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Perfect Fit

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Josie Sands liked plain clothes. She covered her curves with sensible slacks and shapeless blouses buttoned right up to her throat, and tied back the soft cascade of her hair in tight, unfussy twists or tails. Practical clothes, practical styles, to keep from interfering with the work she loved. To keep from drawing increased attention from the company she kept, too, all those powerful men and their carefully-leashed glances.

Josie's practicality suited Abaddon as much as her knowledge and her strength and her access to the Men of Letters did. Nevertheless, two days into her possession, when a display in the window of the kind of shop Josie wouldn't look at twice caught Abaddon's eye, she walked them inside, flashed Josie's brilliant smile at the girl behind the counter, and took the jewel-blue silk sheath the shopgirl brought them into the plush dressing room.

The dress slipped onto Josie's naked body like water sliding off ice, cool and slick and clinging. The bodice fit smoothly over the swell of her breasts and tucked in to follow her torso; the long skirt pooled briefly at her waist before its weight pulled it over the flare of her hips and down, the hem falling to brush her bare feet. The light, delicious drag of the fabric across her skin made her shiver; made Josie stop, for one wary moment, her litany of terrified, raging defiance inside her head.

Abaddon reached up to unpin her hair from its simple roll, combed her fingers through the loose waves that fell over her shoulders, and studied their reflection in the full-length mirror. The dress shone dark against her pale skin, gave striking, cool contrast to her fiery hair. It was like none of Josie's sensible, shapeless clothes. Instead of camouflaging her, it emphasized her, her shape and her bearing and her colours. It made her look sumptuous and bold. It made her look powerful.

Abaddon met Josie's eyes in the mirror. Watch, she commanded, and leaned back against the wall of the dressing room, and pulled the long skirt slowly up her legs, and brought Josie off with her fingers and the view.

In the dusty wreckage of an abandoned hole-in-the-wall bar on the outskirts of Detroit, Abaddon funnels into Dean Winchester and is reminded of a silky blue dress: how beautiful it looked, how well it fit, how indecently good it felt shaped around Josie's body. The fit of Dean around Abaddon is even better, more perfect, more obscene. His body alone would have been enough--strong, capable, conditioned to violence and so sinfully pretty--but he was right: the inside of his head is a horror show, his thoughts already stained with hatred and Hell and hopelessness. Feels like home, Abaddon says, and lets him hear his own laugh.

Fuck you, he spits. But he'd met her here with the lines of his protective tattoo already broken; he wants her dead, but part of him just plain wants her. He's hard in his jeans, and she can't tell how much of it's her getting off on him, how much is him getting off on her. He likes not being in control; needs it, sometimes, but always needs an excuse to give it up. She can see it in him, feel it, right alongside the part of him that thinks being driven down is only what he deserves.

Oh, honey, she tells him, That and so much more. Inside, he goes still.

There's a mirror over the bar, dirty and cracked, the bottles that used to line the shelf in front of it long since stolen, emptied, smashed. Abaddon squares Dean up to it and rakes him with an appraising gaze. The slopes of his jaw are sandy with stubble; his eyes are heavy-lidded, green and gleaming. She opens his mouth with a swipe of tongue over his lush bottom lip, and the damp pink flash of it pulls a moan from his throat.

Watching Dean's long, thick fingers work the button and zipper of his jeans, Abaddon thinks about fucking him with them, thinks about feeling them inside, thinks about riding them. Thinks about how he'll let her, and revels in the low noise that chokes out of him. Leaning him back into a half-sit on the scratched-up edge of a pool table, she gets Dean's cock in hand, hot and hard and needy, curls those strong fingers around him and jacks him slow and rough.

She doesn't have to tell him to watch.

The view in the mirror is perfect, and perfectly filthy. Dean's long legs are stretched out, bracing his perch against the table; his free hand grips the edge. His hips are canted slightly forward, the tilt of them somehow as blatantly pornographic as the jut of his cock, flushed dark and thick, through the splayed-wide vee of his jeans, under the rucked-up hem of his shirt, in the easy pull of his hand. His broad shoulders flex as his arm works; with each stroke, his thumb catches the wetness welling steadily from his slit and smears it down over his dick. So damn wet for me, sugar, Abaddon purrs, and feels a hot-edged knife of delight when he bites back viciously, Sweetheart, you're fuckin' wet for me.

An image of Josie rises in his mind, stark and crude: she's naked, lying on her back, legs spread and thighs glistening, breasts and belly striped with come. Not Josie, Abaddon realises, but herself; some jerk-off fantasy Dean's using, a heady mix of defiance and desperately measured cruelty. Always,, she tells him, her smile a blade, and takes hold of his false image and warps it into truth: Josie in that wicked blue dress, staring at the mirror as she came, soaked and clenching, on the firm push of her fingers. Dean startles, and his twisting rush of arousal washes through her like victory, like slaughter, like blood. She comes, and Dean's hips jerk, and he pulses out over his hand.

And then he's still hard, still needy, still stripping his cock even though Abaddon no longer needs him to. Pleased and piqued, she curls deliberately in on herself, pulling her will from his actions. C'mon, lover, she murmurs, and watches him in the mirror as he works himself through it, his last, dragged-out spurts spattering the dusty floorboards.

He really is a thing of beauty, she marvels: his body so sweetly obedient, his mind so stubbornly furious. With her, partly, for being what she is. With himself, mostly, for letting her in and liking her there.

Abaddon reasserts herself. Bringing Dean's spunk-messy hand to his mouth, she licks a taste of him from his knuckles; raising his chin, she meets his eyes in the mirror. "You were made for this," she says aloud, Dean's voice raw and certain.

Just before he ices himself over, she feels his spark of pride.