dean absolutely cannot stop thinking about your chest. dean doesn't care about what you're wearing— sundress? cute sweater? a tank top? his shirt? his mind always goes to your chest. if it's a cute dress? forget it. he's sitting there with his jaw tight, pretending to listen while all he can think about is how your nipples would look pressing against the fabric, how easy it would be to tug the neckline down and mouth at you until you're whining.
you catch him staring sometimes, but he doesn't even bother to hide it. he just smirks, eyes heavy, like he's undressing you with his gaze. later, when he's got you alone, he's got both hands under that dress before you can try to take it off, mouthing off about how he's been thinking of your tits all day, while flicking his thumbs over your buds as he coos about how sensitive you are when you inevitably whine.
when he's annoyed or stressed, dean likes treating your tits like stress balls.
when dean's in a bad mood, you almost know instantly—with the way his jaw is clenched, tight movements when he walks. he doesn't need to rant. instead, he just finds you, pushes your back to the nearest surface and tugs your shirt up just enough for him to tug and pinch your nipples. he's mean about it too. he rolls them between his fingers, harder than usual, watching your face with a hunger, like he's feeding off your little gasps. when you squirm, his grip only tightens, pulling until you're arching into him, torn between the sting and the heat pooling low in your belly.
he keeps at it until your breathing goes shallow, until your nipples are sore and aching, until you're shivering under him—and only then does some of that bad mood finally bleed away, replaced by the smug satisfaction of seeing you fall apart under nothing but his hands.
dean likes marking your tits. he can't help himself. every time he's got you pinned beneath him, his mouth goes straight for your chest. sucking, licking, dragging his teeth over your nipples until you're arching into him and whining his name. he loves the way your skin looks after—flushed and swollen, marked up with his spit and the faint outline of his teeth.
sometimes he bites just hard enough to make you gasp, then soothes it with a slow lick, smirking against your skin. he doesn't stop at one either—he leaves hickeys scattered across your chest, little bruised circles that ache when you touch them later. every mark is deliberate, a messy claim written in your skin that you belong to him.
dean has a titty pics folder on his phone. dean has a folder dedicated to pictures of you on his phone. well, your tits in particular. it's not even very well hidden. just a half assed effort to keep it away from plain sight. he probably has it named "anime watchlist" or something like that. inside? nothing but shots of your tits. selfies you send him when he's away on hunts, late-night snaps you didn't think he'd keep, and way too many pictures he took himself when you were too blissed out to notice.
he scrolls through them when he's away, jaw tight, muttering to himself about how fucking perfect you are. sometimes he even gets pissed at his own obsession—like, how the hell did he end up so weak for your chest? but that never stops him from opening the folder again.
and if you ever catch him staring too long at his phone, he just smirks, flips it around for half a second so you can cacth a glimpse of your tits on his screen, and says, "don't look at me like that. you knew what you were doin' when you sent them."
dean is never satisfied with the number of pictures he has. his obsession doesn't stop at a few half-asleep selfies or sneaky snaps. no, he needs a full collection—different angles, different lighting, different outfits. he'll get that gleam in his eye when you're lounging around without a bra on, and his phone's already in his hand.
"c'mon, baby. lift your shirt for me. yeah, like that.." he mutters, snapping one picture, then another, but he's never satisfied. "turn a little. i want the side view. fuck, look at that.."
he'll have you sit up, lie back, arch your spine, all under the excuse of needing the angle. sometimes he makes you squeeze your tits together for him, sometimes he wants one in his hand while he takes the shot, his thumb brushing your nipple, or him teasingly pinching it.
and he doesn't care if you're embarrassed, either. if you hide your face or whine about him taking too many, he just smirks, snapping another close-up anyway.
"don't pout. you'll thank me later when i've got somethin' to jerk off to." his phone ends up full—dozens, maybe hundreds of shots. but he still asks for more every time, greedy for new angles, new marks, new ways to remind himself that those tits are his, no matter where he is.
BODYGUARD SOLDIER BOY was hired by your rich parents to take care of you. at first, he thinks you’re just another spoiled brat— soft hands, expensive clothes, whining when things don’t go your way. he doesn't get why you need a bodyguard dogging your steps when the worst danger you face is a broken nail.
BODYGUARD BEN who grumbles about you constantly. he mutters under his breath when you make him carry your shopping bags, rolls his eyes when you sneak out past curfew.
"you're not special, princess," he rolls his eyes whenever you sass him. but god help him, he notices everything. the way your lips pout when you're annoyed, how your perfume lingers in the backseat of the car, how your laugh sneaks under his skin and makes him bite down on a groan.
BODYGUARD BEN who hates your boyfriend. he thinks he's a soft-handed pretty boy who doesn't know a damn thing about you. every time the guy comes over, ben stands in the corner, arms crossed, glaring like he's itching for an excuse to break his nose.
he notices how you're unsatisfied— how you come back from "dates" frustrated, restless, biting your lip like you're holding something in. it makes ben's blood boil that some brat who got lucky with your attention doesn't even know how to finish the job.
BODYGUARD BEN who takes things into his own hands. after watching you waste your time with a boyfriend who doesn’t even know how to make you cum. he’s sick of it. sick of seeing you pout after dates, sick of hearing your soft sighs of disappointment through your bedroom walls.
he corners you one night. his voice low and rough, telling you about how your good for nothing boyfriend doesn't deserve to touch you if he can't even finish what he started. before you can argue, ben's got his big hands on your thighs, spreading you open for him.
he eats you out like a man starved. his tongue buried in your pussy, pinning your hips down when you try to squirm. he doesn't stop until you're gasping and crying his name. he works you up like he doesn't want you to remember your excuse of a boyfriend by the time he's done. and frankly, you'd be thankful for that. he's so rough with it too, like he's proving a point with the way he doesn't even stop when your cum is dripping down his mouth.
BODYGUARD BEN who then fingers you wide open. he's got his thick fingers curling into that spongy spot inside you relentlessly, pinning you down to the bed when you try to squirm away. when you gush around his thick fingers, you almost feel a smug grin against your cunt. he smirks against your neck, murmuring "never let you get this messy, did he? fuckin' amateur."
ben who finally fucks you hard. when he brings his cock out, it feels like your whole world tilts. his cock is thick, bigger than anything you've taken, and the stretch has you gasping and clawing at his shoulders. he doesn't even give you time to adjust— just a rough groan in your ear, "open up for me, princess. you can take it."
every thrust is punishing, deep enough that you swear he’s in your stomach. he pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your hip so tight you’ll bruise. his chest presses to yours, slick with sweat, his dog tags clinking faintly against your collarbone as he ruts into you like he’s been waiting years.
every thrust is punishing, deep enough that you swear he's in your stomach. he pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your hip so tight you’ll bruise. his chest presses to yours, slick with sweat, his dog tags clinking faintly against your collarbone as he ruts into you like he's been waiting years.
when you cum around him with a moan, he smirks. "thats twice today— more than that loser did in a whole lifetime."
BODYGUARD BEN who cums inside you, with a loud and guttural groan. the sound feels like it was ripped from his chest. his thrusts get sloppy, desperate, grinding so deep you swear you can feel him in your womb as he empties inside you. he bites your shoulder to muffle a shout, then pulls back to look down at where you’re joined, groaning at the sight of you stuffed full.
he won’t pull out. instead, he keeps you pinned until he’s sure it’s dripping down his cock, coating you in proof of what he’s done. afterwards, he makes you spread your legs wide so he can watch his spend leak out of you, smug grin on his face. “that’s a real man’s mess, princess. remember that when you think about goin’ back to him.” he then pushes it back in with his fingers, just to make sure it takes.
BODYGUARD BEN who takes great pride over the fact that you came crawling back to him, your cheeks hot with embarrassment because your fingers just aren't enough. you tried—slipping them inside, circling your clit—but it's not his thick fingers, not his rough hands, not his filthy mouth, and the frustration nearly drives you crazy.
when you finally give in and open the door to your room, he's already smirking like he knew you'd come. he's leaning back in your chair, arms crossed, eyes dragging over you like you're prey. "couldn't do it yourself, huh, princess?"
he makes you admit it—makes you whisper how your fingers couldn't stretch you the way his do, how your small, little fingers don't hit as deep as his cock. he groans low when you say it, tugging you onto his lap, voice gravel-rough, "that's cause this greedy cunt's mine. only i know how to fill it right."
the second his hands are on you again, the relief is overwhelming— you're clinging, gasping, already soaking. ben takes his time, smug as hell, until you're sobbing in his ear that you'll never try without him again
tangentwithtanner
gummygunk
izzy806
pixelskylines
