his skin when she feels the last layer between them give way under his nimble fingers.

There's a distant part of her that still anticipates the old fight-or-flight reflex that used to accompany moments like this with lesser, meaner men, and she arches up into him like she's trying to ward that off, remind herself of where she is and who she's with. But she can feel the care in how he holds her, the thrumming desire, and the reflex doesn't come because it has no place here. Everything about this is different down to the choice, and this is one she didn't make lightly. This is Dean, who said he understood, who said they'd take it slow, who said it was okay. She shouldn't feel ashamed of what she wants, of making him feel good, of enjoying how he makes her feel. She knows that.

She exhales softly when he guides their hands between his legs, fingers instinctively curving to cup him there and God, feeling how much he wants her, how just being this close to her got him this hard, sends a spike of heat straight between her own thighs. His forehead drops to hers and her eyes fall closed, smirking at what he says, satisfaction and flattery coursing through her veins as she gives him an experimental, teasing stroke, laughing an uh-huh in the hot and heavy air between them because yeah, she does know, it's fucking obvious.

Both hands make quick work of unfastening his jeans even as she tips her chin up to crush her lips to his. This kiss is fervent, open-mouthed with a slip of tongue; button and zip taken care of, she curls her hands into the waistband like she means to shove it down — and uses it to tug him closer instead. Her bra slips between them until the straps catch on the crook of her elbows and now they're pressed flush, skin to skin; she breaks away only to whisper against his mouth: ]

It's okay. [ Because she can read the caution in the care, too, in the way his hands haven't dipped below her waist. It occurs to her now that she should say something (but God, she can barely think straight and he's still so aware; how did she get this lucky?), her voice warm and coaxing in invitation. ] You can touch me, honey, I'm not gonna break.

( part of him wishes her hand would dive under his jeans, craving the pressure and friction that comes with it, but another part of him is glad to have one final boundary between them. his hand presses flat against the small of her back when she reels him in, keeping her secure against his chest, so close he can almost feel the beat of her heart, how it must be thundering as hard as his is, a storm of passion caught between them as they kiss, teeth scraping tongue, hunger seeping into the way his fingers card through her messy curls. when she breaks away, she pulls half a moan from him, half a mumble of mmhm.

maybe he'd just been waiting for the invitation, as if all of this wasn't invitation enough — but hearing her voice it (you can touch me), spurs him on further and he leans into her, his knee digging into the mattress as he lays her down, pulls her bra free, releasing it to join the rest of their scattered clothes on the floor. his mouth is hot where he presses it to the dip of her throat, one hand tracing the curves of her waist, over the rise of her breast (kneading, the pads of his fingers dragging over her nipple) — while the other trails lower, ghosting over her navel, pushes gently past the waistband of her leggings.

and even though she just told him he could, he glances up at her from where his teeth have tugged at the soft flesh below her collarbone, soothed the bright bloom of color with his tongue, just to make sure. he doesn't want to overwhelm her, but he does want to make her feel good — and he's pretty fucking sure he's succeeding on that front.

slowly, he presses his fingers against her underwear, the heat of her sending a wave of arousal crashing into him. he can tell how wet she already is, even with a thin layer of fabric between, and the thought of that alone is almost enough to send him careening toward the edge, but he's not eighteen anymore and he likes to think he has a little more self-control than that (hard-earned, well-fought-for control). still, there's no denying just how easily she could make him come undone if he really let himself go — and he will, later, when he's less focused on memorizing every inch of her. )

Good? ( he asks, his voice husky, and he means it more as does that feel good? rather than am i doing good? — he's confident enough in this particular department to know he is good at this, but on a deeper, subconscious level he needs real confirmation of the latter just as much as the former. there's power in validation and, frankly, he's been starved of it for most of his life. so while he's more interested in how she feels at the moment, there is some intrinsic part of him that yearns for praise, especially from someone whose pleasure he's so devoted to. )

[ It is a dance. Albeit to an old, familiar tune but the partner is new and the steps were tentative at first but the longer they're together, the closer they get, the more certain they become. So much of their relationship before tonight was built over the phone and they know how to read every little shift and cadence in each others' voices by now, whether they realise it or not; the rise and fall, the silence between words, all the tiniest clues they latched on to with miles and miles between them. Filling in those blanks in person is something Beverly relishes, every infrequent visit turned over and over in her mind's eye — and now, here, they're learning together: the brush of a hand that's a may I? or the hum into a kiss that's a yes. (The gasp that's a yes, please.)

He lays her back gently and the press of his lips at her throat is met with precisely that gasp, eyes falling closed to savour the heat of his kisses to her fluttering pulse, her back arching a little to chase that shivery sensation as his hand glides down the length of her body. Beverly tries to keep her breath steady but she honest to God thinks even this much could be enough, it's been so damn long, and it's intoxicating to feel the clear affection in his touch. Because he does know her history, and not every scar faded like the one on her palm — his fingertips skim an old burn (small, round, cigarette-sized) in the well of her breasts. Pale pink, nearly the colour of her skin, almost shiny in the half-light. Yes, it's been a long time since anyone's touched her with such reverence.

Beverly gasps again when his fingers press between her thighs, hips bucking up into the curl of his hand before she can stop herself. That breath releases in a laugh, almost but not quite embarrassed by how sensitive she is, how wet she already is. Because even if he doesn't want to overwhelm her, she does feel overwhelmed — by every kiss from the car to her bed, the hot press of his body against hers, the gravel in his voice. She feels crazy with how crazy he makes her feel. Good? she repeats almost deliriously in her mind. ]

Fuck, Dean, [ she says breathlessly, almost on a groan, ] you don't know how good.

[ Really fucking good and they're just getting started. One hand comes up to thread her fingers through his short hair, not guiding so much as just holding while the other lands somewhere in the sheets because that bit of encouragement seems to be all they need to keep going. She hisses when he starts to stroke her through her underwear, already damp and clinging with her arousal; it drives her close to the edge just imagining what it would feel like if he pushed the fabric aside, dragged his callused fingertips over the slick heat of her. He doesn't — or, rather, he doesn't get the chance to, because Beverly can't help grinding herself on his hand, lips pressed together, breath coming in little puffs through her nose, eager for more of that delicious friction.

God, it doesn't take long, not with how turned on she is, not with how long it's been, not with her imagination crashing into reality, the way he's covering her with his hands and mouth and how much she wants more of it. (Overwhelming. Very.) Her orgasm crashes into her without warning, arching off the bed and into him with a startled little oh, lashes fluttering like her nerves. Gasping breaths dissolve into incredulous laughter in the comedown, her hand releasing the sheets to come up to cover her blushing face. Holy shit. Was that a record? ]

Jesus Christ, [ she mumbles, and it almost sounds like an apology. ]

Edited (👀) 2020-09-13 10:45 (UTC)

( all it takes is a little pressure, the pads of his fingers pressing circles into her clit through thin fabric; she rocks into him, her hand in his hair, you don't know how good on her lips, his name, breathless and seeped with her arousal and — well, yeah, he does have some idea, her breath coming out shorter until it rounds out in an oh that spreads through him like wildfire, his dick twitching uncomfortably against his jeans. (but it's better like this, for now; he knows from experience just how good it is when he holds out, when he pushes everything down long enough and lets it out in a slow release.) his mind is swimming with a heady kind of pride, and the kiss he presses to her chest curves into a smile. maybe it is a record (not that he minds how fast she came just from him touching her; the complete opposite, actually), but now he's committed to setting another one: how many times can he push her over the edge? how many times can he get her to say his name in the height of it? )

It's okay, babe, I know. ( he knows the subtle tones of her apologies, even when she isn't saying i'm sorry. but he wants her to know there's nothing to feel sorry for or embarrassed about. it's all perfectly natural and he knows she hasn't done this in a long time (and definitely not with anyone who made her feel this good). all that really matters to him is that she's enjoying herself; he's got all night to make sure she keeps enjoying herself. he pushes himself up just enough to kiss her, brushing her hand away from her face. ) Ride it out, babe. I promise, there's more where that came from.

( his his hand retreats from her underwear (despite how badly he wants to slip his fingers past the fabric; not yet), sliding up her side to cup her other breast, taking it into his mouth, his tongue swirling over her nipple, pulling it between his teeth and tugging lightly before releasing it. this close, he can see the scars she carries — his stomach clenches instinctively in a fierce desire to cause great harm to the men who gave her those scars — and like recognizes like: the scars mean she survived, mean she overcame, that she's stronger because of them. how could he not find the beauty in that? his lips are gentle, reverent as he kisses them, eager to replace bad memories with good ones. his teeth catch on sensitive skin, working it under his mouth until pink blossoms with purple.

and then he works his way lower, trailing kisses down her abdomen until he's planted himself on his knees between her at the foot of her bed. his hands brush over her thighs, finally catching the fabric of her leggings and pulling them off, leaving her in nothing but her underwear. he can't help but take a moment to take in the sight of her: face flushed, the faint glow of her bliss drawn into the curve of her mouth, messy curls, splashes of freckles like stardust from head to torso lit by the dim glow of the lamp. something warm takes root inside his chest, something he can't quite name.

he presses a gentle kiss to the curve of her knee, his hands settling tenderly on her thighs to ease them open. when he looks up at her, his expression seems to say you can still tell me to stop but the want is bright and clear all the same. )

[ She's still laughing when he leans over her, smile softening and fizzing nerves soothed by the kiss he drops to her lips, curved in a smile against his. He didn't need to say anything to reassure her but she loves that he does, that he reads the little twist in her voice with such ease, that she doesn't have to explain herself. That hand in his hair comes down to caress his face, sweetening their kiss with the way she lingers on the swell of his bottom lip. The promise he murmurs against them just makes it feel like the heat in her face is rushing down her body, lighting up every point of contact they share like a lightning rod. (Or maybe that's just the way he says babe. Such a little thing, an endearment she's heard a hundred times before. But the way it tastes on his tongue makes her heart do somersaults.)

Beverly huffs out a breath against him, eyes alight as she searches his face in the whisper of space between them, thumb winging his cheekbone. ]

You really are something else, you know that? [ And when he starts to travel down the length of her body, trailing kisses in his wake, she closes her eyes, skin tingling, hand moving again to stroke through his hair. She gasps when his lips close over her nipple, already stiff in the heated air, and when he catches it in his teeth she arches into his mouth, the sensation shooting straight between her thighs. Fuck. In a voice that's half-airy laugh, half-moan: ] Yeah, guess you do. [ She feels like her heartbeat is hammering in her throat, like it's making her breath shudder when she realises where he's headed, the way his lips brush over her scar and the impulse to cover it dies with the gentle scrape of teeth, slip of tongue. ] Oh, Dean —

[ Hushed, touched. He's made it clear there's no need for shame or apology here. If she wasn't so caught up in how good it all feels, she might cry from the sheer tenderness of it all. It's easy to get lost in what he's doing to her and she is, her other hand moving to smooth over his bare back, sweeps of her palm and trailing her nails down the curve of his spine. Breathy little encouragements slip past her lips, some wordless. Her stomach goes tense and ticklish under his lips and then suddenly he's peeling off her leggings and her hazy thoughts catch up to where he's heading with this when he goes still.

Beverly pushes herself up slowly on her elbows, looking down at him with parted lips and eyes dark. Jesus, the sight of him kneeling between her legs. She watches him kiss her (God, why does the simplicity of it light her up from the inside?), ease her thighs open, and it feels like it's happening in slow motion. Their eyes meet and she throbs with arousal at the way he's looking at her, his hair mussed by her fingers, lips swollen from their kisses, the desire and question in his eyes. She knows what he's asking, her mouth goes dry just thinking about it; she has to wet her lips before speaking and even then, her voice comes out in a whisper. ]

You don't have to. [ But there's no strength behind the words. She wants just as much as he does, it's vibrating off her in waves, but she caresses his face again, gaze searching: because just like Dean, she doesn't want him to feel obligated to do anything. And in her experience, this always seemed — indulgent, to her. ] You sure?

( dean keeps his hair short out of necessity and practicality (and a lifetime of being the man of the house when dad wasn't home; sam only ever got a free pass with his hair because sam was the baby and ultimately had more freedom of expression than dean was ever allowed) but it's just long enough for her to find purchase in it, for him to feel it when her fingers catch and release, brush through it. you really are something else, you know that? he'd asked her the same thing, and, honestly, right now he does know — or, at least, she makes it known to him with every little sound, every arch of her back, every way she says his name. (most days he wouldn't consider himself something else (sure, he talks a big talk, but when has he ever really believed in his own importance?). still, this is where he knows he excels — this, being with her: it's practically a religion of its own and dean's a damn saint; every kiss a prayer, every touch a reason to rejoice.)

her nails at his back stoke the coals of desire in his chest; the caress of her hand forges it into a shape he once knew (familiar enough to recognize but not enough to name).

you don't have to, she says, giving him an out she knows he won't take. he's never been more sure of anything in his life (and, he thinks, that includes more than just tonight; in some buried part of his heart he's sure of her, sure of possibility of them). so there's no obligation in the way he smiles against her palm, or the way he presses his mouth into the tender flesh of her thigh. there's no obligation in any of this, but he understands why she wants to make sure. he'd do the same if it was the other way around, if she was the one on her knees instead (he wouldn't ever expect that of her, wouldn't want her to even just to return the favor unless she wanted to). )

I want to. Got no idea how bad I've wanted to. ( it's safe to admit that now, right? maybe not the specifics of just how long; or the number of nights he's gotten off just thinking about it: the taste of her, the heat of her, the twitch of her thighs at the edge. but they've made it this far; it should be pretty fucking obvious now that there's a well of desire pooled between them that's just been waiting to be tapped into — and if he's going to set a record tonight, eating her out is a surefire way to coax his name in the wake of a moan. so, yeah, it is a little indulgent, but this is just as much for him as it is for her. when was the last time someone put her pleasure before their own? he can't imagine it was anytime recently (knows tom was definitely not the kind of man to get down on his knees). he wonders if anyone ever has — being that particular first is all the more reason to treat her.

he inches his way closer, peppering her thigh with lingering kisses, some with enough bite to leave behind blooms of color. his nose brushes the hem of her underwear before he rises just enough to press one final kiss below her navel. slowly, his hands come to slide over smooth fabric, taking his time in peeling the last layer away, leaving her breathtaking and bare and beautiful. how could any man not want to give her the world? how could any man not fall at her feet and worship her?

her legs spread open for him again, and he reaches a hand to touch her, wetting his thumb in the heat of her, stroking a gentle circle into her clit. fuck, she's so wet he can barely stand it; his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and then he leans in to wet his lips on her, the taste of her on his tongue sending a shockwave of heat down his spine, his abdomen twitching as he presses her thigh further open. maybe leaving his jeans on was a mistake; he feels like he might combust at any moment. (the groan he releases when he shoves a hand under his boxers is one of relief.) his tongue darts over her clit, his teeth dragging over it lightly, but not enough to hurt (never enough to hurt), all while he slips two fingers into her (coating his fingers with the satisfaction of knowing this is what he does to her), curling them inside her, desperate to find that sweet spot, to feel the squeeze of her, a prelude to filling her up, to being that close and still not close enough. )

[ They have made it this far and it is that fucking obvious by now, enough that when he answers her with his voice low with desire, heady with honesty, she feels the last of her inhibitions melt away under the heat of his gaze. They wouldn't be here if he wasn't sure of everything he was willing to offer her — this, him on his knees, worshipping at the cradle of her hips like she's someone worthy of such devotion. But he's made it clear that that's precisely what he thinks of her, pressed the proof into her skin with each kiss and caress. Even if it makes her thoughts spin, how can she question it now? Dean is so deliberate with everything he does, she's known that about him from the start. So when he tells her he wants to, she reads the unspoken words that follow: he wants to do this, and the next thing, and the next, and he wants her as long as she'll have him and god, fuck, does she feel the same way. They're both running towards something heavy with promise, hand in hand, breathless, following each others' lead.

He's right — he's the first lover to treat her so well, to put her first. She's used to being used, to her needs coming last, to putting them aside for the wants of others. She's working hard to unlearn that, to believe she's worth the same generosity she bestows on others. So rather than give in to those old doubts, Beverly watches him lavish kisses along the insides of her thighs, mesmerised, savouring the sight just as he seems to savour the act. It strikes her like lightning, makes her feel electrified to her fingertips: Each glance, touch, kiss, is filled with adoration. And God, suddenly he feels too far away; all she wants to do is pull him back up, kiss him until he can taste every feeling she can't find the words for, until this fire in her burns a brand on his heart. But she's anchored by his attention — her lips part for breath, a sharp inhale when his mouth lingers long enough to leave a mark, hips squirming on the bed when he inches higher, closer, the anticipation nearly at a fever pitch. Her underwear is practically soaked when he finally draws them down and off; and when her thighs fall open for him, her hand returns to his hair, desire thrumming under her skin as the moment suspends for a heartbeat. Two. And then —

The first brush of his thumb makes her breath hitch with her hips, free hand curling into the edge of the mattress. (He wets his lips, and so does she, swallowing hard.) The first brush of his tongue punches the breath right out of her, makes her hips buck up to his mouth. ]

Oh, fuck. [ Tremulous, whispered with feeling. She can't look away, riveted by the sight of his head buried between her thighs, a shiver bolting down her spine and making her back arch with a whimper as his tongue swirls over her clit. Holy shit. Even if it's been years since anyone's gone down on her, she's still so sensitive from her last orgasm, she can't keep still. ] God, look at you, you look so good like — [ voice breaking at the touch of teeth, her eyes fluttering closed as she cants her hips up to his mouth with a little whine, fingers restless in his hair. ] Oh, sweetheart, yeah.

[ The endearment sounds like a plea as much as encouragement, and she's rewarded with his groan vibrating over her and then — shit, fuck, the slip of his fingers. Her toes press into the floor just as she drops back onto the bed only to arch up again when he slides one into the tight heat of her and then two, and God, it's good, it feels so good, but it's not enough, she's aching for more, but the words don't come. She rocks her hips to meet the thrust of his fingers instead, fucking herself slowly on them, gasping when they brush something exquisite inside her. ]

Dean... [ His name rides a low moan, the hand in his hair jerking unconsciously, tugging him closer as her hips roll up to his mouth. Her free hand leaves the bed to join him between her trembling thighs, her fingers parting her lips for him, the back of her head digging into the bed as her lashes flutter, nerves buzzing like a livewire. ] Right there, babe, right there — feels so good when you do that.

( he hasn't been this devoted to a woman in a long time — sure, every fling he's ever had between lisa and now has held his full attention in the bedroom, but never quite like this. it's usually quick and dirty, maybe a little rough if that's what she's into (he doesn't mind being pushed around a little if the mood is right), but that's usually all it is (the one exception being suzy lee, of course, because you don't fuck a porn star without getting a little weird). if he's being honest, he can't remember the last time he went down on a girl — when has he had the time? as many flings as he'd had over the years, there's always been a little voice tugging him away from staying too long, from getting too involved. we're on a case, dean. yeah, yeah, shut up inner sam. (no devil on his shoulder, just an annoying little brother.)

that voice is surprisingly absent tonight, or maybe he's just better at ignoring it because bev really is that distracting, that mesmerizing — and, god, she makes him want to stay. when was the last time he felt like this? like chasing someone? (like there was something at the end of the road worth running toward? something flutters to life in his chest, a tiny spark of hope.) she's so much more than just a fuck and he wants her to know that with every kiss, every touch. they could have jumped right into it, but he wasn't lying when he said they'll take it slow. he wants to take his time with this, wants to lavish her, wants her to know that this means something. because it does, even if he hasn't fully realized that himself yet.

he wishes he could see her better, wishes he could see the flush lighting up her freckles, tiny galaxies burning across her cheeks and shoulders; but the view from where he is is just as spectacular: the flat plane of her abdomen twitching with every stroke of his tongue, the arch of her back when her hips buck into his mouth. every hitch of her breath, every needy little whine spurs him on, and distantly he's aware of her telling him how good he looks, calling him sweetheart, her fingers dragging through his hair; it takes nearly all his reserve not to stroke himself to the sound of her voice, the way it cracks with pleasure, pitches low into moans that pool hot in his belly. just to remove the temptation, he slides his free hand under her other thigh, fingers digging into the soft muscle for purchase, to keep him steady.

his name on her lips draws his mouth open wider, practically a smirk pressed to the most sensitive part of her. he'd say something like yeah? you like that? if his mouth wasn't otherwise occupied, but he does take a moment to detour to her hand, leaving a delicate kiss on her knuckles as if to say i got you, baby before he returns to lap her up, his tongue hungry to taste every inch of her, practically daring her to tug his hair again when he starts in on her clit again, sucking it between his teeth, soothing it with his tongue, his fingers fucking her slow, right where told him it felt good. she's close; he can tell from the way she tightens around his fingers, but he keeps his pace even, keeps her chasing it all the way to the edge. )

[ It does feel like it means something. Maybe she doesn't realise it now, maybe neither of them do, but there is a gravity to this evening, something safe and grounding after months of being caught in each others' orbit — a lot like coming home after a long journey in the dark. Returning to Derry hadn't felt like that, but reuniting with the Losers did: being enveloped by the dawning awareness that you are part of some greater, destined whole. Pieces aligning in a way they never could with anyone else anywhere else, no matter how much you fooled yourself into forcing the fit. Maybe that's a sentiment too big for tonight. Maybe it's one that will come in fragments, like shooting stars, like the sparks lighting her up inside and out with each lingering touch; because she does feel it — the way he's savouring this moment, savouring her, and that leaves her just as breathless as his mouth.

Jesus fucking Christ, his mouth. The wet heat of it pressed into the apex of her thighs, the slick glide of his tongue and fingers working in tandem, working her to the precipice just minutes after the first, the way he teases her just shy of that edge with sucking pressure, eases her back again with a flat lick of feeling — her breath stutters with each shift, her hips following suit, twitching with a gasping moan whenever he gets her close then reels her back. God, he is good at this, he's driving her crazy with each hungry groan she can feel humming around her clit, and even if she distantly notices the wet kiss he drops to her hand, it's washed away when his fingers curl just so and brush that sweet spot; not hard for him to elicit a breathless whine from her then, rocking her hips to try and repeat the angle, her hand fisting tight in his hair. ]

Please, [ she gasps after a stretch filled with nothing but the sounds of their pleasure. She feels dizzy with want no matter how many times she's tried to catch her breath. ] Oh, fuck, baby, please, you're so good, I'm so close, I'm... [ Her voice dissolves into a broken moan, back bowing as they hit that perfect angle together, her fingers pressing hard into the soft flesh where they meet. ] Yeah, there, God, don't stop, don't —

[ Her words fragment into nothing, but the tug of her hand conveys what she can't find the presence of mind to say: More, faster, now. Well past asking for permission, well past worrying about being too much too soon — she's never had it so good, never felt she was allowed to embrace or chase that feeling until now, until Dean (Dean, Dean, his name is a breathless litany). Her toes curl against the floor with the effort of holding out as long as she could, but she can feel the tension coiling inside her, low and hot and tight, and it doesn't take long for him to unravel her one more time. Close. So fucking close.

All it takes is the gentlest graze of teeth and suddenly she's coming again with a soft cry, arching off the bed as her climax raches through her with white-hot pleasure; her free hand flies from between her thighs to the bed, clutching at the sheets for purchase, her toes digging into the floor while one leg lifts, curling against herself as though she's trying to hold on to the sensation for as long as possible. Fuck. Fuck. She's barely shuddered her way through it before she's tugging at his hair again, shaky but impatient, urgent. ]

Dean, [ she whispers, breathless, gaze unfocused and skin flushed from cheeks to chest as she looks down at him, finally releasing his hair only to cup his jaw, ] honey, come here, wanna kiss you, need — you're so fucking far, c'mere, please —

( encouragement — and more than that, praise — isn't something dean's been accustomed to for most of his life. john was sparing with it, more often punishing dean for everything he did wrong than rewarding him for the things he did right. looking back, he did a hell of a lot more good than stupid, because at the end of the day, his life was always about impressing dad, protecting sam. when did he ever have time to just be dean? (in stolen moments at school, maybe, or the time he spent with robin at sonny's, but none of it ever lasted.) when has his worth ever meant anything beyond how well he performed?

hearing her tell him how good he is, her vocal insistence, don't stop — it makes his chest swell with pride he hasn't felt in a long, long time. he is good at this, he's good for her, and he doesn't want to stop — god, she's so close, her breath coming in airy whines and moans, his name a plea on her lips —

and he feels it this time, the pulse between her legs when she comes, the way she tightens around his fingers even as they reach into her in the height of her climax, eager to drag this one out longer than the last (won't have to imagine for long what she'll feel like with his cock this deep into her). he pulls his mouth back while she rocks through it, delicately kissing the expanse of the thigh he's still holding, watching her arch off the mattress, leg lifting to chase that white hot feeling no doubt coursing through her. it's breathtaking; he wishes he could watch it again in slow motion: memorize every twitch of her belly, the exact arch of her back, the breathy cries of pleasure shuddering from her throat, the pinch of her brow, the way she bites her lip and lets it go when her mouth falls open, nearly silent as the last wave of pleasure crashes over her. no piece of art could ever compare to her in this exact moment.

her fingers tugging at his hair draws him out of the spell he'd caught himself in, shocks him back to the reality of his cock throbbing between his legs, desperate for release. fuck, he wants her so bad — and she wants him too, pleading for him to come closer. he presses one last kiss to her thigh before he pulls his fingers from her, looking up at her from between her legs, holding her gaze while he sucks his fingers clean, savoring the taste of her. he wants her to know exactly what she tastes like when he kisses her —

but not yet. there's still the matter of his fucking jeans, which definitely need to come off now. but first, he pulls his wallet out just to fish for the condom he always keeps there (for times like this: unexpected but always prepared), bites it between his teeth to free up his hands, wallet tucked back into his back pocket. the corner of his mouth upturns into an easy smirk as he rises, his eyes never leaving hers even as he bends to shove his jeans down. his boxers are wet from where his cock has already begun to leak (she should be proud of herself that this is what she does to him); it's a fucking relief to finally ease out of them, peeling them away from his cock inch by inch while she watches — and he wants her to watch, craves the heady attention of her gaze, the needy want in her eyes. it's surely some kind of torture for the both of them being this far away even as long as it takes him to undress, but it's deliberate on his part to draw this out, despite every fiber of his being craving to touch her. he needs to find his restraint or he'll crumble as soon as their bodies are pressed flush, fully removed of all layers.

by the time he finally steps out of his boxers, the pounding in his chest has practically reached his ears, but his hands remain steady as he tears the packet open against his teeth, rolling the condom on in one smooth motion, with all the practiced ease of someone who's been through quite a lot of them, fighting against the urge to keep touching himself. he can't just leave her waiting like that, spread out for him, aching for him. god, his head is reeling with desire when he finally joins her on the bed again, easing himself back between her legs, skin brushing skin, his cock hard against her. his hand finds hers, drawing their fingers together above her head as he dives in slowly to kiss her, the taste of her lingering on his tongue as it passes her lips. he only parts briefly to whisper against her mouth: )

Think you can come for me again, baby? Need you so bad.

Edited (condAMN!!!) 2020-09-21 01:51 (UTC)

[ Even with her climax leaving her shivery and loose limbed, an insatiable hunger sweeps through her belly as their eyes lock, her lips parting in an unconscious mirror to his as he takes his fingers into his mouth. Something hot and clenching jolts between her thighs at the memory of his tongue and what it must be doing now, sucking her release from his fingers; her own tongue wets her lips, eager for his kiss, wondering at the taste. She leans up to him as he rises, anticipating the duck of his head to grant that wish, and —

He draws back to undress. There's no swallowing the disappointed (frustrated) little noise that escapes the back of her throat, just short of repeating his name again like that will call him back to her. The protest dies almost immediately when his hands go to the waistband of his undone jeans, her eyes widening and breath catching. She expects him to shuck them off without preamble but when he lingers instead, drawing it out for her enjoyment as he has done all night, her flush deepens, her eyes darken. It's somehow equal parts endearing and incredibly sexy that he does this with a condom caught between his teeth and she can't help but laugh, even if it comes out breathless, face warm. He's preening a little, she thinks; who is she to deny him the pleasure of being watched, admired, the same way he looks at her? Beverly drops her gaze from his to explore the rest of him; the broad, strong planes of his torso nicked with old scars; the proud jut of his cock, finally free of his boxers; his steady hand as it slides down the length. God.

She lingers there the longest, before traveling back up north to his face. What was it he said in the diner? Fuck me. God, she'd echo those sentiments right now if she had the presence of mind to do so. Fuck her indeed, in all senses of the phrase. They breathe together, some unspoken signal, and as he climbs back into bed with her, Beverly slides back on the mattress so that they can sprawl across the sheets in comfort, lacing their hands together without a second thought as she tips her chin up to meet his lips in a searing kiss; she sighs into it like it's their first, like she's waited just as long for this as the last. Feels like it.

God, this is what she wants. The hot press of his body against hers, covering her as her arm wind around him, her free hand gliding down his back to cup the curve of his ass, the electric thrill of their bare skin flush together, the taste of her arousal on his tongue, the feel of his as the hard line of his cock slides over her, still slick and hot and aching for more. It's instinct, the way her hips grind up to his, teasing them both as they kiss, deep and languid and a little messy. ]

Yeah, fuck yeah, [ she gasps between kisses, legs twining with his now, as though she wants him closer because even like this, they aren't close enough. Something like a groan and a laugh bubbles out of her next, ] As many times as I can stand. [ Another kiss, her breath hot against his mouth, ] God, you drive me crazy, babe. Want you, need to feel you inside me. [ Her hips rock up to his, impatient, needy. She's ready and so is he. ] Please.

( he drinks up her attention like a man dying of thirst, his face (his ears, his shoulders) flushed with pride under her steady gaze. it doesn't go unnoticed that she lingers on his cock; he doesn't need to be able to see into her head to know what she's thinking, that she definitely likes what she sees. he can't imagine they would have gotten this far if she didn't. can't imagine her hand grabbing at his ass when he finally falls into bed with her, either, if their attraction to each other was anything less than magnetic. he's been drifting outside her orbit ever since the day they met — it's only now that he's been allowed into her gravity, pulled closer and closer to her by some invisible force, and for once he doesn't want to fight it, whatever this is that draws him back to her, over and over again. he just wants to be near her.

her hips grind up into him and it's electric, even more so than the first time they kissed; it lights him up from the inside, bright flashes of pleasure bursting beneath his skin. he can't help but groan into her mouth, hot and wet, teeth dragging over her lip. fuck, he really does need this, needs her; he's not sure how much longer he can hold out, even as much as he enjoys the equally needy sounds dripping from her mouth. if he had even a drop of modesty in him, he might consider it obscene. )

Fuck, ( he manages, breathless, distracted by her hips and her hands and her mouth, the warmth of her words against his lips. and then comes the please, and who is dean to deny her? (he never could; not now or ever.) the equal measure of want between them is palpable, the air hot with their desire; it's laughable, almost, just how fucking bad they want it, how much dean feels like a damn teenager all over again, the thrill of a private rendezvous coursing through his veins — only this time there's no one to catch them, no one to walk in and tell him to get the fuck out. there's just them and this and it's theirs. this moment, it's all theirs; it's the start of something they're forging together, one kiss, one touch at a time. ) Yeah, I got you, baby.

( he shifts above her, his free hand sliding between them to take hold of his cock, lining himself up to her still sensitive entrance, where his fingers were only moments ago. god, she's still so wet, it barely takes any effort at all to slide right into her, unearthing a deep groan from the back of his throat at the feel of her tight around him. his hand trails back over her hip, brushing under her to settle at the small of her back, keeping her slotted close to him. their noses touch as he gives an experimental roll of his hips, slow and deep, his hand squeezing hers. ) God, Bev, you feel so good.

[ She can't get enough — of him, this, air — and she can't stop pursuing that desire for more, their passion feeding off each other in a loop, steadily building, running away with the last shreds of control and reason. She is fully and completely lost in him, drunk on his attention and his kisses, moaning into his mouth, chasing his tongue with hers, drawing him closer and closer still and somehow it's never close enough. Not yet. Beverly arches up into him when he pulls himself away (barely even an inch, but she can't stand the distance), kissing at the corner of his mouth, his jawline, the fluttering pulse in his throat like she's trying to distract and encourage as he reaches between them.

The head of his cock slipping over her slick entrance is enough to make her shudder, exhaling sharply against his neck as her eyes drift closed, hand tightening on his ass. Her hips twitch, clit still hypersensitive, her whispers of yeah and that's it indistinct against his dewy skin, dissolving into a low moan as he slides into her — slowly, almost agonisingly so, her eyes rolling back at the tight stretch around him, savouring the fullness as his hips press flush into the cradle of hers. Oh, oh, oh, fuck. Her breath comes in shallow pants now as she tries to keep herself still, to adjust, to remember, to keep herself from coming undone too quickly, too soon.

But God, it's never felt this good. Amazing what wanting and being wanted can do, how sharp it makes their shared pleasure, how much it makes her burn for him and everything he's giving her. The sweep of his hand brings her back to him first, and the squeeze to hers anchors her, eyes drifting open to meet his even as their foreheads rest against each other. There is something exquisitely intimate about this, something that makes her heart beat harder, and it's only the slow grind of his hips that forces her to break that eye contact with a soft gasp, lashes fluttering.

She loves how her name sounds on his lips just as much as baby does. ]

You're incredible. [ Soft, airy, chin tipping just enough to kiss him again, sucking on his lower lip as she draws away. Her ankles hook around his thighs, hand drifting up his back now to curl at the nape of his neck as if to say Stay, right here, pressed close in every way; her hips roll up to his with a soft moan, aching for him to — ] Fuck me, sweetheart, [ whispered against the shell of his ear now, ] nice and slow, come on.

( he's always thought bev was beautiful (maybe he has a type, or maybe he just has eyes; either way, he couldn't take his eyes off of her that first day they met, can barely take his eyes off of her now). and from the moment he first laid eyes on her, he knew there was something special about her, a spark that even she couldn't see at the time, buried deep beneath 27 years of bullshit memory magic that took defeating an evil cosmic entity to scrub away. that spark has grown into a flame, lighting up his life in a way he never thought was possible, lighting him up in every other possibly way.

but there's something even more exquisite about her now: breathless and shuddering under him, unable to keep still, airy little moans trickling out of her like water from a tap, unafraid to want. and he can't help but think of another life, an old life he only ever pretended to live — but one where he had someone, and together they had something, they felt something for each other, and it was almost real. almost, because eventually dean's real life caught up to him. (it's different with bev. different in a way that should scare him. and maybe it does, a little, because it feels a lot like a leap of faith.)

you're incredible draws him back to her, his mouth curving softly under hers. when was the last time anyone told him that and meant it? when was the last time he believed it?

then her mouth is at his ear — fuck me, sweetheart — and her whisper ripples through him in the wake of a wordless grunt, coils hot and tight in his abdomen. if he had less control, maybe just those three words alone would have made him come undone. they certainly drive him forward, rolling his hips into hers, nice and slow, just like she said to. he's not sure he's capable of anything more than slow right now, anyway; this is the only way he can keep hold of the thin grasp he has on the edge he's been working up to all night. he leans in on the next thrust, his mouth wet against her throat, teeth scraping lightly over the column of her neck as he grazes his way toward her ear, pressing a messy kiss just below the lobe. )

C'mon, say my name, baby. ( a whisper of his own, almost a plea. ) I wanna hear you say it while I fuck you. ( he pulls out just far enough to let her feel his girth again as he slides back into her, letting loose a low moan, his mouth finding hers once more, the sound of his pleasure a low hum against her lips. ) Tell me how good it feels being so full.

[ Romance was barely — rarely — part of any relationship she had in the past. Not that Beverly recognised it at the time with her understanding of affection so mangled by time, distance, and magic; if there was something missing, a coldness where she'd been told to expect warmth, she found the fault in herself or thought all stories were simply that: stories. But there is romance in this, so overwhelming, so palpable in the gasp of space between them, that Beverly wonders how she'd gone decades without being enveloped in its glow. The way Dean is looking at her from above (so close that she could count his lashes if it were day), how his eyes sketch over her like he's trying to memorise every freckle, how electricity sparks through her whenever their gazes meet — she can feel it, something heady and poignant and more real than the pale shades of passion she thought she knew before.

She could never look, before. Always turned her face away, shut her eyes, rode it out. But all Beverly wants to do now is look, memorise angle and curve and flicker of his brows, the exact shade of his eyes in the light — can't bear the thought of missing a second, of not relishing each moment that they have this. Even as he dips his head to mouth kisses over her neck and her eyes slide shut, the afterimage remains; her head arches a little, just enough to bare her throat to his wandering lips, her voice breaking on a soft ah at the scrape of teeth, his breath hot at her ear. God, huskiness to his voice, the way it curls around his earnest request, how he punctuates it with a delicious roll of his hips. She's far gone enough that even if the words don't register, the tone does, and she's already moaning his name into the kiss as she chases him for another, and another. ]

Dean — [ More air than sound, her hand finally sliding free of his grip only so it can join the other in cupping his face, bringing them forehead to forehead, nose to nose. She kisses him again, drawing away only for his name to break on a moan, hitching on nothing until the rest can follow. ] You feel so good, never thought it could feel this good. [ She arches with each thrust of his hips, her breath coming in ragged gasps, brow furrowed and eyes shut to savour the sharp pleasure when the angle hits just so, tightening around him with a delicate whimper of approval. ] Oh, God — Dean, Dean, just like that —

[ Fuck, it feels incredible. Can't think, can barely catch her breath, her fingers curling and uncurling in his hair as they fall into their rhythm, rocking together, her hips rolling to meet his thrusts when she's aching for him to fuck her a little faster — yeah, yeah, keep going — and her legs wrap around him to get him deeper still, her eyes drifting open to meet his again, gaze hazy with desire but locked on his, hands cradling his face and unable to look away until the snap of his hips makes her, lashes flutttering. ]

Fuck, [ on a whimper, ] so – so good, [ You are, she means, but she's already fraying and the words are lost. Moaned against his lips now, between kisses: ] Close, baby.

( for all his rough exterior and even rougher past, this has always been the one safe place for him to be the person he's never been allowed to be for most of his life; there's as much tenderness in every kiss as there is hunger, his hands strong but delicate as he holds her, his eyes sultry and yet somehow soft simultaneously, two halves of the same whole. outside these four walls, being soft has a better chance of getting you killed — but here, with bev, it's the best weapon in his entire romantic arsenal. because regardless of what sam thinks, dean has always been a romantic at heart; he yearns for affection just as much as he yearns to show it, starved for it his entire life by a life he always thought wasn't compatible (at least, never beyond a one night stand, romance reserved for one night only), even more desperate to lavish it on someone just as starved of it as he was. it's healing, catharsis.

his name on her lips is its own form of affection, filling him up until he feels like he might burst from it all, the adoration poured into one little syllable, the reverence laced into every enunciation. it's almost overwhelming, his heart hammering hard against his chest with every sound she makes, even when she tells him exactly what he wants to hear. and then her hands are on his face and his fingers grasp at the linen beneath them when she squeezes, his name following a whimper that has him groaning into her mouth — )

God, yeah — you're so tight, baby, I — ( it's almost too much, her hands in his hair, her legs wrapped around him, the perfect, slick heat of her when he's this deep. it's intoxicating — she's intoxicating — and still he wants to drink all of her up: the pinch of her brow, the flutter of her lashes, the shade of her cheeks in the lamplight when she whimpers such a pretty little thing under him. so good, she says, just for him, and the last shred of control he had slips through his fingers, reduced to his own desperate, needy moans as he chases her mouth, each thrust pushing him closer, closer, closer. )

Fuck, Bev, I'm — ( only the warning doesn't come, lost in white hot pleasure crashing into him, dragging a deep groan from the base of his abdomen, his eyes squeezing shut (so close they almost brush her temple). he barely has enough presence of mind to keep his hips moving, riding out his orgasm with every rock of his hips, more insistent now, desperate to chase the high of that feeling, how fucking good it feels with every wave of it, how much better it is being inside her, tight around him, squeezing him until it feels like he can't breathe. his gasps and broken moans come in ragged succession, his forehead damp with sweat as it presses against hers, his breath feverish on her lips when he kisses her, sloppy from the intensity of being pulled fully undone. his chest swells with unspoken sentiments, feelings he doesn't have words for. how could he possibly verbalize this moment, the awe of being with her?

the hand at her back slides between them again, his fingers rubbing impatient circles into her clit one last time, his hips rocking in tandem. this is the record-breaker, the one both of them will feel (nerves lit up like fireworks), the one dean takes the most pride in. this close, he thinks it might be too much, but he can't help being greedy. he's not sure he's ever wanted anything more than he wants her, this, everything they do to each other. ) That's it, baby, almost there. ( a smile pulls at his mouth, soft and fond; he could watch her come undone like this forever and still find something new to worship every time. ) Look so fucking gorgeous like this, Bev.

[ God, he's so good for her, to her, the way he's looking at her and holding her like she's the only person in the world; she could lose herself in the intensity of his focus, his passion — hell, she does. Everything else falls away, the only thing that matters is Dean in front of her, above her, right here and as close as she's ever yearned for him to be, consumed by his kisses, wrapped up in his arms, trading gasping breaths like they're drowning and they're all the oxygen the other needs. Because fuck, she does need him, and he's so generous, attentive, Jesus Christ, he's giving her everything she's ever missed and everything she never knew she'd gone without to begin with.

Their kisses are hurried, careless now as they hurtle towards the edge together, peppered with moans of encouragement, whimpered names, ragged pleas for that barely even make it into the charged air between them. Beverly's fingers curl into the sides of his hair, holding him right there, foreheads pressed tight together and skin burning and thrumming where they meet, dewy with exertion as nice and slow goes out the window for more, faster, good, yes. This close she can feel the way his muscles go taut, the rhythm of his thrusts picking up, chasing the release he's resisted all night, and one hand releases his hair so she can cup his flushed cheek, whisper in a hot rush against his open mouth as her name dissolves into a ragged groan. ]

Perfect. [ She kisses him as he rides through it, never lingering for long because God, the sounds falling from his parted lips, the thrill the proof of his pleasure sends through her and straight between her thighs, squeezing him tight like she can take him deeper this way, draw out his orgasm as long as she can. The pad of her thumb sweeps over his bottom lip as she draws back to look at him, drink in the twist in his expression, fuck, he's so — ] Perfect, Dean, that's it, that's right, honey.

[ She's so caught up in this, in him, dragged into the undertow of the kiss that follows that she doesn't even notice the slide of his hand until his fingers find her clit again — she bucks up into him with a startled moan, the sound tapering off into a soft, high whine when the pleasure starts to skirt the edge of too much, a sharpness to it she can't even breathe through; she writhes beneath him, pinned by his hips, her own jerking like she's trying to grind up into him or draw away when the tension builds to the point of snapping, her heels digging into the bed now. ]

B-baby, [ riding on a gasp, back arching. She forces her eyes open (when did they fall closed?) to look at him again, noses brushing and hair clinging with sweat at her brow, her neck, as they move together. Gorgeous, he says, and she repeats it in a whisper, because he is too, not just her, two halves of a whole. And then — and then — ] Yeah, yeah, Dea... Dea—

[ Can't even say his name, can't catch her breath enough to do it, because suddenly she's coming with a broken cry, almost a sob or a prayer or both, arching up into him and curling around him — squeezing — as her orgasm slams into her. She holds his gaze as long as she can, lashes at half-mast when the first wave hits, wanting him to see what he does to her; his fingers don't stop, his hips don't stop, and her eyes roll back as her climax hits its peak, her head thrown back as she shatters apart, her moans racheting higher and higher until she's suspended into silence.

She doesn't know how long she drifts there, doesn't know when she sags bonelessly into the mattress in the comedown; all she knows is how overwhelmed and lightheaded she feels, aftershocks still lighting up her nerves and making her shiver and tremble under him, breath stuttering. No words; not yet. But somehow, blindly, she still tips up to him in search of his lips. Can't sustain it long, not when she's trying to catch her breath, but she can't find her voice to say his name, either: so she says it with a kiss. ]

( she calls him perfect and his eyes water involuntarily, but he has enough resolve to blink back the emotion, swallow the thickness welling up in his throat. (christ. has anyone ever called him that?) the sincerity of it, the way she strokes his face as the tension spasms out of him, his back arched, shoulders pulled tight over her as he rides through it, brows pinched, mouth falling open at her touch, his lip kiss-swollen and wet under her thumb. he can barely think, his mind emptying, replaced with the bliss of release, her voice sweet and soothing as he floats down from the height of it, any words of substance lost to the incoherent sounds rising from his throat. his teeth scrape against his lip as if that might contain the swell of adoration in his chest.

when she reaches her peak, not too far after his own — desperate, writhing under him with wild abandon, his name broken and beautiful on her lips (like a prayer, like please, i need you) — it shoots through him like wildfire, winding up his spine as she arches into him, her hips jerking into him, the tight squeeze of her shooting through him with an extra sharpness after his own release — but he doesn't stop, rides the waves of it with her, buried in her all the way to the hilt, too much but just enough, sloppy kisses traded when he manages to catch her mouth between the hitched sounds of her pleasure. )

That's it, baby, that's it. ( he echoes her words back to her, his gaze focused on her, the way she throws her head back, the shape of her mouth when there's nothing left but sound, then no sound at all. god, she's stunning, and he did this to her. his rhythm slowing as the final waves of her orgasms begin to taper off, both of them coming down from a high he hasn't felt in a long time (that she hasn't felt maybe ever, which twists a whole different emotion in his gut, a shade of pride reserved purely for firsts). ) I got you.

( a stretch of time passes in shuddered breaths, limbs loosening from being stretched taut, two bodies pressed together, desperately holding onto one another. he fears that if he moves too soon it might break this spell cast over them, over this moment that hardly feels real now that it's settling back around them, reality crashing down onto his shoulders. distantly, he's aware that he's still got a job to do in the morning, but the haze of sex and bev's lips against his sweep the thought away. he'll do the job when it's time to do the job — right now his only concern is the woman in his arms, the taste of her lips, the warmth of her he has little interest in removing himself from.

they lie there entangled for what feels like an age, but eventually he shifts to ease out of her slowly, gently rolling onto his side to face her, taking a hand to brush the damp hair from her forehead. he's still catching his breath (harder to when she consistently takes it away) but he smiles at her nonetheless, leaning in to press a soft and lingering kiss to her lips, his forehead pressed against hers when he pulls away, breathing her in, eyes shut to listen better to the soft rise and fall of her chest. he kisses her again, lighter this time, as if trying to convince himself to finally draw back. not that he particularly wants to get out of bed, but he doesn't exactly want to lie here with his release hanging warm between his thighs either. )

Hey, ( he says in a low whisper, still rough around the edges but thoroughly contented. his nose brushes hers, his lips almost meeting hers. a promise he intends to keep when he comes back. ) Gonna clean up. You okay? Need anything?

[ They could lie here like this until tomorrow afternoon and Beverly would be absolutely fine with that. It feels almost luxurious to be sprawled out in her bed together, bodies tangled and pressed flush, hearts beating in time with each other (for each other), and the only sounds filling the silence are their ragged breaths and the distant hum of New York City beyond her wide windows — not that she's even entirely aware of where she is right now, still floating in the haze of post-coital bliss and feeling like she'll never come back down again. Because this is a first for her, Dean's right about that; she meant it when she said she never thought it could feel this good (sex, but also just being with someone). It feels like her skin is almost too sensitive, her nerves are thrumming, she's still quivering in the afterglow, and all that's holding her together are his arms. There's no stopping the soft groan — of protest, exertion? — that scrapes out of her when Dean eases out and off, immediately missing the warm weight of him.

It's overwhelming, the flood of emotions and sensations that rushes in to fill the void left by her climax. Her breath hitches like she's close to tears, but the rawness of it all is softened by endorphins and the sweetness of his kiss. And kissing him, well, that's easy, the easiest thing she's ever done; it's only been a few short hours but already it's a reflex woven into her DNA, the way she turns to him like a flower to the sun, chasing his lips for another and another, each one soft and lingering. She doesn't have the presence of mind to do or say much else, still blissed out with static and the desire to be near him the only thing left with crystal clarity — but she can do this: kiss him until he world comes slowly back into focus.

And it does in increments, tingling across her body like pins-and-needles coming back to life. She's first aware of the brush of his fingers across her face (even if it came before the kisses — and maybe her sense of time is still a little hazy, beyond curses and magic), the tenderness of the gesture making her heart twist in some funny way. She thinks she can feel him looking at her, smiling at her, and her eyes finally drift open to see it for herself and — oh. Oh, there he is, so close she could reach up and caress his face if she thought her arm would cooperate with the impulse. God, he's beautiful. The thought strikes her without warning and melts away just as suddenly. She can't articulate it, so she smiles instead, a lazy, beatific thing. ]

Hi, [ she whispers back to his hey, voice airy and distracted. She blinks slowly at him, the question landing gently but still taking a beat to process it, and after a delay, she shakes her head once. It's not really an answer that holds any weight; she should get cleaned up too, maybe drink some water, something, but that all seems like too much effort. She just wants to lie here with him.

Eventually, her hand does lift to touch him, whatever part she can reach — his hand, arm, cheek — like she can anchor him to her for a few more moments. He might resist kissing her one more time but she won't, closing the scant distance between them with a simple tip of her head. Finally, necessity (and the cooling sweat on her skin) wins out and she draws away to mumble, ] Through the closet. [ Does that make sense? She tries again on a breathy laugh: ] Bathroom.

[ Jesus, what he does to her. She feels like jello. ]

( she makes a strong argument for him to stay right here with her when her hand lands on his arm, her mouth tipping into his one last time. god, how the hell is he supposed to say goodbye to her in the morning when it's this hard to walk into another room? he takes her hand, presses a soft kiss to her knuckles, then finally forces himself to sit up. )

Don't miss me too much, babe.

( his hold on her hand lingers as long as his reach will allow while he slides off the bed, careful not to let the condom slip. he gives her a wink over his shoulder once he's standing, ass bare, before he heads through her closet to the bathroom. the luxurious shower doesn't escape his notice — if he's honest, it's the first thing he notices (mind already wandering ahead to morning: imagining lazy kisses under the hot spray of water; hands roaming over soft, wet skin; the knead of her fingers shampooing his hair). but he doesn't want to keep her waiting too long, so he makes quick work of disposing of the condom and washing his hands, cataloging what he can as he casts brief glances around her bathroom: a bathtub on one wall (definitely big enough for two), crisp white towels (and a few in a soft green) neatly folded and arranged on a shelf, the sprawling sink where he stands. certainly miles more lavish than most of the motel bathrooms he's had to use over the course of his life (nicer even than the bunker, perhaps, but the bunker wasn't built for style).

before he heads back, he grabs a small washcloth and runs it under hot water until it's soaked. he wrings it out just enough so it won't drip on her rugs (which are alone probably worth more than everything he has to his name; he can safely say she's the richest person he's ever slept with, not that any of that really means anything to him). as he wanders back through her closet, he pulls open one of her drawers on the drive-by, absently picking out a pair of her underwear. )

Bev. ( he says softly to get her attention once he returns, offering her the washcloth. ) Here. ( in his other hand he holds the pair of her underwear. belatedly, he lets out a short laugh at the implication of how that might look. ) Wasn't just an excuse to go rooting through your unmentionables, promise. Just thought you might like something fresh. ( his mouth curves upward as he crawls back into bed with her, setting her underwear on the sliver of mattress left between them for her to take or leave. he shifts in a little closer, his hand brushing over the curve of her bare hip. )

Shame there wasn't anything in my size. ( in a whisper with his mouth upturned, which sounds like a joke on the surface and definitely lands like one, his eyes crinkling around the edges — but there's something almost disappointed about it (like he might have seriously considered grabbing a pair for himself if he knew they would fit), a hint of a guilty pleasure swimming just beneath the veneer of sarcasm. )

[ Don't miss me too much, he teases, but it's easier said than done when they spent the better part of the evening wrapped up in each others' arms, the closest they've ever been in the months they've known each other, longed for each other. After spending so long wanting and finally having, the slightest bit of distance is difficult to bear — him shifting from above her to alongside her, no longer pressed flush; now him sliding from her bed and leaving her cold beyond the late November night, her fingers curling into the lingering warmth left by his touch.

She's thinking the same as she watches him walk down the short corridor towards her bathroom (gaze drifting over his broad shoulders and frankly great ass): how the fuck is she supposed to say goodbye to him tomorrow? (Even with her half-dozen date ideas waiting for them when the job is done.) How is she supposed to kiss him on the threshold of her apartment, on the sidewalk outside her building, and watch the Impala drive out of the city? It wouldn't be the first time and their friendship has survived the distance before; hell, the foundations are as strong as they are because of the distance. But — don't miss me too much. Easier said than done. She already does.

But that's for tomorrow and for a few days from now. Tonight she's content, settled under the covers and basking in the afterglow, turning her head just enough to admire Dean from afar, silhouetted by the warmth of the bathroom light. So much about this has been new and this is no different — she's used to being the one dragging herself out of bed for the clean up, every step as inelegant as the act that came before. A chore, (just like everything else about her marriage), a tool to placate an angry man. It feels indulgent to stay right where she is for once, savouring every gentle moment of her comedown without a twinge of guilt or shame; neither has a place here and never has, not with him. She's never felt more relaxed — or safe. But that's Dean. He's been safe since the moment they met, eyes locked in her foyer with Tom's shadow looming over her shoulder. (I got you penetrating the fear.) It's knowing that when she comes to, it'll be with him at her side. (I got you piercing through the passion.)

Her eyes drift open again at the sound of her name, the mattress dipping under his weight as he rejoins her. A washcloth and a pair of underwear, the offer buoyed by his laughter and echoed by her own. (I got you thrumming under both.) It's so goddamn thoughtful, she thinks her heart might burst from such a simple kindness. Beverly breathes in, feels steadier for it — stomach fluttering when their fingers brush during the hand off — then smiles back at the quip he tacks on at the end. ]

Yet. [ Whether it's a joke or not, the offer is sincere if he wants it to be. (Safe. That's what they are.) ] Can make whatever you like. [ A beat, like she's willing herself to move again; her arm lifts and she lays the hot washcloth against the slope of her neck, groaning softly at how good that feels against her buzzing skin. ] Later — oh my god, that's so nice. [ Softly, with feeling, ] Thank you.

[ She lifts the comforter and wipes herself down anywhere his mouth lingered for long, north to south, soothing the points where he might have left marks behind, folding and flipping the washcloth over just as it dips between her thighs. It's a nice recap, honestly, shivering a little at the memory — or maybe that's how sensitive she still feels down there. (Yeah, no, she's not getting up any time soon.) Beverly pushes herself up on her elbow with some effort and squints across the room for aim before flinging the washcloth into the hamper. ]

Ha, [ she laughs when she makes the shot, elbow slipping a half-second later and sending her sprawling back on the bed with an audible oof; she's still laughing, still riding that high, looking back at Dean like, Did you see that? ] Gave myself fifty-fifty on making that, y'know, [ she says as she wriggles into her underwear. ] Still kinda feel like jello.

[ It's a compliment. She lets it hang between them, warm and effervescent with teasing, and then Beverly rolls onto her side to be closer to him, expression softening the moment her hand reconnects with his waist. God, she could get caught up in gazing at him for hours. They've known each other for a while now, but it feels like she's seeing him for the first time; he seems softer, somehow, worry eased from his brow and replaced by the crinkles at the corners of his eyes brought on by what can only be fondness.

She doesn't even realise she's reflecting it back at him, her voice sweet and soft as she murmurs, ] You good, honey?

Edited 2020-09-27 01:35 (UTC)

( his mouth pulls wider, a secretive little smile settling into the curve of his lips, the soft crinkle of his eyes.can make you whatever you like, and maybe he'll take her up on it, maybe not. either way, it's something he feels comfortable exploring with her, eventually, which isn't something he thought he'd ever say about anyone. (bev's safe, always has been.) there's never been any shame between them (in apologizing or for crying or even wanting); he's made sure that was a foundation of their relationship from the start, so of course she would do the same for him (and yet it still manages to surprise him all the same). but she's right, that's for later. later, after the emotions from tonight have settled; later, when they aren't both still coming down from an epic high.

he's quiet for a stretch as he watches her lay the washcloth against her neck, his stomach flipping itself inside out when thank you leaves her lips. crazy what two little words can do to him, what they mean to someone who rarely ever hears them. ) Sure thing. ( he's never been very good at saying you're welcome without it sounding condescending, but the sentiment remains the same.

while she works the washcloth over her skin, he quietly hums to himself the main guitar riff from bad company's can't get enough, his gaze following her hand even when it passes beneath the comforter, smiling softly at the memory of her, the way she tasted, the way she felt. if he thought he could move without feeling the ache in his arms, he'd slide his hand between her thighs with hers, but it's already been a long, whirlwind of a night and he thinks they both deserve this break to just bask in the glow of each other. he thought she was glowing before, when she'd told him about the divorce being finalized, but now? she's practically a supernova, radiating her affection so brightly next to him he can't help but be captivated even by the mundane act of washing herself.

he follows the cast of her arm as she throws the washcloth across the room, grinning brightly when it thwumps into the hamper. he's laughing with her when she falls back, the arch of his brow reflecting the pride in his voice. ) The crowd goes wild! That's three points to Marsh, the league's first ever jello player.

( but even as he jokes about it, it's clear by the color of his cheeks that he heard her compliment, understood what she meant by it, appreciates it more than he can express right now. his face softens, the weight of the world held by someone else's shoulders for the moment. why should he be doomed to be atlas when all he's ever done is sacrifice for the sake of the world? bev's touch centers him, grounds him, and when he looks at her this time, she is the world, worthy of his devotion and his sacrifice. )

Yeah, I'm good. ( he laughs softly, almost disbelieving. he's had a lot of good sex in his life — and a lot of pretty mediocre sex — but there's something distinctly great about being with someone fully, heart, soul, and body. he feels like that with bev, like they've been irrevocably tied together and he wouldn't have it any other way. it's just — well, he may use the word awesome more than any normal person in their thirties, but this particular moment feels worthy of truly inspiring awe. maybe he's still reeling a little, too, wondering if any of that was really real. he reaches up to brush a hand through her messy curls, feel the warmth of her drying neck. that's real, alright. she's real. this is real. they're real, aren't they? thing thing they've just begun, it's real. ) You're incredible. That was — dare I say — awesome.

( just in case there was any doubt. )

[ It's been a long time since she's basked in the afterglow of anything. She figures she'd be a broken record by now if she said as much but it's hard to shake the feeling that so much of tonight has been new, a first; and even though she knows that, it still takes her by surprise. If it were anyone else, these moments after might feel awkward — the pair of them stripped bare in every literal and figurative way, having crossed a line they can't come back from. But Dean is safe, always has been, and their friendship was built on that foundation from the start. It hasn't wavered since. If anything, she's never felt more certain in her life — of this, him, choosing him. This happened because they both wanted it; mutual, reciprocal, unconditional. (Not like before where she was just a means to an end.)

He's right — there's something great about being with someone fully. It's such an intoxicating feeling, Bev still feels lightheaded with it, helpless to do much else but smile when he answers her, gratified by it. Her eyes fall closed for a heartbeat when he touches her, the gesture so delicate it's like he's handling a soap bubble — like he's not sure she's really in front of him, like she might disappear. His fingers rest on her neck and it doesn't even occur to her to flinch, the glowing affection for him washing out old reflexes formed by fear. (Safe, safe, safe. She never wants him to stop touching her. She'd feel a little unmoored without this anchor point; but even without, he's still her harbour.)

You're incredible lands differently now that they aren't lost in each others' passionate embrace. It's as honest now as it was then, but something about it being offered so simply instead of gasped between their hungry kisses makes her blush deeper now; her eyes blink open again to look at him in the lamplight, pleased and flattered and delighted. (Maybe a little self-conscious. There's a flicker of old anxiety, wondering if she'd done enough for him, but then he says awesome and that worry goes quiet.) But her laugh is as warm as ever, bubbling free without shame. ]

Thank you? [ God, look at him. He's just lying there, looking at her like she's holding the universe together, and she thinks her heart might burst. She almost can't take it. Almost. (She almost can't get enough.) She grins, bright and playful. ] You're pretty awesome yourself, Winchester. Actually, I think the word is — mindblowing.

[ It's teasingly said, but she means it. How can she find the words to convey what this meant? What he means? She doesn't want to ruin the moment by burdening it with too much expectation, but there's no denying there's something there, something that goes beyond tonight. She knows he can feel it too. And she knows the best and only way forward is one step at a time — together. God, she wants nothing more than to explore this together.

Beverly studies him for a moment, curled up on her side and legs tangled with his under the covers. They're close, but not close enough. ]

C'mere, [ she murmurs, voice still buoyant with immeasurable fondness, as she leans up to kiss him. Words are hard, but she can do justice to half of them with this; it's chaste, but no less tender because of it, the press of their lips soft and lingering. When she breaks away, she doesn't go far, her nose brushing his as she whispers against him, ] You should stay.

[ Here. The night. With me. It's almost a question, almost a request. And it's entirely up to him. ]

Edited 2020-10-10 00:59 (UTC)

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