Forty. Formerly @silverseamoons, and @lustyimagines. Tumblr decided to terminate my accounts without any warning or explanation. Trying to find former mutuals. 18+ only.
summary ⌗ after a brutal hunt leaves you bruised and tangled in dean’s motel bed, a slow morning together draws out the three words neither of you has been brave enough to say.
pairing ⌗ dean winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount ⌗ 3451 genre ⌗ soft smut [mdni]
warnings ⌗ explicit sexual content, p in v, fingering, handjob, riding, praise, pet names, light competitive teasing, post-hunt soreness and minor injuries, mentions of bruising and stitches.
notes ⌗ the lovely @deansfreckledtummy commissioned this piece and i might’ve fallen a little bit harder in love with dean (which i didn’t entirely know was possible 🙂↕️) thank you so much for trusting me with this piece, baby. you're incredible 🩷
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morning arrives in pieces.
first, it’s the motel heater clicking beneath the window. then, the thin stripe of sunlight pressing through the gap in the curtains, landing directly across your closed eyes. somewhere outside, tires drag over wet pavement, followed by the heavy clunk of someone shutting a car door too hard.
your entire body hurts. nothing sharp enough to make you reach for the gun on the nightstand or check whether the stitches along your side have opened again. it’s the deep, stubborn soreness that follows a hunt gone bad and then somehow worse. the reminder of running through the woods in soaked jeans, getting thrown into the wall of an abandoned farmhouse, and spending nearly an hour digging a grave because dean insisted burning the body where you found it would attract attention.
you shift beneath the motel blanket, trying to find a position that doesn’t pull at every bruise you own.
the arm around your waist tightens before you get very far.
dean makes a rough sound behind you, something between a grunt and a protest, and pulls you back against him. his face presses into your hair. he’s still half asleep, his palm spread low across your stomach beneath the hem of your shirt.
“quit movin’,” he mumbles.
“everything hurts.”
“yeah. me too.”
“you’re crushing me.”
“you’d complain if i let go.”
a laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, small and scratchy from sleep. dean’s mouth brushes the back of your head. then, when you turn carefully in his arms, he lifts his face enough to press a kiss to your forehead. it’s quick. barely awake. the kind of thing he does when he isn’t paying enough attention to stop himself.
you settle facing him, your knee sliding between his under the tangled blanket. his chest is bare beneath your hand. there are fresh marks from last night—a purple bruise near his ribs, a shallow scrape across his collarbone—but your eyes catch on the older ones. the uneven scar near his shoulder. the pale line beneath his sternum. little pieces of history he doesn’t offer unless you ask, and sometimes not even then.
dean watches you through heavy eyelids as you trace one with your thumb. “what’re you doing?”
“nothing.” you lean in and press your mouth to the scar near his shoulder.
you kiss the next one, lower this time, feeling his skin shift beneath your lips when he takes a slow breath. his hand moves along your back, sliding beneath your shirt, but not pulling you closer yet. just resting there. waiting to see what you’ll do.
“you’re being weird,” he says, voice rougher now.
“you kissed my forehead.”
“so?”
“so, this is what you get.”
“punishment?”
you glance up at him. “maybe.”
his eyes are properly open now. green, tired, fixed on your face with an attention that makes the room feel smaller.
you kiss the scar beneath his ribs. then another, closer to his stomach, your mouth lingering until the hand beneath your shirt presses more firmly against your back.
dean exhales through his nose. “you planning on working your way through all of ’em?”
“mmhm.”
“yeah?” his thumb moves in a slow line along your spine. “might take a while.
you lift your head. “we got time.”
you push the blanket down and shift over him before he can say anything else, settling across his lap with one knee on either side of his hips. dean’s eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t make a joke. his hands find your legs instead, palms sliding from your knees to your thighs, steadying you while you get comfortable. the movement puts you directly over him.
you rock your hips once, softly enough that it could almost be an accident. dean’s mouth parts.
you lean forward and kiss the scar near his collarbone again. his hands travel higher, following the outside of your thighs until they reach your ass. he squeezes, slow and firm, drawing you closer as you move against him a second time.
he’s beginning to harden beneath you. you can feel every gradual inch of it through the thin fabric separating you, the way his body responds before his voice catches up.
dean tips his head back against the pillow, eyes closing for half a second when you roll your hips again. “shit.” the curse comes out quietly, almost embarrassed by how quickly you’re getting to him.
you smile against his chest.
his hands leave your ass and slip beneath your shirt, palms spreading over your back. there’s nothing hurried in the way he touches you. his fingertips trace over your skin, avoiding the worst of the bruises without needing to look, caressing each uninjured stretch he finds.
you press another kiss over his heart, then glance up. he’s already watching you. his eyes move across your face with sleepy, open admiration, no smirk to hide behind.
“so pretty,” he says, so low you nearly miss it.
your hips press down harder. dean’s breath hitches. his fingers flex against your back, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
“love waking up to you like this,” he admits. “all sweet, pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”
“i know what i’m doing.”
“yeah, sugar. i noticed.”
you kiss the edge of his jaw, grinding against him in another slow pass. his head turns, mouth brushing your temple while his hands pull you flush to his chest.
“we’re gonna miss check-out,” he murmurs.
“you care?”
“not even a little.” his lips drag against your cheek. “but you keep looking that pretty while you’re grinding on my dick, they’re gonna charge us for another night.”
his hands slip farther beneath your shirt, moving up your sides until his thumbs graze the underside of your breasts. you press down against him again.
dean’s mouth opens against your cheek, a quiet breath leaving him as his hips shift beneath yours. he’s fully hard now, thick against you through his boxers, and the knowledge settles low in your stomach. you do it again just to feel the way his grip changes: his fingers digging into your back before he catches himself and eases them loose.
“you’re trouble in the morning,” he murmurs.
“only in the morning?”
“don’t fish for compliments, sweetheart.”
you pull back enough to look at him. “thought you said i was pretty.”
“you are pretty.” his gaze drops to your mouth. “still trouble.”
you kiss him before he can add anything else.
he meets you lazily at first, lips warm and dry from sleep, one hand sliding behind your neck while the other stays spread across your back. the kiss deepens without either of you rushing it. his tongue brushes yours when you rock against him again.
dean groans into your mouth, the sound low and caught somewhere in his chest. you drag your hands over him as you kiss, across the broad shape of his shoulders and down the firm planes of his stomach, following old scars with your fingertips.
you kiss one near his collarbone when his mouth leaves yours. then another.
“still doing inventory?” he asks.
“you keep distracting me.”
his fingers hook into the hem of your shirt and you raise your arms. dean drags the shirt over your head and tosses it somewhere near the end of the bed.
cool air moves over your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms, but his hands follow quickly. his palms cup your breasts. his thumbs brush over your nipples once, watching the way your body answers him, before circling them again.
“fuck,” he says quietly. there’s no smirk behind it. no teasing bite. he looks at you with sleepy concentration, hair flattened on one side and eyes fixed on every change in your expression. “look at you…”
dean’s eyes close for a beat when you grind down harder against him; hands tighten around your breasts, thumbs pressing over your nipples until the small sting makes you do it again. he mutters something under his breath, too low to catch, and lets one hand travel down your stomach.
his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties.
the first touch is light. barely there. two fingers passing through the wetness and warmness between your thighs, spreading it over you without giving you the pressure you want.
you shift impatiently, trying to guide his hand, but he follows the movement and keeps his touch maddeningly shallow. “dean.”
“what?” he glances between your bodies with false innocence, fingertips tracing around your entrance before sliding back toward your clit. “use your words, sweetheart.”
“you know what i want.”
“probably.” he gives you one slow circle, just enough to make your hips jerk. “still wanna hear you say it.”
you reach between you and palm him through his boxers. his next breath comes out uneven. “touch me properly.”
he presses two fingers into you. the stretch pulls a moan from your mouth. your thighs tighten around his hips, and dean’s attention snaps back to your face while he works them deeper, slow enough to make you feel each inch. his thumb settles over your clit, rubbing with steady pressure as his fingers curl.
you grab the waistband of his boxers and tug. they catch beneath your knees, and dean lifts his hips enough to help you drag them down. his cock rests against his stomach, flushed and already wet at the tip.
you stroke from the base to the head, spreading the bead of precum with your thumb before tightening your grip on the way back down. his hips twitch upward into your hand.
“easy,” he says, though he pushes into your fist again.
“can’t handle it?”
his eyes narrow. “cute.”
you stroke him slower. dean retaliates by curling his fingers inside you, pressing against the place that makes your hand falter around him. you let out a rough little sound and rock down against his palm, giving him exactly the reaction he’s after.
his mouth pulls into a smug half-smile. “who can’t handle it?”
“shut up.”
“make me.”
you lean down and kiss him hard enough to knock the satisfaction from his face. your hand keeps working over his cock. his fingers keep working inside you. neither of you gives the other enough room to recover.
the morning stays quiet around you. springs shifting beneath your knees. the wet sound of his fingers moving inside you. dean’s breathing growing rougher each time your thumb passes over the head of his cock.
when your bruised side pulls, you flinch before you can hide it. his hand leaves your neck and slides over your ribs, supporting you while you settle at a different angle.
“you okay?”
“yeah.”
“sweetheart.”
“i’m fine.” you roll your hips experimentally. the bruising protests, but not enough to make you stop. “just sore.”
his thumb brushes over your clit again, gentler this time. “tell me if it’s too much.”
you kiss the corner of his mouth. “i will.”
you push yourself upright and lift your hips enough to pull your panties aside. dean withdraws his hand, the loss making you clench around nothing.
you take him in your hand and guide the head of his cock through your slickness.
his hands settle on your hips. “slow,” he says, softer than an order.
you sink down carefully, taking him a little at a time. the stretch burns pleasantly at first, your body opening around the thickness of him while dean holds you steady. his thumbs press into the soft curve of your hips, keeping you from dropping too quickly.
dean curses under his breath. his face draws tight with the effort of staying still, eyes fixed on where your body takes him. when you finally settle all the way into his lap, his hands slide around to your ass and hold you there.
for a few seconds, neither of you moves. you feel him everywhere. deep enough that the smallest shift sends a pulse through you, his cock held tightly inside your body, his thighs hard beneath yours.
“fuck, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “you feel…”
he doesn’t finish. you rock your hips forward. dean’s grip tightens.
“good?” you ask.
he lets out a breath that turns into a laugh, then you lift yourself and sink back down.
the first few movements stay slow. your body’s still sore from the hunt, and dean lets you find the angle that doesn’t pull at your side. his hands move over your thighs, your hips, the curve of your ass, never forcing your rhythm. he watches you ride him with a heavy, unguarded stare, his lips parted each time you take him to the base.
you place one hand on his chest for balance. his heartbeat works fast beneath your palm.
“you’re staring,” you accuse.
“i am.”
“why?”
“you really need me to explain?”
you clench around him deliberately. dean’s answer breaks apart into a curse. you smile.
“oh, you think that’s funny?”
“little bit.”
one hand leaves your hip and slides between your bodies. his thumb finds your clit, pressing down while you lower yourself onto him again.
your smile slips.
“yeah,” dean murmurs. “that’s what i thought.”
he rubs slow, tight circles in time with your hips. the pressure draws everything closer, each drag of his cock through you feeding into the touch between your legs. you lean over him again, your breasts brushing his chest, and kiss him because you need somewhere to put the sound threatening to leave you.
dean swallows it greedily.
his free arm wraps around your back, holding you close while you move. the position gives you less room, but it lets him thrust up into you in small, measured movements that meet every roll of your hips.
he keeps one hand on your clit and the other spread over your spine, careful around every bruise created last night.
“that’s it,” he says against your mouth. “keep going.”
your thighs are starting to burn. you sit up, changing the angle, and dean slides deeper. the next downward roll hits somewhere that makes your vision blur for half a second.
“right there.”
“yeah?”
you do it again instead of answering.
his eyes stay on yours while you ride him faster. there’s nothing sleepy left in them now. his gaze tracks every broken movement of your mouth, every time your concentration slips. when your pace begins to turn uneven, he plants his feet against the mattress and starts meeting you from below.
the bedframe knocks quietly against the wall.
“dean—”
“i know, babe.”
his thumb keeps working over you. his other hand grips your ass, helping you move, giving your aching thighs enough support to keep going. the pressure builds low and deep. you feel it in each stroke, in the friction of his body beneath yours, in the rough praise he mutters when you tighten around him.
“so fucking pretty.”
his voice is strained now.
“look at me.”
you do.
dean thrusts up as you sink down, his cock dragging over the place that sends the first hard ripple through your stomach. your rhythm stutters. you brace both hands on his chest, trying to hold yourself together while everything starts coming apart.
“there you go,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you, sweetheart.”
your orgasm rolls through you before you can answer. your thighs lock around him, hips jerking out of rhythm while your body clenches tight around his cock. a broken sound catches in your mouth. dean keeps rubbing you through it, slower once you start shaking, his eyes never leaving your face.
“fuck, sweetheart.”
the way he says your name pushes another shudder through you.
you’re still coming when his control finally gives. his hands grab your hips and hold you down against him, cock buried deep as he spills inside you. his groan catches against your shoulder when you fold over him, his mouth pressing to your skin while his body jerks beneath yours.
afterward, you stay where you are. neither of you seems interested in dealing with the rest of the room.
dean’s hands move slowly over your back. long strokes from your shoulders to your waist, then up again, avoiding the tender places without needing direction.
you rest your cheek against his chest. his heart takes a while to settle.
“we really are gonna miss check-out,” you mumble.
“mm-hm.” his mouth presses to your hair, then your temple. the kiss lingers this time, awake enough that he can’t pretend it happened by accident.
his hand drifts down your back again. fingertips following the curve of your spine, palm flattening at your waist before starting over. there’s no hurry in it. no expectation that you’ll get up and shower or find your clothes or leave.
you draw a lazy line through the faint freckles across his chest. dean watches your finger move.
“i love you,” he says, and the words are quiet enough that, for one strange second, you think you’ve put them there yourself. something your tired brain’s slipped into the space between the heater clicking off and a truck groaning past on the road outside.
your hand stops. dean’s does too.
you lift your head slowly. “what?”
he stares at the ceiling. “you heard me.”
“i’m not sure i did.”
the tips of his ears are turning red. it’d be funny under almost any other circumstances. dean winchester naked beneath you and suddenly unable to look anywhere near your face, except your mind’s still trying to catch up.
you’ve known how he feels. or you thought you did.
it’s there when he hands you the first cup of coffee without asking how you take it. when he changes the radio station before a song you hate reaches the chorus. when he checks your seat belt with a quick tug after a bad hunt, pretending he only reached across you for something in the glove compartment. it’s there every night he chooses your bed instead of his own and every morning he stays longer than he needs to.
but he’s never said it.
dean clears his throat. “look, you don’t have to—”
“you don’t get to say something like that and then immediately give me an escape route.”
his mouth closes.
“fine.” his hand settles against your lower back again, though there’s a new uncertainty to it. “forget i said anything.”
“that’s worse.”
“yeah, well, this is going great.”
you push yourself up enough to see him properly. his expression’s gone defensive around the edges, but he still won’t quite meet your eyes.
there’s no apocalypse waiting outside. no demon deal running out, no blood on the walls, no desperate reason to say everything before one of you loses the chance. just an overdue check-out, cooling sheets, and dean looking more frightened now than he had with a monster’s claw around his throat last night.
“say it again,” you whisper.
his gaze finally finds yours. “sweetheart—”
“again.”
he studies your face for a moment, searching for the joke or the trap or whatever else might let him retreat. when he doesn’t find it, his thumb moves once against your back.
“i love you.”
this time, each word lands cleanly.
your surprise must show because his jaw tightens. “i know the timing’s kinda—”
you kiss him.
dean makes a startled sound against your mouth, then catches you by the waist and pulls you closer. the kiss isn’t hungry now. it’s clumsy and lingering, his lips moving over yours while one hand cups the back of your head.
when you pull away, he follows for half an inch before stopping himself.
“i love you too,” you tell him.
dean blinks.
you almost laugh. “did you hear me?”
“yeah.”
“you sure?”
“shut up.” his hand slides into your hair, bringing you down for another kiss before you can tease him any further.
you feel his smile eventually, small and uneven against your mouth. when the kiss ends, neither of you moves far. dean’s forehead rests against yours, his hand still tangled in your hair. he looks almost embarrassed by the happiness creeping across his face, trying to press it down before you can make too much of it.
“we should probably get up,” he says after a while.
“probably,” your thumb brushes over the freckle near the corner of his mouth. dean catches your wrist, but instead of moving your hand away, he turns his head and presses a kiss into your palm.
you settle back over him carefully, your cheek returning to the place above his heart. you stay tangled together beneath the thin blanket, your joined hands resting against his chest while his thumb keeps passing over your knuckles, learning how the words feel now that they’ve finally been said.
.⛥ ݁ ˖ writing guidelines ⌗ posting schedule ⌗ all works
content: 1k, heavy flirting & sexual tension, smug!abbot turned flustered?
It’s not something he’s thought off before. He dishes out compliments where they’re deserved, when they’re deserved. You just happen to be good at your job, and also he likes the way you go about things.
He noticed something was off when he leaned over your shoulder after you’d efficiently told off an unruly intern who’d disregarded a patients wishes completely. He liked when you got bossy, because you never lost it on people, were always fair but you could rise to the occasion and be firm, too.
“Atta girl” hed muttered behind you, briefly caging you in against the hub desk. You’d dropped your pen. He thought it a coincidence, eyes crinkling as he walked off.
Next time, you’d done an impromptu procedure in the midst of mass casualty chaos. You’d been fierce, wiping blood from your cheek with the shrug of a shoulder, working and shouting orders. You’d be a great attending, he thought. When there was a moment refuge that day, he’d caught you leaning against the wall, catching your breath and regaining senses. “You did so well” he said, delivered more gentle than usual and he heard your breath hitch, your eyes go wide as they barely met his.
You’d been so flustered you had to walk off and he looked after you for long, trying to put the pieces together. And slowly he’d started to test his theory, just for the heck of it. And surely, there was always a little twitch to you whenever he’d give you a compliment on shift, big or small. You’d grow almost shy, which was something you only reserved for specific people usually, and Jack was usually glad not to be one of them.
But here he welcomed it, welcomed a softer side of you that seemed to fumble a little for him. He’d always thought you very capable, very pretty, had your wits about you at all times. He didn’t get under your skin until this little discovery.
He finds you one night, curled over a practice arm for some specific stitching you wanted to nail. “Let me show you” he said lowly into the quiet room. You nodded and he came up behind you, slow steps before he planted his feet on either side of yours, arms encompassing yours as well. You felt his warm, freckled skin, saw the muscles of his biceps flexing as he covered your hand with his. It was purposeful. He knew it. You thought it because he had no reason to let his breath touch your ear, or the hard planes of his chest to touch your back. “Is this okay?” He whispered, a sudden rasp to his voice that made you shiver.
“Yeah” you turned your head halfway and his nose nearly brushed yours. God you could smell him, it was a warm scent. He was wearing a black t shirt, hadn’t changed for his shift yet. The lines of his neck, how you wanted to-
“Need you to focus for me, hm? I know how good you are at that” he says and watches you swallow down a lump, watches your lashes flutter. He can hardly focus himself. You nod rapidly and he hums. Usually so talkative but now nothing comes out, not a single sounds except a shaky breath. He smiles at you before nodding to the table and your ears redden as you turn your focus like he told you to.
“That’s it.” He coos and you visibly shudder, hand flexing beneath his. It’s unprofessional, this predicament. It’s also exactly how it’s supposed to be, how you’ve dreamed of having his undivided attention like this during every waking minute with your own imagination. It was so overwhelming to suddenly have it.
He starts explaining, starts showing you how to stitch but your hand keeps trembling under his. “Don’t be nervous, doll. You got this. I know you do” he said and it does nothing to help your predicament. Eventually you let the needle drop, turning within the little space you have between the table and his body. He looks down his nose at you, chin lifted playfully.
Sigh. “I can’t focus.”
“And whys that?” He asks, arms crossing. You follow the movement with greedy eyes, his muscles flexing under your stare.
“Because you keep saying stuff.. and standing close..” it’s not a complaint, it’s a jumble of words and the corner of his lip tugs upwards.
“You like when I tell you you’re doing good”
Your eyes widen at his blatant statement. “Anyone does.” Is your argument.
He hums “yeah but not the way you do. You know you’re excellent, that you could rule this ER better than me or robby. Still you shudder when i tell you.”
Your shrug is stiff, not at all casual the way you want it to be. “Because I admire and respect you.”
“That’s it?” He baits, his voice breathy too now as he leans down the slightest.
“And maybe because I want to kiss you.” You add. He didn’t expect such an admission but then again, you were a woman who often knew what she wanted.
His arms uncross “that could be arranged…” he mutters and fixed the badge in your waistband subtly. “If you admit you like when I praise you.”
He’s never seen such an eyeroll from you, and his tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth in warning. “You’re an ass” you say.
“Oh you like it” he says with a weak gesture.
A flip switches in you; “Do you like it when I praise you?”
His brows furrow, back straightening.
“When I tell you how good you are. How capable. Strong. Hot.” You list slowly as you fist a hand in his shirt to draw him closer. Now it’s his neck that’s warming rapidly, clearing his throat and looking away. “Won’t you be so good and kiss me, Jack?”
He doesn’t know what the hell you’re doing to him, didn’t see his plan backfiring to sweetly as he leans forwards “yes ma’am.” He mutters, happy that kissing you could maybe hide how flustered you got him to fast. Guess this was a two way street. He hums, groans against your lips, against the relief of your mouth moving against his as his hands paw softly at your sides until they’re wrapped all the way around you.
Guess he learned a thing or two about himself, as well.
any inspiration to do a dbf!jack abbot fic? 🫣like the classic sneaking around at the family function? Or she works with Jack?
pink and grey.
it couldn’t be more complicated if it tried. and if that doesn’t stop you… nothing will.
dr jack abbot x female resident!reader
warnings - smut. cursing. degradation. age gap. technically there’s a power imbalance here but like… hot.
word count - if I had to guess… 1.5k?
authors note - YEEEEEEEAH. now we’re speaking my language. i’ll turn any character into a dbf and i’m not ashamed. need that sexy old man bad.
masterlist. inbox.
You’re doing it on purpose.
The tiny bikini, the oiled up skin, the cut off shorts that cover absolutely nothing.
Jack Abbot is going to go insane. And it’s all your fault.
“Oh, hey,” a voice snaps him out of his daydream. “When did you get here?”
He can’t tell if you’re being serious or if you’re playing hard to get. You’re the only person that makes him doubt himself over and over again.
“Just got here,” he grumbles, voice hoarse.
“Happy Fourth of July, Dr Abbot.”
He looks at you pointedly, watching as your tongue swipes across your pillowy bottom lip. Like butter wouldn’t melt.
“Just Jack here.”
“You’re telling me you wouldn’t jump into doctor mode and save my life if I needed you to?”
You’re teasing him and he doesn’t know if he likes it or not.
“I’m sure you’d give me the kiss of life if it was necessary, wouldn’t you?”
He doesn’t like it.
Or rather, he does. He likes it too much, which means it’s gone full circle and ended up resembling something like disdain.
“You’ll be a doctor soon enough,” he counters. “Can save yourself.”
“It’s not as fun that way. I’d rather you do it.”
Either you just winked, or he blinked and his mind is playing tricks on him. Get it together, he pleads with himself. Grow the fuck up.
“You’re a nightmare, you know that?”
“You’re a liar, you know that?”
He shakes his head as he watches you walk away, hips swaying and ass peachier than ever, trying determinedly to ignore how tight his jeans feel.
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
“How are you liking working nights, kid?”
It’s your uncle who’s asking, half yelling to you across the barbecue.
“I like the night shift way better than the day shift,” you tell him as you stir the ice in your drink. “I’ve learnt a lot.”
You catch Jack’s eyes as you say it, looking at him through hooded lids. An image of you on your knees last week pops into his head uninvited, making his breath catch in his throat.
“What’s it like working with Jack? Bet he’s a real pain in the ass.”
You laugh, tongue darting out to find your straw.
“He’s a good boss. Very hands on. Likes to get down and dirty.”
Your attending shoots you a warning glance, daggers piercing through his stare. It doesn’t deter you, a giggle escaping before you can stop it.
“How is she as a student, Jack?” your dad’s asking as he sidles up to where you’re all stood. “She’s not causing you trouble, is she?”
“Always,” Jack chuckles, making everyone else laugh. “She’s a fast learner - real quick study. Does as she’s told when she’s told for the most part too.”
A memory from last month flashes across Jacks mind, a blurry image of you riding him on his couch while he coaches you through it. Atta girl, he can recall himself murmuring. Such a fast learner, baby. Just wanna make me proud, don’t you?
“Well, you tell me if she causes you too much grief,” your dad grins as he slaps Jack on the back. “Though I suppose if anyone can handle it, it’s you.”
He wants to handle you right now - throw you over his shoulder with two palms full of your ass. He’s distracted from that thought by the sight of you helping your mom hang up some bunting on the deck - stretched up on your tiptoes as you hold it in place for her. Your shorts are riding up and your stomach is on show and it takes everything in Jack not to throw a blanket over you so that no one else gets to see what’s his.
Except you’re not his.
You’re his resident. His colleague. His best friend’s daughter. His subordinate.
His salvation and his karma all at once. A dream and a nightmare.
He knows what he’s doing is wrong and yet he’s actively thinking of ways he can get you alone before the day ends. The idea of waiting until tomorrow to touch you seems completely unfathomable. He’s an addict looking for his next fix, desperate to know when he can feel you again.
If his soul is damned, then so be it. He’s been chasing heaven for so long, he’s convinced it most likely doesn’t exist.
You’re the closest thing to it.
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
You’re talking to a guy.
He’s your age, fairly tall, brown curly hair. He looks like he’d play guitar in a shitty band on the weekends.
Jack hates him already.
Maybe he’s gone cynical with age. Or maybe the sight of you talking to this boy while still dressed in your tiny bikini is just rage inducing enough that it’d send anyone over the edge.
Jack’s a strong man. Not strong enough for this.
Now you’re laughing. What could this person possibly be saying to you that’s that funny? Your full on belly laughs are usually reserved for him. When he tells you that we shouldn’t be doing this, and you reply with your arrogant little sure, Dr Abbot. See how long that lasts, before strutting off across the ER, laughing like that.
Jack’s very aware that he’s the one that keeps trying to shut this situation down, and yet he’s standing in your garden seething with envy at the sight of you simply having a conversation with a man your age. He knows he’s a hypocrite. He’s not oblivious.
Maybe it’s because he’s three beers deep, or maybe it’s because he just simply doesn’t have the energy to argue with his own mind, but Jack marches over to the two of you with his phone in his hand.
“Hon, work’s calling. Emergency.”
You shoot up out of your chair and follow him immediately, right into the empty kitchen.
“What’s the matter?” you’re asking, and your concern is so genuine it almost makes Jack feel guilty for lying. Almost.
He doesn’t reply. He just plants his palms on your cheeks and pulls you into him, kissing you stupid right where anyone could walk in. You’re dizzy with it, grateful he’s got such a strong grip on you or else you’d be toppling over onto the cool tiles.
Jack’s biting at your bottom lip, sliding his tongue over yours, groaning into your mouth like a man possessed. You’re confused and turned on and at the mercy of your boss who’s also your dad’s best friend who you’re probably in love with.
It couldn’t be more complicated if it tried. And yet, here you are. Doing it anyway.
“Jack-”
“Honey.”
He says it flippantly, as if he’s got more important matters to attend to.
“Jack.”
Now he pulls back, fingers digging into your hips like if he’s worried you’re going to bolt.
“What did work say? What’s the matter?”
He’d almost forgotten about that stupid lie to get you in here.
“There’s no emergency,” he says as he leans back in to your lips. “Just needed you by yourself.”
“Naughty,” you tease as you let him kiss you some more. “I like it. I’m rubbing off on you.”
“Wish you would,” he retorts as you tangle your fingers into his hair and tug.
“You’re not usually the one that takes risks, Abbot. What did you say to me last week? You’re going to get us caught?”
“You were. Bending down to pick up a chart and practically grinding on me, like I was in a damn strip club in the middle of the pit.”
You’re struggling to stifle a laugh at the memory, admitting that you probably did push the boundaries a bit too far that day. But Jack had been spending an awful lot of time with Dr Al-Hashimi, and there’s a chance you were a tiny bit jealous of how much they had in common.
“I apologised for that. And you accepted that apology.”
“Because it came in the form of you on your knees.”
“Exactly,” you wink. “Now, are you gonna lie to my face and tell me that this sudden outburst has absolutely nothing to do with me talking to Cory?”
“It has everything to do with that, actually.”
“Oh, we’re feeling honest today are we?”
“I’m always honest with you.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me Dr Al-Hashimi asked you out the other day?”
It comes out a little more bristled than you would’ve liked, but you’ve never been good at sitting on things that are bothering you.
“It was hardly her asking me out.”
“She said that you guys should grab a beer and share war stories. As in, the two of you would go for a drink. Together. On a date.”
“I’m not sure she meant it that way.”
“She was looking at you like she did.”
“She was being friendly. Trying to bond with the team.”
“You agreed to go out with her.”
“I agreed to talk to her about being in Afghanistan. It’s hardly a romantic topic of conversation.”
“So I’m delusional?”
Jack’s watching your walls go up in real time, can feel the way you’re getting more defensive as you have an internal battle with yourself about the way you’re handling this.
“Honey,” he soothes, one hand on your cheek, the other resting where your neck meets your shoulder. “You are not delusional. Maybe she was asking me out, but that’s not what I took it as. I thought she wanted to catch up, as colleagues. Besides, I’m not gonna go anyway. I’d just be thinking about you the entire time.”
“Good save,” you mutter sarcastically. “She’s pretty. I get it.”
“Sure, she’s pretty. But she isn’t you.”
“So cheesy,” you murmur, but you’re fighting to keep the smile off your face. “When did you get so sweet on me, hmm?”
“I’ve been sweet on you for months,” he hums, fingertips rubbing gentle circles into your skin. “Ever since your first day at PTMC when you called me a stupid old man in front of everyone.”
“You were being a stupid old man.”
“Yeah? Tell me, sweetheart. Has anyone ever made you come as hard as this old man has?”
One of his thumbs is hooking into your bikini tie, showing you just how easily he could undo them right here in the kitchen. You step in closer, seeking out his body heat.
“Never,” you whisper. “Not even close.”
“Those immature boys don’t know how to treat someone like you and you know it.”
“I know,” you sigh as his fingers slip under your bikini bottoms. “You’ve ruined me for everyone else.”
“Good.”
Jack kisses you like a man starved, all teeth and tongue. His left hand grips the back of your neck as his right swipes through your core, groaning when all he can feel is how wet you are.
“Filthy girl.”
You rest your forehead on his chest when he slips two fingers in with ease, crooking them right into that spot almost instantly. He can play you like a fiddle, mindlessly and effortlessly. He doesn’t even have to try.
“Anyone could see you like this,” he’s murmuring into your ear. “Someone could walk in and see you getting fingerfucked by your old man’s best pal. By your boss.”
His words should panic you, but they only turn you on more, knees buckling as he speaks.
“You’re so pretty like this, all pliant and obedient. Wish everyone at work could see this side of you. You’re such a brat to me in front of them.”
“I’m not-”
“Don’t lie,” he cuts you off. “It’s not a good look on you.”
You hate to admit how much you love it when he’s mean. At work, he stays so professional despite you being cruel to him just to push your luck. You like when he finally snaps and gives it back to you.
“Fuck, Jack.”
“Be quiet,” he hisses, smacking a hand over your mouth while his other one slides in and out of you with no resistance. “Do I need to gag you with your bikini to get you to shut up?”
You groan at the thought, mind flashing back to him doing exactly that last week. You were bent over his bathroom sink, panties in your mouth, legs trembling as he slammed his hips into yours. You came three times before he did, both of you riled up by the constant working each other up on shift.
Your hands are gripping at his t shirt, forehead pressed to his chest as you fight to stay standing up.
“I can feel you shakin’, pretty girl. You close? Already?”
You’re nodding frantically, very aware that he’s making fun of you but too far gone to care. He’s crooking his fingers just right, pushing you further towards the edge the way only someone who’s done this countless times before can.
“You’re so fuckin’ filthy,” he murmurs into your ear, hand still muffling your sounds. “What are you gonna say if someone catches us, hmm? It’s not what it looks like? Because what it looks like is that you’re a fucked out mess for a man who’s twice your age.”
“Jack,” you mumble against his palm. “Please.”
“Pathetic,” he’s chuckling condescendingly. “My pretty little whore. You act so brave at work, and now look at you... whining and crying because I’ve got two fingers in you.”
Someone yells outside and startles you, both of you jumping in unison.
“You better come quick before someone sees us. Come on beautiful, give it to me. Atta girl.”
You’re right on the edge, about to topple over, when Jack pulls his hand from between your legs suddenly.
“No, Jack-”
“Don’t be bratty.”
Your knees are buckling as you hold onto him for dear life, trying to take a deep breath. You bang your fists against his chest in protest, which he’s immediately having none of. He grabs your wrists in one hand, twisting your arms behind your back and keeping you exactly where he wants to.
“Uh uh,” he clicks his tongue. “Don’t get cocky, sweetheart. You may run that mouth of yours at work, but remember who’s in charge.”
You’re batting your big doe eyes at him, bottom lip jutting out like the picture of innocence.
“I wasn’t born yesterday, honey. I know exactly what you’re doing. It might work on those stupid boys your age, but it ain’t gonna work on me.”
You huff and try to fight his grip, but he’s got you locked in place.
“Listen to me now, because I’m only going to say this once. I’m gonna give it an hour or so, then I’m gonna go home. You know where the key is, let yourself in when this is wrapped up.”
He leans in to press a kiss to your pouty lips, chuckling at your clear displeasure.
“Then, I’m gonna spend all night fucking that attitude right out of you. You’re going to come so many times, the only thing you’ll be able to remember is my name. And then you’re going to be so sweet to me at work, everyone’s going to wonder if you’ve had a personality transplant. Understood?”
He quirks a brow at you, waiting for an answer.
“Understood.”
“Play it cool, alright? You’ve got to stick around here. Can’t just be running off for no reason.”
“I got it, Jack. Give me a little credit.”
“I’ll give you credit when you do something worth me giving you credit.”
You shake your head, trying to fight the smile off your face. You don’t want him to see how much you love when he gives you attitude just like you do to him.
“Keep the bikini on,” he murmurs into your ear, leaning in so you can feel his words across your skin. “Wanna fuck you in it.”
“Yessir,” you half joke, testing the waters.
His eyes darken, and you know you’ve hit a nerve.
“Careful,” he warns.
You know exactly what you’re going to be calling him later.
“Think you can behave for the rest of the evening?”
“I’ll manage.”
“Good.”
He finally releases your wrists, smirking when you stretch your arms out in front of you and push your tits together accidentally. It’s your turn to smirk when you watch him adjust his jeans, trying to hide the obvious.
“See you later, Jack.”
“See you later, honey,” he whispers against your lips, leaning in to give you one last kiss. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
You turn around to look at him when you walk away, and wish you hadn’t. His gaze is raking up and down your body, nothing but hunger and pure want settled in his eyes.
You hope he doesn’t notice how your legs shake as you leave.
dr abbot and speech-language pathologist reader collaborating in the ER, he'd always hear your name mentioned when referring patients for a swallow study or cognitive evaluation but he'd never met you in person. you were finally called down one day when a patient was having difficulty speaking after a stroke and he was enamored with your confidence for someone who's so young. the patient was a bitter old man and his confusion was making matters worse, but you were so gentle with him while administering your exam. you were just as pleasant with dr abbot when he introduced himself to you, smiling brightly up at him before getting summoned back up to another patient's room.
after seeing you again one or two more times, he thought of giving you a swallow study of his own. one with drool covering your chin and dripping all the way down to the floor. he'd start with ordering you down to your knees, looking right up at him as he placed his index finger firmly on your tongue. his middle finger would soon join it along with his ring finger, inching them back and forth until they start to hit the back of your throat. he'd take those same fingers and slide them under your panties, his big hand cupping your heat before he circles your clit. if your eyes were shiny just upon meeting him, he could only imagine what they would look like as he pleasured you. he'd order you to just keep looking at him, slapping your cunt through your panties each time you dared to look away. he wanted your lips wrapped around him as he fingered you, wanted to taste you too. he'd have to get your number next time you came around.
his biceps are almost as big as his goddamn neck, his thighs are like tree trunks, his chest is broad like his shoulders, the muscles that plane his back something you love to run your fingers over and watch twitch when he's overstimulated or when he's trying to relax under your watchful eye after a hectic shift
his freckles add to the playground his body becomes the moment he's home and safe from the outside world, the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, above his brow on his forehead that lend to the fact that he makes so many expressions and feels so openly sometimes for someone who's been through so much
his fingers tangle in yours when you hold hands, out and about or simply sharing space on the couch. out on the back patio he's curated just for you once he found out how much you like to spend time outside. watching the movement of his arms as he put together a simple sun shade with a few posts and a swatch of thick canvas proven and reviewed to have uv protection woven into it had been the highlight of a hectic week
and then he'd gone above and beyond to hang up new plant and beautiful patterned shawls all around the space to make it the comfiest and coziest second living room for you basically. a new couch and lounge table were the second things you watched him expertly put together. his thick fingers twisting screws and bolts into place in order to get them secured properly with the tools had you standing there like a moth entranced by a porch light
his fingers are tangled in yours now as you sit atop his lap, his cock buried deep as the back of your thighs rest atop his, 'easy, baby, take a breath for me, you're taking me so well'
and of course he's thick here too, stretching you in the best way, in the way that only he can. he knows it too, knows how to provide- how to communicate- how to be the perfect partner for you and you love him, god do you love him. you wiggle your hips now, pulling a whining sound from him through a punched out breath, you lean into him and kiss him full on the lips, hands cradling his face as you do so. he looks up at you with those gleaming hazel eyes, bright with pleasure and your heart melts just as your stomach flips and your core tightens. he groans this time, brow furrowing as his hands tighten on your waist
'c'mon, move for me, please, baby'
and who are you to deny the man who does so much for you?
Summary: Soldier Boy fucked Firecracker and you're not happy about it.
Warnings: Explicit Smut, Dub-Con/Consensual Non-Con, Rough Sex, Choking, Slapping, Degradation, Praise Kink, Possessive Ben, Toxic Relationship, Emotional Manipulation, Oral Sex (f + m receiving), Unprotected P in V, Orgasm Control, Overstimulation, Soldier Boy being Solider Boy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
A/N: Been wanting to write this for forever. Also if it isn't obvious, reader has telekinesis.
Masterlist • Taglist
The door to your room at Vought shut with a click that made your jaw tighten. You'd been avoiding him for two days, ducking into conference rooms when you saw him coming, taking the stairs to bypass the common areas, eating meals in your room like some kind of hermit.
It was pathetic. You knew it was pathetic.
But you'd heard Firecracker echoing through the halls, that annoying twang bouncing off the walls. You heard her talking to someone about how she fucked Soldier Boy last night.
You'd walked away before you could hear the details. Before you could picture it. Before you could remember the way Ben's rough hands felt gripping your hips, the way he'd growled my girl against your neck like he had the right to claim you.
You weren't his girl. You weren't anything. You'd abandoned The Boys, abandoned Butcher's whole disaster of a plan to use Soldier Boy to take down Homelander, and crawled back to Vought because you had nowhere else to go and, honestly? It's all you knew from the start anyway.
Couple years later, when Homelander unthawed Soldier Boy, then introduced him as number two in The Seven, Ben wasn't surprised to still see you here.
"Guess there's one good thing about being on this team," he'd said and winked at you.
Fuck him. Fuck Firecracker. Fuck all of it.
You kicked off your boots and flopped onto your bed, staring at the ceiling.
The knock came a little before 11 PM. Three sharp raps. You knew it was him, who else would be knocking on your door this late?
"Go away," you called out.
"Open the door, doll." Ben's voice was muffled but unmistakable. That gravelly, deep tone that still made something stupid in your chest flutter.
"I said go away."
"And I said open the door." A pause. "Don't make me ask again."
You should have left it locked. You should have told him to fuck off. But your feet were moving before your brain could catch up, your fingers undoing the deadbolt with a resentful twist.
He looked good. Too good, all broad shoulders, the green undershirt of his uniform tight on his muscular form. He still smelled like tobacco and Old Spice and something uniquely him, maybe gunpowder, regrets, and memories you didn't want to have.
"You've been avoiding me," he said.
"Been busy."
"Busy." He stepped into your space, forcing you back into the room. "That's funny. Everyone said you didn't have anything scheduled today."
"Stalking me now, Benjamin?"
"Watching out for you." The door clicked shut behind him. "Like I always have."
You laughed, sharp and bitter. "Right. You watched out for me so well when I was the one keeping you from nuking Manhattan. When I was the one letting you—" You cut yourself off, cheeks heating.
"Letting me what, baby?" His voice dropped, that annoying smirk appeared. "Say it."
"Nothing. Whatever," you spat, "it's in the past. Doesn't matter."
"Is it?" He circled you like a shark, and you hated how your body responded, how your breath hitched when he stepped close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. "Because you sure are acting like a jealous little brat for someone who doesn't think it matters."
"I'm not jealous."
"No?" He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. His green eyes were cold, "Then why've you been ignorin' me, doll, hm? Why've you been staring at Firecracker like you're contemplating throwin' her off the goddamn roof?"
"She's annoying."
"She's a good fuck," he said deliberately, watching your face. "Eager. Obedient. Knows how to take orders."
Your power flared, your books rattling on their shelves, the lamp flickering. "Get out."
"Make me."
You shoved him. Hard enough to crack concrete. Hard enough to send a normal man through the wall. Ben barely stumbled, his hand moving to grip your throat.
"That's it," he growled, and there was something almost proud in his voice. "There's my girl. Thought you'd gone soft on me, running back to Vought with your tail between your legs."
"Fuck you."
"That's the plan, doll."
He kissed you like he was trying to consume you, all teeth and tongue, pressing hard against you, his hand squeezing your neck with just enough pressure. You bit his lip and he laughed against your mouth, that dark, delighted sound that had haunted your dreams for months.
"You want to fight me?" He spun you around, shoving you face-first against the wall. Your cheek pressed against the cool surface, his body caging you in, that hard length grinding against your ass. "Go ahead. Give me your best shot."
You tried. You threw an elbow back with supe strength. He caught it, wrenched your arm behind your back, and you gasped at the stretch. Wincing from the pull.
"Pathetic," he breathed against your ear. "You used to be able to take me down. What happened? Got comfortable here in your ivory tower? Forgot how to be dangerous?"
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." He yanked your other arm back, pinning both wrists in one massive hand. "You hate that I fucked her. You hate that I fucked her before I fucked you since being out of the fuckin' box. And you really hate that you want me anyway."
"Let me go."
"Say please."
"Fuck you."
He laughed again, that deep, low chuckle, and dragged you backward toward your bed. You struggled against him, wriggling and trying to using your strength and telekinesis to get away from him. He loved it.
He threw you onto the mattress and you bounced, scrambling backward, but he was on you in an instant, those heavy thighs straddling your hips, his hands tearing at your clothes.
"Ben—"
"Shut up." He ripped your shirt off. "You don't get to talk. Not after a whole day of the silent treatment. Not after you made me chase you like some kind of bitch."
"I'm not—"
He slapped you. Not hard enough to bruise, he knew your durability, knew exactly how much force to use. The slap was sharp, stinging, enough to make your head snap to the side and your pussy clench around nothing.
"Did I say you could speak?"
You glared at him, defiant, and he slapped you again, his other hand roughly palming your breast through your bra, thumb dragging over your nipple until you couldn't suppress the moan.
"That's better," he murmured, leaning down to bite your neck, your collarbone, leaving marks that would fade but felt permanent in the moment. "Stop pretending you don't want this."
"I don't—"
He cut you off with a hand around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision spot. "Lie to me again and I'll gag you with my cock. Understand?"
You nodded, pulse hammering, and he released you only to tear your bra off completely, tossing it aside. He palmed your breasts roughly, pinching and pulling at your nipples until you were arching into his touch despite yourself, despite the anger still burning in your chest.
"Look at you," he sneered. "All that attitude and you're already aching for me. Is this what you wanted? For me to come find you? To remind you who you belong to?"
"I don't belong to anyone."
"No?" He shoved your legs open, palming you through your pants, and you bit your lip hard enough to bleed to keep from crying out. "Then why are you dripping through your pants, you little slut?"
"Stop calling me—"
He slapped you again, then gripped your jaw, forcing your mouth open. "You don't tell me what to do. I tell you. And you're going to take everything I give you, aren't you? Going to be a good girl and spread your legs and let me use you however I want."
"Ben—"
"Wrong answer."
He flipped you over like you weighed nothing, yanking your pants and underwear down in one rough motion, leaving you bare and exposed. You tried to push up on your hands and knees but he shoved you back down, his palm between your shoulder blades, pinning you to the mattress.
"Stay."
You struggled anyway, trying to move away, and he brought his hand down on your ass with a crack that echoed through the room. Then again. And again. Until you were gasping, your skin hot and sensitive, your pussy absolutely aching.
"Please," you whimpered, and you hated yourself for it.
"Please what?"
"Please—"
He spanked you again, harder, and you saw stars. "Please what, you stupid fucking slut? Use your words." He was already undressing himself.
"Please fuck me," you sobbed, the words tearing out of you like a confession. "Please, Ben, I need—"
"That's it." He pulled your hips up, pressing against you, his cock heavy and hot against your thigh. "That's my girl. Begging for it like the desperate little bitch you are."
He didn't prepare you. Didn't ease in. He shoved inside in one brutal thrust that made you scream into the pillow, your body stretching around him, your telekinesis flaring so hard that every loose object in the room lifted into the air and crashed down around you.
"Fuck," he groaned, gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises. "Still so fucking tight. Still mine, aren't you? Even when you pretend you're not."
"Not yours—" you gasped out, pushing back against him.
He laughed and started to move, setting a brutal pace that had the bed slamming against the wall, that had you clawing at the sheets. He wasn't gentle, he didn't do gentle, especially not with you, not when he knew that you could take it. That you wanted it.
"Say it," he demanded, yanking your head back by your hair, arching your spine. "Say you're mine while I fuck you. Say it or I'll stop."
"Don't...don't stop—"
"Then say it."
"I'm—" He angled his hips, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision white out, and you sobbed. "I'm yours, okay? I'm yours, I'm yours—"
"Louder."
"Yours!" you screamed as he pounded into you, as his free hand reached around to rub rough circles on your clit. "I'm yours, Ben, fuck, please—"
"Good girl." He released your hair only to grip your throat again, pulling you up against his chest, changing the angle so he was hitting even deeper. "Now take my dick like the good little whore you are. Take it and thank me."
You clenched around him helplessly, teetering on the edge but not quite there, but close. Very close.
"Ben, I'm gonna—"
"Did I say you could cum yet?" He pulled out and you whimpered at the loss, at the emptiness, at the way your arousal started to drip down your thighs. "Greedy little thing. You think you deserve it?"
"Please," you whispered, shaking.
"Please what?"
"Please let me cum. Please, Ben, I need—"
"Show me." He flipped you onto your back, shoving your legs wide, and stared down at where you were spread open for him. "Touch yourself. Let me see how desperate you are."
You reached down, embarrassed and aroused and hating how much you wanted this, and started to rub your clit. He watched, predatory and pleased, his cock stirring against his thigh.
"Faster," he ordered. "And look at me. Don't you dare close your eyes."
You obeyed, your fingers working yourself in tight circles, your hips bucking, your whole body flushed and overheated. He watched you like you were the only thing in the world, like he was memorizing every expression, every gasp.
He knew when you were close, just about to cum.
"Stop."
Your hand froze, trembling, right on the edge. "Ben—"
"I said stop." He grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away, and you actually cried out in frustration. "You don't get to finish yet. You haven't earned it."
"I did everything you—"
"You ran," he interrupted, his voice going cold and dangerous. "You ran away from me. Now I'm back and you ignored me over one little fuck. You think this fixes that?"
You stared up at him, chest heaving, tears pricking your eyes. "I had to leave. Butcher was—"
"I don't give a fuck about Butcher." He climbed onto the bed, kneeling over your chest, his cock hard and heavy in front of your face. "Open."
"Ben—"
He slapped you, sharp enough to get your attention. "Open your mouth. Now."
You obeyed, hating yourself, loving it, and he pushed his cock between your lips, his hand gripping your hair to hold you still. He tasted like salt and your own arousal, and you gagged as he hit the back of your throat, your eyes watering, your hands coming up to push at his thighs.
He didn't let you pull back. He started to thrust, shallow at first, then deeper, using your mouth the way he'd used your pussy, rough and completely in control.
"Look at you," he murmured, his hips snapping forward. "Taking my cock like you were made for it. Is this what you wanted? To be on your back, dripping wet, while I fuck your throat?"
You couldn't answer, could barely breathe, but you moaned around him and he groaned in response, his grip tightening.
"That's it. Take it. Take all of it, you beautiful fucking brat."
He came down your throat with a groan, holding you still as you swallowed around him, as tears streamed down your cheeks onto your tits. He pulled out slowly, his cock still half-hard, glistening in the light, and you gasped for air, your chest heaving.
"Good girl," he said softly, almost tenderly, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "Such a good girl for me, hm, doll?"
You turned your face away, embarrassed by the praise, by how much you craved it, and he chuckled, low and knowing.
"Still fighting it?" He moved down your body, settling between your legs, and you tensed. "Relax, sweetheart. Let me take care of you."
"Ben—"
He buried his face between your thighs without warning, licking a stripe up your slit, gathering your juices on his tongue. You cried out, your back arching off the bed, your hands flying to his hair.
"Oh god—"
"Not God," he murmured against your skin, the vibration making you whine. "Just me."
He ate you like he was starving, his tongue rough and demanding on your clit, two fingers pushing back inside you, curling to find that spot that made you see stars. You were so sensitive, so overstimulated, your body trembling from the sensations.
"Please," you begged, not even sure what you were begging for anymore. "Please, Ben, I can't—"
"You can," he insisted, his fingers working you ruthlessly. "You will cum when I tell you to cum."
He licked and sucked at your clit, adding another finger to your hole, curling them at just the right spot.
"Cum," he said, the vibration of his voice sending you over the edge.
You shattered, screaming his name. He didn't stop, didn't let up, kept working you through it until you were trying to squirm away from his mouth, oversensitive and shaking.
"Stop—stop, I can't—"
He lifted his head, his mouth shining with you, his expression dark and satisfied. "One more."
"No—"
"Yes." He crawled up your body, his cock hard again already, pressing against your entrance. "One more, and you're going to take it. You're going to cum on my cock, understand?"
"Ben, it's too much—"
He silenced you with a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, and he pushed inside in one smooth thrust. You were so wet, so open, but still sensitive, and you gasped into his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders.
"Ride me," he ordered, rolling onto his back and taking you with him, settling you on top. "Show me how sorry you are. Show me how much you want to make it up to me."
You planted your hands on his chest, your knees straddling his hips, and started to move. It was awkward at first, your muscles trembling, but he gripped your hips and guided you, setting a punishing pace.
"That's it. Fuck yourself on my cock. Use me, baby. Take what you need."
You rode him desperately, chasing the pleasure, your head falling back as you found the angle that hit just right. He watched you, his eyes dark and hungry, his hands roaming your body, pinching your nipples, slapping your thighs.
"Touch yourself," he commanded. "I want to feel you cum on my cock."
You reached down, your fingers finding your clit, and it was too much, the stretch of him inside you, the pressure of your own fingers, the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered.
"Ben—"
"Cum," he growled, his hips snapping up to meet yours, pounding into you from below. "Cum for me right now, squeeze my fuckin' cock."
You came with a scream, your whole body convulsing, your pussy clamping down on him so hard he groaned, his grip bruising on your hips. He sat up, wrapping his arms around you, holding you close as he thrust up into your spasming heat, chasing his own release.
He came hard, spilling inside you, filling you until it was leaking out around his cock.
"That's it," he panted against your neck. "That's my good girl. Taking my cum so good."
He held you there, pressed close, his heart hammering against yours, both of you gasping for breath.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then he softened, his grip loosening, his hands starting to stroke your back soothingly.
"You're an asshole," you mumbled into his shoulder.
"I know." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "And you're a jealous brat."
"Shut up."
He pulled back to look at you, his expression softer now, the dominance bleeding away into something gentler. "I didn't fuck her because I wanted to. I fucked her because I was trying to piss off Homelander."
You stared at him, surprised by the admission. "Ben—"
"Meant nothin' to me, doll," he said, brushing back your hair from your face.
You believed him. You shouldn't have found that romantic, probably, but something warm unfolded in your chest anyway.
He shifted, pulling out of you slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. He settled you beside him, tucking you against his side, his hand resting possessively on your hip. "You're mine. Even when you're being a pain in my ass. Even when you run. Understand?"
"You can't just—" You started to protest, but he cut you off with a look.
"I can," he said firmly. "And I am. You're mine, and I'm yours, and we're both stuck in this fucking tower, so we might as well be stuck together."
You stared at him, at this man who'd been frozen in time, who'd come back angry and broken and somehow capable of being a little tender beneath that rough exterior.
"Okay," you whispered.
"Okay?"
"Okay. I'm yours."
He nodded once. "Good. Now get some sleep. Homelander's got some bullshit conference tomorrow."
"You're staying?"
"Where else would I go?" He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "Beats seeing anyone else in this shithole."
"Guess I'm special." You said, leaning back into him.
"Yeah, doll. You're somethin'," he murmued, wrapping his arm around your waist tighter.
You closed your eyes, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the warmth of him against your back. Outside, the city hummed with its usual chaos.
But here, in the dark, with Soldier Boy's cum drying on your thighs and his arm draped possessively over your waist, you felt something dangerously close to safe.
"Ben?"
"Yeah?"
"If you fuck Firecracker again, I'll crush your skull with my mind."
⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ JACK ABBOT who... cannot wrap his brain around the fact that you're insecure.
CONTAINS: 18+ MDNI, 3.1k words, unprotected p in v sex, insecure!reader, curvy/plus size!reader, discussions of insecurity and food intake, ass man!jack abbot supremacy, spanking, brief mentions of jack's prosthetic/crutches, not proofread! divider from the beautiful @robinavitchslut⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚
It starts after a rich, full dinner. You're stumbling across his threshold together, slightly tipsy off of what seemed like bottomless wine. Jack's lips are on yours in an instant, a large, rugged hand cupping your cheek, pulling your face to meet his.
You melt into him, like you always do, though flashes of the night keep echoing through your brain. The bloat in your tummy, the waitress who's eyes lingered on Jack for too long.
Suddenly, your dress feels too tight, Jack's roaming hands like little taunts over your plush skin. Not thin enough, not pretty enough, not good enough.
You're not an idiot, you see the way women look at Jack, the confused looks that always follow when you tell them that no, you are not his daughter. The logical part of your mind assumes the confusion is born of your age gap.
The rest of yourself is not so kind.
Wiggling out of his grasp, your heart clutches at his little pout. You pinch his cheek, stomach lurching at his hungry eyes.
"I just have to use the bathroom, I'll be right back, okay?" You whisper, desperate to hide any emotion in your voice.
"Okay," he mumbles as you walk past. "Don't take too long, I'll miss ya."
You roll your eyes, affection for the sweet man momentarily drowning out your painful insecurities. Once you're behind the bathroom door, though, the dam breaks.
All your worst thoughts flood through, sweat pricking at your brow. The shape-wear you shoved yourself into just hours ago is too tight, suffocating as you peel your dress above your head, wiggling the pinched fabric down your hips.
Once your skin is free of its confines, you can breathe a little easier. It's stolen from your lungs once again, though, when you slip your dress back over your head.
The satin clings to your tummy in a way that makes you cringe, a low wince slipping through your teeth. You pinch at the loose skin, sucking in and turning every which way in a sad attempt to flatten your stomach.
Why did you have that second helping of pasta? Why did you agree to dessert? Why would Jack ever be attracted to someone like you?
Tears slip past your ducts, and you hold your head parallel to the ground in an attempt to preserve your makeup. You catch your arms in your periphery, the extra jiggle in them as your shoulders shake, a gasp escaping your throat.
Do detox teas work in 30 minutes?
You don't have time to Google your absurd question, as a knock comes from outside.
"You okay, baby? Heard some heavy breathing in there, you're not sick are you?" Jack's sweet voice rings out, and your heart aches.
Sick in the head, maybe.
"No, I'm good," your voice comes out shaky, and utterly unconvincing.
Jack picks up on it, because of course he does, with a sassy huff.
"You sure? Can I be of service in any way, doll?" He pushes, and for some reason, that name snaps something deep within you.
"Don't call me that," you hiss, and he's silent for a moment.
Guilt and regret flood you in equal parts, burning deep in your belly like poison.
"I'm sorry," he responds, and you just cry a little harder. "I'm going to come in though, okay? It's very obvious you're crying, and I can't have that. This is your warning, alright?"
He waits a second before turning the knob, sliding across the threshold, brows furrowing when he sees you in such a state.
"Honey, what is it? What's wrong? Anything hurt?" He jumps into doctor mode, if only for a moment, while he gets underneath you to scan your face.
"Hm, pretty as ever," he muses, pinching your wet cheek.
You sniffle, arms coming up to cover your stomach. He knows this move, has picked up on all your little signs in the short time you've been dating, a small coo escaping his lips at the action.
"Oh, honey, you're overthinking that meal, aren't ya?" He asks, and it's so matter of fact that it makes you cry even harder.
"Oh, shh, shh, shh," he whispers, stroking your hair and peppering kisses to your scalp. "You're okay, I got you, you're so beautiful."
"Stop lying to me, Jack," you babble, throat scratchy and voice hurt. "I saw the way our waitress was looking at you, y'know?"
He takes a step back at this, clearly surprised. You keep going.
"In fact, I see the way all girls look at you when we go out, the way they look at me," you mumble, avoiding eye contact.
"Yeah?" He prods. "And how's that?"
"Like they can't believe you'd be with someone like me," you answer, punctuating with a pitiful laugh. "Hell, I can't believe it most days."
"What are you saying to me right now, baby?" He asks, and you roll your eyes. "Don't give me that. What are you trying to tell me?" He demands, and it's embarrassing how easily you fold.
"I'm saying that you could be with anyone in the entire world!" You throw your hands up, gesturing to your curvy frame. "But you chose me? Why? I just don't understand what you see in me, is all."
You trail off at that last bit, crossing your arms over your body once more. He's not having any of it, hands immediately coming down to remove them.
"What?" Is all he manages, a sad whisper reluctant to leave his lips. "You don't understand what I see?" He laughs, though nothing about his tone is humorous. "Baby, you're half my age!" He exclaims, and you roll your eyes.
"No, I'm serious, do you know how scared I was to ask you out on a date? Robby had to talk me off the roof, I'm serious," he insists, and you swat at his arm, remembering the day.
A new EMT at PTMC had flirted with you, and as Jack described him, he was younger, fitter, and more…age appropriate. He'd come rushing to you, had told you that the thought of you with someone like that scared the living shit out of him; you'd told him you weren't interesting in that. Only him.
So why is it so hard for you to understand that this is a two way street?
"Can I help you understand?" He asks, taking your hand. "Please?"
You nod, letting him take you from the bathroom to his bedroom, where he takes a seat at the edge of the bed. You stand in the doorway, watch for a minute as he undoes the mechanisms of his prosthetic, carefully sliding it off and resting it on the side of the bed.
He uses his palms to scoot himself back, not too far, but enough to open a spot for you between his knees. You take it, slotting in like a perfect puzzle piece. His hands start low, fiddling with the hem of your pink dress.
"'s this okay?" He murmurs, and you whisper a breathy, 'yes'.
He doesn't lift it up, rather continues to work his hands up the fabric, pinching your thighs and massaging your ass. Resting his head against your tummy, he peppers kisses there, and your face heats.
"Jack, you don't-" you try to move his head out of the way, discomfort an ever present third in this relationship. "You don't have to do this just because I was sad, I'm a big girl, I'll get over it."
He chuckles, it's sardonic, almost a little mean as he continues to kiss your plush skin.
"I know you are," he mumbles into you. "That's not what this is about. This is about me taking what I want. Y'gonna let me do that? Or are you going to keep doing this lil' shy girl thing?"
Your stomach burns at his words, jaw dropping in surprise.
"Jack-" you exclaim, a gasp wrestling from your chest as he pulls you further into him. "Oh!" You moan, throwing your head back and finally letting yourself lean into his touch.
"There she is, thaaaat's my girl," he coos, finally pulling your dress up over your head.
Your tits bounce as they're freed from the fabric, your tummy spilling over the waistband of your panties, just a little.
His eyes glaze over at the sight, and you cup his cheeks in your hands. He can't take his eyes off your body, and you have to fight the instinct to run away, to hide.
"So fucking beautiful," he grumbles, pushing his face deep into your tits.
You gasp as his hands follow suit, grabbing at your skin, kneading them, enclosing his own head between them. You can't help but giggle, trying to separate yourself from him.
"Jack! You're gonna suffocate!" You chuckle, but he just holds you closer.
"Perfect way to go, stop interrupting me," he quips, latching onto your nipple now.
A sweet 'oh!' leaves your lips, fingers coming up to scruff and tug on his hair. He groans at that, the vibrations around your peak sending shockwaves straight to the apex of your thighs.
"Prettiest fucking body I've ever seen, you don't even know," he breathes out, switching his attention to your other breast now.
Spending some time there, he moves his lips lower now, lifting you with ease so he can better access the swell of your tummy. His hands and lips are all over, kneading and massaging what you've always imagined to be your worst feature.
You tell him so, and he just shakes his head, a sardonic chuckle leaving his lips.
"'s fucking insane, baby. Thought you were my smart girl, hm?" He asks, looking up at you.
You nod, tears filling your eyes. He smiles at the sight, his thumb coming up to brush them away.
"Not a very smart thing to think, that you're anything other than a fucking goddess," he whispers. "Not smart at all."
He scoots back some more, holding his hand out for you to straddle him. He pulls you to him by your hips, his hands sliding lower until they reach your ass. You're thankful you at the very least had some foresight to put on a cute pair of panties.
They're not entirely a thong, but a pretty, seamless pair that slides between your cheeks anyways. He groans, bites down on your shoulder at the sight of them.
"God, you have all this back there and have the nerve to be insecure?" He asks, finding purchase on the real estate of your skin.
He grabs at it, kneads like dough, even leaving a few slaps there. You whine at that, and he groans, the way your skin jiggles rolling his eyes back.
"Jesus fucking Christ, want you over my lap. Now," he orders, and you scramble.
Your tummy and tits press up against his soft duvet, your hips settling on his lap. Heat blooms warm in your belly as he rubs a hand over your skin, a soft, "good girl," falling from his lips.
You whimper, arching your back into his touch. He chuckles, and it's almost mean as his hand cracks down on your skin.
"Jack!" You squeal, lurching forward. He just grips your waist, strong hands holding you in place.
"Ah, ah, ah," he tsks, giving you another slap in punishment. "Stay still, yeah?"
You nod, and he smacks you again.
"Yeah?" He repeats, firmer, stronger.
"Yeah," you blubber, wiggling into his harsh touch.
"Good girl, that's my sweet girl," he mutters, dropping another slap onto your cheek.
You squeeze your eyes shut, wetness dripping down your thighs. You can feel his hard length beneath you, and you don't feel so embarrassed, knowing he's turned on, too.
Wiggling your hips into his crotch, he chuckles, coos a bit before cracking his hand down once, twice, three more times. You whine, though you arch into his touch all the same.
"Okay, okay, we can be done," he secedes, and you huff out a breath. "C'mon, up, thatsagirl," he purrs, settling you upright on his lap once more.
He massages your raw skin as you get comfy, leaving one last little smack before pulling his cock out.
You swallow thickly, helping him lift his shirt over his head, as well. He's so pretty, his buff, rugged frame threatening to swallow you whole. Darting your tongue out, you wet your lips before leaning back into him.
He kisses you with a fervor you have no chance of resisting, shoving his hand between you. His coarse fingers collect your wetness, bringing it up to your clit with slow circles.
It feels incredible, your tummy already tightening at the pressure. Your lips form a cute 'o', a small moan escaping them. He splays a hand across your lower back, pulling you further into him.
"I know, feels good, doesn't it, pretty girl?" He asks, and you whine. "D'ya think you can take me like this? Think you're wet enough? Or d'ya need my fingers to split you open, first?"
As delightful as his fingers sound, you think you'll die if you go another 10 seconds without his cock.
"I'm wet enough, I am- oh God, please!" You whine, thrashing your hips for more friction.
He cuts your writhing off with another sharp slap to your ass, and you throw your head back in a whine.
"Y'gonna stop being a brat so I can fuck you properly?" He asks, lining his tip up with your entrance.
You nod, tears pricking your eyes at the pure desperation.
"Good," he mumbles, poking his tip into you.
Your jaw goes slack, ever the stretch, no matter the lubricant.
"Yeah, yeahh," he draws out, pulling you down even further onto him. "That's it, 's a lot, isn't it? Big dick for my sweet girl, hm?" He asks, getting you seated fully.
You rest your hands on his shoulders, squeezing your eyes shut as you adjust to his size. When you try to move, though, he stops you, his big hands once again controlling your actions.
Your head whips up, eyes glassy, lips pouty. He cocks his head to the side, faux-pity lining his features. You rake your nails across his skin, reveling in the goosebumps that erupt on his skin.
"Jeeeesus," he groans out, taking a deep breath to maintain his composure. "What did I say about bein' a brat? Get comfortable, y'gonna hurt yourself if you try to move so quickly."
Your heart flutters at his casual dominance, the way he takes over your decision making. It makes your head go fuzzy, your hips wiggling in his grasp.
"God, you're fuckin' pushin' it, aren't ya?" He asks, swatting your backside once more.
"'m sorryyyy," you whine out, sounding nearly drunk of him already. "Just feels too good, need more, please."
He relents at that, relief flooding through you when he says, "Fine, but go slow, and be careful."
You listen, because of course you do, rocking your hips every so slightly.
"Good, gooood job, baby, s'nice, huh?" He coos, and your tummy turns at his words. "Nice and full of me, hm?"
You nod, desperate and shaky as you lift yourself up, just slightly, to drop back down.
"That's my girl, body looks so fucking beautiful riding me like this," he mutters, and you bury your face in his neck.
"Nuh-uh," he tsks, pulling your hair to get you to look at him.
You whine, and he pouts at you.
"Ooh, that hurt?" He asks, and you nod. "Mmm, sorry, angel," he replies, not sounding sorry in the slightest.
His hands grip your ass once more, helping you move up and down on him like an expert. You babble around him, utter nonsense flowing from your lips at the intense pleasure.
"Jack-Jackie-ooh! Oh, it's so good!" You whine, breath hitching as he hits your sweet spot.
"Yeah, that's the spot isn't it? Makes you feel so nice every time I hit it," he inhales sharply. "And I do hit it every time, don't I?" He calls for reassurance, and you wonder how much of it is for him and not you.
"Every time, Jackie, fuck me so perfect every time," you whine, pushing him back onto the bed to gain more purchase above him.
He flops back in surprise, eyes going wide as you press two delicate hands on his chest. You resume your bouncing, this time with much more fervor. Your skin prickles as you feel your orgasm build, the warmth in your tummy has been brewing for too long, you're starting to grow desperate.
"God, this fuckin' view," he groans, hands gripping your love handles. He squeezes the extra skin there, thumbs running over the chub. "So perfect, baby, gonna dream about this for years."
You giggle, picking up your speed, just a little.
"Y'know, you can always just ask me to fuck you, don't have to dream about it," you tease, earning you another spank.
"I guess I can, can't I?" He muses, arms coming up to rest behind his head.
"Mmhm," you coo, circling your hips to get friction onto your clit. "Comfy?"
"Incredibly," he replies, and your eyes shine with love. "Gonna cum for me?" He asks, and you're reminded of the task at hand.
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, the burning sensation in your stomach hard to ignore, growing more impossible each second. You nod, brows furrowing in desperation.
His lips collect in a whistle as he drags his thumb between your legs. He rubs, and it's nearly immediate, how your orgasm takes over. Arching your back, lightning shooting through you as the first wave washes over.
Your orgasm comes in a million little explosions, fireworks popping through your veins, tightening your pussy around Jack. This spurs his own release, as he releases inside you, a raspy "good girl," falling from his lips.
Trails of fire litter through you as you both come down, the throbbing of his now softening cock like a reward for your hard work.
"That's it, thaaat's it, good job, honey," he mumbles as you pulse around him, limp body flopping into his chest.
His large hands creep up your back, rubbing soothing circles on your sweaty skin. Chests heaving together, he slowly lifts you up and off of him, where you both groan at the sudden emptiness.
"Baby, will you grab me my crutch so I can go to the restroom 'n clean you up?" He asks, a bit of red tinting his cheeks at the request.
"Honey, of course," you say, leaning over to the opposite side of the room. "But I can always go myself, you know?"
"Ah, ah, ah," he cuts you off with a wave of his finger. "Don't want hear that, you know that, hm? What did I say about being a brat?" He asks, hoisting himself up.
"Hmmm," you pretend to think, resuming your spot on the bed. "Not sure, you're going to have to remind me later."
He growls, gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, pressing one last sloppy kiss to your lips.
casually sexting jack abbot while you’re on the couch eating snacks with a face mask on, barely paying attention but still amused by how excited he was getting. lazily lifting your shirt and snapping a pic of your tits from a low angle, smirking, quite satisfied with yourself. and quickly returning your attention to the tv.
and he’s at work, hunched over in the bathroom and trying not to whine your name while he jerks his cock at a frantic pace. his other hand braced against the wall while he grips his phone, trying not to drop it. alternating between that and sloppily typing out the dirtiest things with his chubby thumb. it takes a while for him to type what he wants — some versions of “need that little pussy so bad” “so fucking hard right now” “please send another pic baby” you ignore the typos.
he’s imagining you touching yourself too, back arching, body glistening with sweat, moaning like a whore for him. he grits his teeth and closes his eyes, imagining his cock enveloped by your drooling pussy instead of his rough hand. in reality you’re fully clothed, immersed in your newest reality tv obsession.
another message from you. he scrambles to read it, his orgasm approaching.
“can you pick up food on the way home”
and he cums all over his fist anyway, the thought of taking care of his sweet, sexy girl pushing him over the edge.
you tell jack abbot you can’t cum without a vibrator and he proves you wrong. not proofread btw
“i didn’t sit through all those anatomy classes for nothing,” he grumbles, one hand holding your hip and the other keeping his dick in line with your pussy.
“that was what? like fifty years ago?”
he starts shoving himself in before replying, “very funny.”
“ah, ah! i’m—jesus—telling you, jack. it won’t work.”
“you know i have to try, at least once.”
he hasn’t let up on it ever since you told him. you can’t have an orgasm without some sort of toy. of course that simply can’t be true.
he always just assumed it was a preference. the few times you’d slept with him so far, you’d always had a vibrator ready on the nightstand.
“just—let me try, huh?”
there’s a pillow beneath your lower back, and your legs are tensed up around his hips.
“you need to relax, though, honey.”
you exhale a deep breath and nod shakily. “okay, i can try.”
“good, just listen to me. do you feel me here?”
he pushes down on your stomach, just above your pubic bone.
“sort of,” you say to be nice, appreciative of his efforts. you expect him to pull out and give up, suddenly decide you’re not worth the effort.
“okay, tilt your hips up towards the ceiling a little bit. good, hold it right there.”
he rolls his hips back and forward again, dragging against your upper wall and hitting something that makes you yelp.
you slap your hands over your mouth and stare at him with stupid, wide eyes. he ignores you, just keeps rolling his hips up into you with his hand pressing into your stomach.
“good girl, focus.”
one hand leaves your mouth to dig into the linen sheets. expensive sheets. the ones you liked in the store, that jack had to insist you buy.
the other hand stays covering your mouth to keep in all the noises you’d never made before.
“how’s that feeling?”
“pressure—there’s pressure, jack. i don’t know what—”
he shushes you, “you don’t have to do anything, just feel it. feel me taking care of you.”
he runs his big hands up and down your sides, keeping the same rhythm with his thrusts, not speeding up or going harder.
“jack, i think im gonna cum. i’m gonna—oh, jesus christ!”
you sit upwards, instinctively tensing your entire body up. jack pushes you back down with a hand on your chest that moves up to curl around your neck. no pressure, only a firm, reassuring warmth.
your stomach drops into that familiar buzz you thought you could only achieve with a toy.
“c’mon, breathe through it,” he grunts, letting himself go as you clench around him so tight he tips his head back and groans like an animal.
when all is said and done, you’re panting and glistening with a sheen of sweat.
“look at that. didn’t even have to play with her,” he says with a smirk, giving your clit a light slap.
jack abbot certified pussy spanker. needs your attention? pussy spank. punishing you for coming too early? pussy spank. shutting you up for being a brat? a flurry of spanks right on your swollen little clit :(
thinking about having a night off with jackie where you both aren't able to sleep due to having crazy sleep schedules based around the night shift, so he tires you out by letting you bounce on his cock with his back against the headboard
your pussy dripping cream down his shaft and settling down to form a little ring around the base, hands clinging to his shoulders with his hands squeezing and kneading the fat of your ass
"you love this dick so much you put a ring on it, baby?"
"cmon look at that mess you're making, sweet girl"
"tire yourself out and cum on my cock, let me feel you squeeze me"
your tits pressed up against his chest, head resting on his shoulder, and his fingers making fast work of your clit until you're clenching down on him hard, and your drool is oozing down his chest and when you're finally tuckered out, you drift off on his chest with his now soft dick still inside and his cum leaking out
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 Იᰍ ׄ ㅤ﹕ flirty/playboy dean turned desperate ﹐ dry-humping in the impala ﹐ explicit sexual tension ﹐ dirty talk ﹐ light power struggle ﹐ mentions of alcohol ﹐ strong language ﹐ 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭
"C’mon, baby," 𝓓𝐞𝐚𝐧 breathed against your lips, his voice rough like gravel under boot heels, hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints. "Let me fuck you so good you forget your own damn name." His hips bucked up, grinding you down onto the thick, insistent ridge of his cock, and you bit back a whimper. The Impala’s backseat was not built for this—then again, neither was your self-control.
"No," you gasped, but it came out more like a maybe with extra breathlessness. First date. First. Date. You had standards. Or at least, you pretended to, when you weren’t currently dry-humping a man who smelled like whiskey, leather, and the kind of trouble that left you walking funny.
Dean’s smirk was a sin wrapped in a dimple. "So you’d rather just rub up on me like a cat in heat in my baby’s backseat?" His fingers flexed on your thighs, pulling you tighter against him. "Because, sweetheart, I ain’t complainin’—but the way you’re ridin’ me right now? C’mon the real thing would be twenty times better."
You huffed, but the sound turned into a choked moan when he rolled his hips just right, the denim of his jeans scraping against your clit through the thin fabric of your panties. Thank God for skirts. "Shut. The hell. Up," you hissed, burying your face in the crook of his neck. The scent of him—gunpowder, sweat, and that stupidly good cologne he swore he didn’t wear—clogged your brain like a shot of cheap whiskey. Your nails dug into his shoulder, the other hand yanking his off your hip and bringing it up to your chest. "Touch me."
Dean’s laugh was dark. "Damn, you’re a handful." But his palm was already cupping your breast through your shirt, thumb circling your nipple like he’d mapped the damn thing in his sleep. You arched into him with a sound that was half gasp, half fuck it, and his cock twitched beneath you, thick and demanding. "Bossy little thing, aren’t you?" His lips trailed up your throat, hot and wet, like he was branding you. "Kinda love it, though." His teeth grazed your earlobe. "Feel like you’re just usin’ me to get yourself off."
"Mhm. And?" you shot back, rolling your hips down on him again, because fuck, the friction was obscene.
"And," he rumbled, "that’s the hottest damn thing I’ve heard all week." His free hand slid up your thigh, fingers slipping underneath the hem of your skirt. "But if you keep doin’ that, I’m gonna cum in my jeans like a loser, and nobody wants that."
You grinned, wicked and breathless. "I want that."
Dean groaned, his head falling back against the seat. "You’re gonna be the death of me."
With his head tossed back against the seat, you took full advantage, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of his throat. The stubble scraped against your lips, and you felt the way his body twitched beneath you, his cock jerking like it was begging for attention. "Fuck—okay, jokes over," Dean groaned, his voice rough and needy, "Please, please let me fuck you." The whine in his voice was almost cute—if it wasn’t so damn hot.
But you weren’t giving in that easy. Hell no. Instead, you shook your head, a smirk playing on your lips as you grabbed his hand off your chest and guided it down to between your legs. Dean’s breath hitched when his fingers brushed against the soaked fabric of your panties, his lips parting in a way that was half shock, half smug. You let go of his hand, giving him free rein, and damn did he take it.
His fingers slipped beneath the lace, finding you already dripping for him, the heat of you practically burning his skin. He didn’t waste a second, dragging his fingers through your slit like he was memorizing every inch of you. Then, with a smirk that was pure, unfiltered sin, he pulled his fingers free, glistening with you, and brought them to his mouth.
"Fuck," he muttered, his voice thick as he sucked them clean, his tongue swirling around his fingers like he was savoring the finest damn whiskey. A satisfied hum rumbled in his chest, and you could feel the way his cock pulsed beneath you, like it was approving of his actions. "Sweet as pie," he murmured, his voice dripping with approval, before his hand dipped back into your panties, his fingers finding your clit like it was the only thing in the world he wanted to touch.
The second his fingers made contact, you were done for. Your mouth fell open, a broken gasp escaping as your eyes fluttered shut, your hips rolling against his hand like they had a mind of their own. Dean watched you with a hunger that was almost feral, his fingers working you with a skill that had you seeing stars. "That’s it," he rumbled, his voice dark and encouraging. "Ride my fingers, sweetheart. Show me how bad you want it."
hi diva i also just got back from the bar so i’m feeling a liiiiittle silly and i’m thinking about getting tipsy w jack and getting a bit too handsy with each other
UGHH ANONNNNN YUMMY YUMMY
in the uber home with jack after a nice candlelight dinner and a bottle and a half of wine, and he’s getting soooooo handsy. like caressing your thighs then slowlyyy moving his hand up your dress.
and you’re trying to be quiet as he kisses at your neck and pulls your panties to the side under the guise of “can’t help myself baby. you js look so pretty.” you have to bite your lip so the driver doesn’t pull over and kick you both out.
you’re giggling and stifling gasps as jack pushes his fingers inside you, nipping at your earlobe and whispering, “thought about doin this all night. fuck you thought about it too didn’t ya? can feel how ready you are for me honey.”
✧･ﾟ:you're face down in the mattress, the wet, lustful sound of Dean’s hips snapping against your ass fill the room. He’s fucking you like an animal, holding your ass in the air with rough hands, massaging your hips and thighs as his balls slap against your clit. He bends over with a groan, kissing up your spine over your shoulders, rolling his hips with every brutal, bed creaking thrust. You cry out, as he drills into that one gooey spot deep inside of you, and he groans, squeezing your waist tight.
✧･ﾟ:he pants in your ear, low moans rumbling from his chest and vibrating through your body. His fingers drift down to toy with your clit, and you clench around him with a weak, breathy whine. Dean grunts and hauls you up against him. One hand wraps around your throat, the other splayed over your stomach, pressing down and forcing you to take his cock even deeper. Your lashes flutter, your vision blurred and mouth hanging open. Dean kisses and bites over your neck, fucking you with shallow, rough thrusts. You’re caged, your back to his chest, nothing for you do but take it.
“Fuckin’ look at you, baby,” Dean grabs your jaw, angling it exactly where he wants. “Prettiest girl in the fuckin’ world. My girl.”
You moan, head lolling. Dean smirks and taps your cheek.
“Look.”
It takes all the praise and coaxing in the world, but you manage. It’s the most sinful thing you’ve ever seen. You, glowing and drooling in Dean’s arms, your eyes lidded and lips swollen from his countless kisses. There isn’t a part of your body he hasn’t marked, an inch of skin that he isn’t teasing or groping. His face is twisted in concentration, his muscles flexing and bulging around you, the shaft of his massive cock slipping in and out of your pussy like a machine.
“See how fuckin’ gorgeous you are?” Dean mutters in your ear. “Prettiest fuckin’ girl in the world, makin’ a mess on my cock.”
And you are. You really are. You can’t look away from the slick, creamy mess where your bodies meet. Dean squeezes your cheeks again, your eyes meet, and it crashes into you like a storm.
He looks at you like you’re a goddess. In his arms, you feel like one.
“Watch,” he hisses, dragging your gaze back to the mirror, right as he starts to rub your clit in furious tight circles.
You can’t help it. Your transfixed by the sight of you, more beautiful that you ever thought you could be, unraveling in Dean’s arms. He’s quick behind you, slamming home and stuffing you up with hot ropes of cum, fucking you through it with shallow thrusts.
Neither of you move for a while after. You don’t want to. You’re afraid the spell will break.
“Look at you, baby,” Dean murmurs, kissing over your neck. “Never seen anythin’ fucking better.”
And it’s so easy, to believe him. You know it won’t last. But you’re sure that, if you ask him, he’ll be happy to show you over and over again. Until it really, truly sticks.
✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦
One of those rare days when you get home a little later than Sammy and have to pounce on him cause he just looks soo good!
MDNI 18+
As soon as your key slides in the lock Sammy perks up like a dog waiting on its owner to get home. Walking through the front door you find him sitting on the couch, belly pressing into his white button up, jeans still zipped, and boots still on.
You smile and raise an eyebrow as you toss your keys into the bowl by the front door, “Going somewhere?” you say hanging up your purse. “Was gonna go and look for ya’,.” She shifts his hips on the couch, subconsciously opening his lap for you as you walk over, “like you being here when I get home” he pouts as you straddle him with a smile, him tucking his face into your neck.
Looking up at the clock on the wall it reads ‘6:30’ you giggle a little, head tipping back as your fingers snake around the back of his neck and into his curls, massaging his scalp, “you’ve been home alone for like 15 minutes Sammy” you smile, one hand moving to cup his face and raise it to meet your lips.
“too long” he mumbles against your mouth, his big hands finding their resting place at your hips. You smile into his lips, kissing them before humming and kissing his jaw softly. “Missed you too, always miss you” you whisper into his skin and can feel little goosebumps on his arms where your hands trailing over it.
You feel his warm hands slip under the back of your shirt, him sighing contently at the feeling of your skin as he rubs them up and down your back while you work the buttons on his shirt and kiss his neck. You can feel his stomach expanding beneath you as his breathing heavy’s from your kisses.
“You look nice,” you whisper, kissing at his lips again, fingers tangling in his hair, “score any badge bunnies today?” He chuckles into your mouth and you can practically feel him roll his eyes, “shut up” he whispers back before grabbing you by the waist and flipping you over, pinning you to the couch as you laugh loudly beneath him, swatting at his arm and yelling “Sammy!”
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