sweet like bo peep

will u love me soft like bambi?

[bobardo]

—BO. SHE/HER. NASTY 9TEEN. AQUARIUS. PBG. ABOUT. MASTERLIST. 18+. MDNI.

i write things, sometimes. read them if you’d like. or don’t.

updated may 29. 2026

—RECENTS.

dealer!rafe hcs jealous!dex swim instructor!soap ft. ghost family&fertility control

- asks are always open, and requests are currently open.

[bobardo]

one more paper and i’m free

[petmotel]

[xsweetstarx]

[infcdele-a-deactivated20220411]

Hey, Hey, L I S T E N

here, on this blog, you do not need permission to slip into my asks. just do it. even if we haven’t interacted before. even if you’ve sent 10 already. send me more. i love getting asks (in character or out of character) and yeah, i’m slow as fuck, but i promise you i will get to them. have at it, fill my inbox with memes or impromptu starters or just tell me how your day is going. it really doesn’t matter. just go ahead and do it. i promise, i don’t get annoyed seeing the same people in my inbox, actually it makes me happy because yAY MORE INTERACTIONS. so just do it.

[madeline712]

Wilson Bethel 💋 y’all he looks so good omg

[yeiohj]

[ne0nkitchen]

I can't even be mad or grossed out about that first clip cause like me too, wilson. Me too😔😔😔

[dexgirlfriend]

fbi!ben poindexter has this bad habit of referring to you as his. it comes off weird to outsiders, occasionally, because you obviously aren't an object to be owned; you know, though, he doesn't mean it like that. in his mind, it's an equivalent exchange—he's as much yours as you are his.

my girl, he introduces you to colleagues sometimes. my perfect baby, he breathes into the space between you at night, sweat-slicked chest pressed to yours. so good to me, for me. in the mornings, while cooking breakfast: my pretty girl sleep well? mine, mine, mine.

and then, other nights, he's begging you to say it back, pleading for you to acknowledge that he belongs to only you, pressing your hands to his neck 'til your fingers wrap around it and euphoria fills his veins and you lean down to kiss him and call him yours. when he's bored, maybe at the checkout queue in the grocery store, or waiting in his car at a red light, he presses kisses to each of your knuckles, murmuring something against them you never quite seem to catch—i'm yours. my benjamin poindexter, you say once, in passing, and he's always hated his name, but he's just so flustered, cheeks flushed the prettiest pink, and just this one time, just this once, he might be okay with it.

or he overhears you talking to your friends when he's working in the other room—he doesn't mean to, really, he's just attentive, a good boyfriend—and you say you don't know how you got so lucky; you don't deserve your beautiful boy, and his brain short-circuits, because how dare you say that first part, and what did you call him? you don't make the correlation, though, that night, when he's somehow even more devoted to you than usual, telling you how obsessed with you he is, his gorgeous, gorgeous girl. must be a little pent up, you think, but you don't know how wrong you are.

after the events of s3 you don't expect him to come home, of course not. who walks out of that?

your boyfriend, apparently. much stronger than the last time you saw him, twice as built—you don't know what to expect from ddba!dex. he's obviously different, because that shit back there changes you, and not always for the better, right?

and yes, he's still your boyfriend, whether you're single or dating someone or you have a ring on your finger—not that it matters much, because if there is someone, he'll take care of them before he comes back home to you. neither of you will have to worry about them anymore.

and you're his girl, after all; even if you're scared or horrified or disgusted by his actions, you'll find yourself completely uncaring by the end of the night, when he's holding you in a headlock, firm bicep pressing into your airway and his chest pushed up right against your back. you're in tears, overwhelmed by everything you're feeling, everything you know is wrong (he's an escaped convict, for heaven's sake), and his breathless words are low and urgent in your ear—who do you belong to, c'mon, say it, that's right, my good girl—

and maybe he's a little scared that you'll still leave him after this, maybe he's gone too far. but you're lying under him, boneless, and his arms are braced on either side of you, and you push yourself up on your elbows (with considerable effort) and say, if he's still really yours, won't he kiss you again? and he smiles the biggest he has in a while, because he knows he won—and with you, he always will.

hi im back. sorry. i hate myself too. this man will be the death of me. 0.6k words

[princessaasblog]

raw. deep. messy. wet. backwards. against the table. against the wall. against the window, infront of a mirror. on the bed. on the kitchen counter. on the couch. on the floor. in the bath.

[mattdexx]

they need to drop the HD versions of these pics ASAP i need to see his tits properly

[bobardo]

something something dealer!rafe been on my mind like craaaazzzyyy (mdni. 18+).

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who somehow turned his fucked-up side hustle with barry into his own generational wealth, not filthy like his father's money

—er, as filthy.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who's smarter than he lets on. he's good with numbers, likes their certainty, and finds an almost healing respite in sorting his product (barry told him it's 'cause he craves order—and he told him to shut the fuck up). he knows when and where to get customers, and how to keep the ones worth keeping.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who keeps you.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who meets you at a party in figure 8, some random's place filled with an uneven ratio of kooks to tourons. he's never seen you before so he thinks you're one of them; some clueless touron looking for a bump to spice up her girls' trip—and he'd remember you, the curve of your soft figure, the glow of your smooth skin, the hint of fire teasing through the glint in your sultry eyes.

until barry—who rafe had conveniently forgotten was ever next to him—calls your name across the room and holds his arms out for you like he's known you for years.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who feels something gnawing and ugly and rotting in his stomach when his colleague, and otherwise best friend, wraps his arms around you. he's not weird about it—for all the bullshit barry gets up to, disrespecting women isn't among them—his arms are around your neck, basically covering your whole head, and his hands stay well above your waist the whole time. but it's familiar, and his belly still twists, bitter.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who doesn't care so much anymore when barry lets go, you turn to him, and smile. up close, he notices the gold shimmer of glitter all over you, gems on your teeth, shinning from your neck, around your wrists and fingers, and from your ears.

you're literally a beacon of light, radiant.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who thinks he might die with the way you look at him.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who doesn't make small talk with customers. he doesn't care for backstory, and fucking hates a bargain, but he finds himself having both with you.

"you bump?" he asks, raising his voice just loud enough for you to hear.

your nose scrunches up, and you giggle. "no! well, like— i have before, but i... i prefer what my mother gives me." you shrug when you finish, but the look on his face must give away that he doesn't understand. "mother earth; ganja, shrooms, y'know..."

"right, you're that girl." rafe doesn't do much to hide the way his eyes trace your figure.

and you don't hide your smile, "'that girl,' 'cover girl,' 'it girl'; you could at least be original, country club."

he scoffs, "me? original?" his eyes flit to barry, "where'd you get 'country club'?"

"where do you think he got it from?"

he licks his lips at your quip, sharp but still sweet (and doesn't heed the thought that you know him, enough to come up with a cuttingly childish nickname).

"how'd y'meet barry?"

your eyes sparkle in the low light, and you blink up at him with your bottom lip between your teeth. let it go and say, "he's been my dealer since middle school," soft enough for him to miss it.

"what?" he asks, even though he did hear you, but he knows he can get away with it. leans in closer so his ears to your lips, and doesn't know if he'll get away with the way his hand finds your hip; slips, smooth, around to the small of your back—fingers fiddling with your belt loops—and down into your back jean pocket, but he goes for it anyway.

feels something settle, right, in his chest when you melt into the contact. repeat yourself, soft and near and just for him(and he really doesn't hear you this time).

his head lifts, lips to your ear now. "you wanna get outta here?"

he almost purrs when he feels your smile against his cheek.

"what's in it for me, country club?"

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who drives you around figure 8 in his black range rover until sunrise—pulled you through the party with your pretty manicured hand in his and promptly ignores the hollow feeling that washes over him when he lets go, you seated in the car and his excuse to hold on void.

he gives you aux when you mention your favorite song, gives you the rest of his drink when you joke about not being drunk enough, and gets you food when your stomach sings louder than lana.

you ask him questions over the meal and he answers honestly. he does the same, and you play coy. he doesn't mind.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who drives you back home at the end of the night—two blocks to the right of tannyhill, figures. he gets out of the car and opens the passenger door for you. keeps your body between him and the open door as he reaches over you and into the glove compartment, breath at your neck, hot, heavy.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who gives you two ounces of weed and shrooms, each, right there.

you look from the full plastic bags in your arms to him once, twice, three times as he reverently eyes the smile curling at the corners of your glossy lips.

"and what kinda payment were you expecting, country club?" you arch a perfectly sculpted brow, gently urging. subtly eager.

he smirks, "what sorta payment are y'willing to give, cover girl?"

you bite your lip and take a step closer, "oh, honey..." you're close enough that your breaths mix, and when you tip your head back to stare right in his baby blue eyes your noses nudge, chaste.

"how 'bout a preview of what i can deal you?"

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who's only ever felt this once before—this aching, bellowing shiver at the base of his spine that makes his skin prick, pimpled and itchy.

your lips are soft, sticky. they taste like vanilla and brown sugar, and he licks at the seam of your mouth for more, hungry.

you smile, and something inside him cracks

and you, a lovely, shiny pearl; a glittering, molten caramel-honey swirl; his pretty cover girl, seeps right into the chasm.

jesus chirst, he's fucked.

—

not proofread. please leave a not/reblog if you enjoyed <3.

[theedescent]

[wraithest]

simon points out the final girl getting chased by the slasher in the horror film you’re watching together and sighs out a dreamy little “that’s us” and then just doesn’t elaborate at all

[rotten-womb]

noncon, quick drabble The dull thump of the ball hitting the edge of the pocket has your head hanging low between your shoulder in dismay before you straighten and move to line up the cue stick with the cue ball once more, you lightly wrinkle your nose at the sticky feeling feeling of the wood held in your hands but there was not much to do about it.

You’d rather feel up the disgusting stick than watch the blue-eyed scot feel up your friend in a way that had you clutching your metaphorical pearls and heated your cheeks to an uncomfortable degree.

So here you were suffering through missed hits and missed shots, and wondering, rather deliriously, whether the billiards table and all its contents were specifically made to make you lose or you were just that bad.

As you bent over the edge of the table you carefully arranged the stick in your fingers the same way your friend had taught you some time ago, once you were satisfied you lined the point of the stick to the middle of the striped ball—you were both stripes and solids since you were playing alone and haven’t got a single ball in either way—just as you were about to pull the stick back, ready as you’ll ever be to deliver a dismal shot, a weight settles across the length of your back, you gasp at the sudden intrusion and sputter half finished words as tatted arms circle your body, and big scarred hands wrap themselves around yours.

“What the fuck are you—”

A shush interrupts your words and the weight against you becomes heavier in an attempt to still your twisting and turning escape and pin you harder against the edge of the table.

“Those shots o’ yours were funny to watch at first, pet, but now it’s jus’ pathetic.” 

The deep, rasping voice, rattled its words against your ribcage and stayed your movements.

His hands rearranged your fingers against the stick and realigned its point.

“Gotta mean the shot, gotta make it worth it, y’can’t jus’ pull the trigger whenever y’want to.”

His chest pushes into your back, bending you lower over the table, and he slotted himself against the swell of your ass.

All your objections were met with resolute silence as he kept adjusting your hands, your fingers, and your waist to his satisfaction.

“Now you take the shot.”

But you didn’t do anything, it was his hands over yours that tightened your grip around the stick and pulled back to deliver an ear-ringing collision with the cue ball, straight into the pocket, the first ball to do so during the length of your solitary fourty-five minute game.

“Atta girl. Think y’deserve a kiss for that.”

The web of his hand tucks itself beneath your jaw to twist and guide your head to face him, then his tongue licks into your mouth before you could get a clear view of him and muffles your protests.

A hazy amalgamation of nicotine, beer, and a taste of something menacing drips onto your tongue as he kisses you, the taste tacking onto the back of your throat, you try to push away from him but his fingers tighten against your cheeks in warning and a sharp nip is delivered to your lower lip when you don’t heed it. 

He presses his saliva-slicked lips against yours in a peck thrice before pulling fully away, your eyes stay closed for a beat too long before you blink them open and crane your head up to stare at the mean curl of his scarred lips and the predatory look in his eyes; you shrink and shiver in your place, trapped in his hold, and his smirk widens before he curves his back down to you to steal another kiss.

[bobardo]

something something dealer!rafe been on my mind like craaaazzzyyy (mdni. 18+).

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who somehow turned his fucked-up side hustle with barry into his own generational wealth, not filthy like his father's money

—er, as filthy.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who's smarter than he lets on. he's good with numbers, likes their certainty, and finds an almost healing respite in sorting his product (barry told him it's 'cause he craves order—and he told him to shut the fuck up). he knows when and where to get customers, and how to keep the ones worth keeping.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who keeps you.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who meets you at a party in figure 8, some random's place filled with an uneven ratio of kooks to tourons. he's never seen you before so he thinks you're one of them; some clueless touron looking for a bump to spice up her girls' trip—and he'd remember you, the curve of your soft figure, the glow of your smooth skin, the hint of fire teasing through the glint in your sultry eyes.

until barry—who rafe had conveniently forgotten was ever next to him—calls your name across the room and holds his arms out for you like he's known you for years.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who feels something gnawing and ugly and rotting in his stomach when his colleague, and otherwise best friend, wraps his arms around you. he's not weird about it—for all the bullshit barry gets up to, disrespecting women isn't among them—his arms are around your neck, basically covering your whole head, and his hands stay well above your waist the whole time. but it's familiar, and his belly still twists, bitter.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who doesn't care so much anymore when barry lets go, you turn to him, and smile. up close, he notices the gold shimmer of glitter all over you, gems on your teeth, shinning from your neck, around your wrists and fingers, and from your ears.

you're literally a beacon of light, radiant.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who thinks he might die with the way you look at him.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who doesn't make small talk with customers. he doesn't care for backstory, and fucking hates a bargain, but he finds himself having both with you.

"you bump?" he asks, raising his voice just loud enough for you to hear.

your nose scrunches up, and you giggle. "no! well, like— i have before, but i... i prefer what my mother gives me." you shrug when you finish, but the look on his face must give away that he doesn't understand. "mother earth; ganja, shrooms, y'know..."

"right, you're that girl." rafe doesn't do much to hide the way his eyes trace your figure.

and you don't hide your smile, "'that girl,' 'cover girl,' 'it girl'; you could at least be original, country club."

he scoffs, "me? original?" his eyes flit to barry, "where'd you get 'country club'?"

"where do you think he got it from?"

he licks his lips at your quip, sharp but still sweet (and doesn't heed the thought that you know him, enough to come up with a cuttingly childish nickname).

"how'd y'meet barry?"

your eyes sparkle in the low light, and you blink up at him with your bottom lip between your teeth. let it go and say, "he's been my dealer since middle school," soft enough for him to miss it.

"what?" he asks, even though he did hear you, but he knows he can get away with it. leans in closer so his ears to your lips, and doesn't know if he'll get away with the way his hand finds your hip; slips, smooth, around to the small of your back—fingers fiddling with your belt loops—and down into your back jean pocket, but he goes for it anyway.

feels something settle, right, in his chest when you melt into the contact. repeat yourself, soft and near and just for him(and he really doesn't hear you this time).

his head lifts, lips to your ear now. "you wanna get outta here?"

he almost purrs when he feels your smile against his cheek.

"what's in it for me, country club?"

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who drives you around figure 8 in his black range rover until sunrise—pulled you through the party with your pretty manicured hand in his and promptly ignores the hollow feeling that washes over him when he lets go, you seated in the car and his excuse to hold on void.

he gives you aux when you mention your favorite song, gives you the rest of his drink when you joke about not being drunk enough, and gets you food when your stomach sings louder than lana.

you ask him questions over the meal and he answers honestly. he does the same, and you play coy. he doesn't mind.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who drives you back home at the end of the night—two blocks to the right of tannyhill, figures. he gets out of the car and opens the passenger door for you. keeps your body between him and the open door as he reaches over you and into the glove compartment, breath at your neck, hot, heavy.

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who gives you two ounces of weed and shrooms, each, right there.

you look from the full plastic bags in your arms to him once, twice, three times as he reverently eyes the smile curling at the corners of your glossy lips.

"and what kinda payment were you expecting, country club?" you arch a perfectly sculpted brow, gently urging. subtly eager.

he smirks, "what sorta payment are y'willing to give, cover girl?"

you bite your lip and take a step closer, "oh, honey..." you're close enough that your breaths mix, and when you tip your head back to stare right in his baby blue eyes your noses nudge, chaste.

"how 'bout a preview of what i can deal you?"

⛁ $ˎˊ˗ dealer!rafe who's only ever felt this once before—this aching, bellowing shiver at the base of his spine that makes his skin prick, pimpled and itchy.

your lips are soft, sticky. they taste like vanilla and brown sugar, and he licks at the seam of your mouth for more, hungry.

you smile, and something inside him cracks

and you, a lovely, shiny pearl; a glittering, molten caramel-honey swirl; his pretty cover girl, seeps right into the chasm.

jesus chirst, he's fucked.

—

not proofread. please leave a note/reblog if you enjoyed <3.

[theedescent]