soft bf!dean who yearns for sweet romance and innocent intimacy ₊⊹
⊹ ࣪ ˖ dean never realized how much he craved sweet intimacy until you spent a whole night laying by his side on the hard matress of a motel bed, bodies facing each other as you whispered heartfelt confessions against the warmth of his skin.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ dean always holds your hand while driving, occasionally placing soft kisses on your knuckles as listens to the soothing sound of your voice.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ whenever he came back to you after a stressful hunt, he often found himself toying with your favorite ring as you held his hand, waiting for him to tell about his day. now, whenever he's away and his mind wanders to you, his fingers wrap around your ring, that is now dangling off his necklace, smiling as if you were with him.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ dean fights sleep just to spend more time with you. even when he's clearly sleepy, he'll find a way to keep you near him. he doesn't mind laying in uncomfortable positions, he'd even ignore the numbness of his arm if that means you will stay awake with him just for a few more minutes.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ dean keeps his hands on you at all times. he loves to caress your cheeks when you look up at him, or even squish them together until your lips form an exaggerated pout, kissing them delicately before fully melting into you.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ if he happens to wake up before you, he will stay there in complete silence, watching your relaxed features as he slowly threads his fingers through your hair. after a few minutes, he'd lean in carefully before peppering soft kisses all over your face to wake you up.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ dean keeps polaroids of you in his car. one of them is a picture of you he'd taken after you forcefully woke him up at 5 a.m to watch the sunrise. it shows you, sitting on the hood of his car with the cutest smile on your face, his jacket wrapped around you.
the second one is a picture of you both at a halloween party that sam took while you were kissing, clearly amused by your sudden display of affection. despite the amount of alcohol you both drank that night, dean was fast enough to cover your faces with his ridiculously big cowboy hat.
he loves those pictures more than anything, and stares at them everytime he misses you.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ dean usually doesn't care much about classic litterature but slowy starts to find an interest in it after he hears you talk about your favorite books. one time, after a hunt, he came back to you with a bag full of books, ones that you have previously mentionned as 'on your tbr'.
you'd sometimes quietly laugh at him as he calls your books boring, before reminding him how he willingly spent an entire evening with his head on your lap, listening to you read out loud as you played with his hair.
⧽ summary: you get caught drawing questionable pictures of sam in your sketchbook, and, to your surprise, he seems more than interested to show you more of him.
⧽ tags/warnings: sam winchester x fem!reader, no use of y/n, fluff, smut (oral f!receiving, some sort of camera/mirror sex, fingering, dirty talk, light dumbification, grinding, penetrative sex, creampie, light sub/dom undertones if you squint), aftercare, i imagined s1 sam while writing this.
cross posted on ao3
The chewed pen between your lips hasn't been useful in a few minutes.
Its cheap taste of wood is leaving an awkward feeling on your tongue, but you couldn't care less. Despite your poor attempt at remaining concentrated, your mind still remains somewhere else.
A few minutes prior, you decided to do something of your extreme boredom. So, you took the first pen available, one that already carried deeply engraved bite marks, along with your sticker decorated sketchbook, before searching for an idea, or a muse.
Your gaze directly drifted to Sam, carefully lounged on his side across the rough covers of his motel bed, surrounded by newspapers. He has this concentrated frown on his face, one that makes him furrow his eyebrows as he hastily types on his laptop.
Minutes passed, and your burning gaze is still resting heavily on Sam's figure, as if your brain was trying its absolute best to memorize every single inch of his skin, every micro-expression resting on his face, just all of him.
You finally come to your senses as Dean gets up from where he was sitting, near the small table in the corner of the room. He walks towards Sam, probably to show him some piece of information he found about the ongoing case they are working on.
You're not always directly involved in the cases or hunts. You provide some help if needed, but your current job matters most than those side quests your friends take you on. Although you can't help yourself but follow with a smile when they forcefully grab you to join them on simple, less dangerous hunts, as Dean claims it can only do you good to have some fun from time to time. Even if his notion of fun is quite foreign to you.
At this point, you feel totally disconnected from the real world, not hearing any of their shared words as you roughly trace Sam's shape in your sketchbook. The current atmosphere makes it easier to focus, the warmth of sharing a room with your friends always offered a familiar, home-like feeling.
The irregular sketch slowly transforms into a quite accurate drawing, perfectly portraying Sam's soft yet focused traits. The way you outlined his body is almost immodest in the way you emphasized on your favorite parts of him, according more details to his arms and hands and the way those dark wash jeans sit low on his hips, the waistband of his underwear attracting your attention.
By the time you snap out of your trance, Dean is watching you, a mocking smile plastered on his face.
"You okay?" There is no actual concern in his tone, just obvious amusement. His eyes rapidly shift between you and the black notebook sitting in your hands.
Your muscles only freeze for a few seconds, but that's already too much. You look suspicious, and Dean is definitely not going to let that slide.
Staring at him with a clueless expression on your face, you straighten up, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the couch as you actively attempt to figure out if you should just throw that book out the window, or pray that he won't try to snatch it.
He only hums, and Sam lifts is gaze towards you. His hair is messy, a sign that he must've ran his fingers through it at least a couple times. He blinks slowly, daylight streaks reflecting on his pupils. You almost drown in them before Dean snaps you out of it by waving his hand in your direction.
"Yeah, why wouldn't i be?"
You grimace for a millisecond, realizing that this second poor attempt at keeping your composure is only making you look more questionable.
Leaning back against the couch, you make an effort to relax despite the heat radiating off both Sam and Dean's heavy glances. A soft hue of pink rises to your cheeks as you hopelessly try to not meet their eyes.
The two brothers share a look, a hint of mischief coating the air. Dean approaches you slowly while your eyes wander away, then abruptly snatches the sketchbook out of your grasp.
"Alright, what do you think you're doing?" You suddenly get up, ready to steal your belongings back.
"Nothing, just curious," He walks as far as he can away from you, holding the book in the air as if it were a sacred item no one was allowed to touch, then waving it at you with a smile. "What do we have here?"
You determinedly stomp towards him, a groan escaping your lips. "Just give it back man, it's not funny."
He turns his back on you, and before you get the chance to fight him to retrieve your book, he has already opened it on the last used page.
A ridiculous, annoying smile appears on his features, one that clearly hints he's trying not to laugh. You can't tell if he's just entertained, deeply concerned, or a few seconds from making fun of you.
"Well, would you look at that, Sammy," Dean holds the book wide open towards Sam, who lightly squints to make out what's happening in front of him. "You look like those chicks in the playboy magazines."
A laugh escapes his lips as he throws the notebook at Sam, then turns around to face you, opening his mouth like he's about to say something stupid, once again.
"Shut up, Dean."
Sam's voice rises, words escaping in a huff from the other side of the room as the corners of his mouth rise upwards. He's still laying comfortably on his bed with your book in his hands, his fingers roaming on the graphite coated page.
He takes a few seconds to register the amount of care you gave to details. Surely, this is a more explicit depiction of reality, but Sam doesn't seem to mind it. In fact he likes it, knowing that you think about him beyond what you can only see.
What else could you have possibly drawn before? How far does your imagination goes when you think about him? So many questions flow, and grows more curious by the second.
"Sam…" The awkwardness of the situation doesn't even allow you to finish your sentence.
"Don't worry. It's really nice," He replies quietly, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
His words play on repeat in your mind as he carefully closes the book to hand it to you, which you accept with almost trembling hands and pink cheeks.
You decide to cut the moment short, storming to your room like a scared puppy. The heat radiating off Sam's presence, the strength of his perfume clinging to you as you leaned close to retrieve your belongings was too much.
As you get back to your room, you sit in silence, flipping through the pages of your sketchbook, and your realize that most of them are only picturing Sam in many different scenarios. You remember all those time you spent hours at the library with him, pretending to be focused on the random book you picked up upon arrival, when you were in fact focused on your small purse-sized sketchbook hidden between its pages.
You would spend most of your time at the library to examine Sam, remembering him as if it were the first and last time you laid eyes on him, just to doodle the scene of him awkwardly sat on a chair, his long legs spread out as a perplexed expression froze his features.
You loved taking advantage of those quiet moments to properly look at him, the way his bangs sit perfectly on his forehead, how often he tilts his head to one side in confusion, or even the look he'd give you every time you were too deep in your thoughts to notice him staring back at you. Those round, shiny eyes highlighting his puppy-like gaze.
Tonight isn't particularly on Sam's side. His mind's racing, and has been for long minutes, or even hours, reminiscing about today's events.
Sam calls himself stupid for feeling that way, curious and strangely aroused by the thought of you, sitting in silence, imagining every curve of his body, each one of his muscles, while filling the pages of your sketchbook.
He wonders how you would feel if he did the same, staring at you while he smudges graphite on a large piece of paper, laying each one of your beautiful features on it. He wonders if you'd pose for him, a seductive look on your face as his bitten pen marks the pages.
He's desperately trying to hold his thoughts back before they send him waking to your room, banging on your door in hope that you're still awake.
He didn't try hard enough.
In a few seconds, Sam is already standing in front of your motel room door, gathering up the courage to knock on it. His eyes only widen in shock as the handle twists open. The look on your face, taken aback by his unexpected appearance, makes him take a step back.
It gives him the perfect view to really take a look at your figure, his cheeks tinted with a soft, pink hue as he notices your bare legs, the long shirt you're wearing barely covering up your thighs. Wait, is that his shirt?
"Sam?" you breathe out, your eyes follow his gaze, settled on your upper body. He gives you a hint of a smile, visibly amused by the situation. It definitely is his shirt. "What are you doing here?"
Sam scratches the back of his head, unsure if he should say the truth. "I, uh, couldn't sleep. You?"
"I was gonna go grab my book. Left it in Dean's car," you respond simply while giving him a look, one that says i know you're lying.
"At three in the morning?"
You groan at his question, already defeated. You did leave your book in Dean's car, but thats's definitely not what's keeping you up so late.
Your facial expression must've betrayed you, since Sam leans forward, his forearm resting above your head on the door frame. Your breath itches as his face appears slightly closer to yours, the disappearing scent of perfume on his clothes coating the air between your bodies. "Can I come in?"
You nod in response, shifting just enough to leave space for him to enter the room. He does so, looking around the room as if he's never entered it before, while you face the door, shutting the it quietly before you lock it to prevent the outside air's coldness to enter.
When you turn around, you expect him to be sitting on the edge of your own bed in an ungainly manner, with a certain shyness he always carries around when spending alone time with you.
To your surprise, he's facing you. Not too close to be all over you, but enough for his warmth to caress your skin. You both stand there for what feels like a minute or so, his eyes traveling along your features. From the way your eyelashes curl, to the shape of your lips. Your heart finds comfort in the weight of a deafening silence, until Sam breaks it.
"Can I kiss you?" he asks, smiling. Unexpectedly confident in a way that makes your pulse throb.
You nod, and Sam is already all over you. His mouth crashes against yours, hot, starving but still sweet. The sudden weight of his lips on you, along with his large hands cupping your jaw is dizzying in the best way. He takes his time with it, tasting and feeling every inch of your body you allow him to touch.
Slow sweeps of his tongue accompanied by light nips to your bottom lip make you gasp just right, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue in your mouth, the both of you exhaling deeply at the burst of hotness emanating from the shared kiss.
His hands wander, tracing the curve of your hips beneath the fabric of his shirt, settling there before you push his wrist down, urging him to get a better hold of your body until he reaches your ass, squeezing the flesh softly as you hum. His free hand slides up to tangle in your hair, acting as a cushion when he pushes you against the closed door.
He growls as your bodies collide, your messy licks and bites working him up in the most delightful way possible. Your skin is hot, every tiny movements burns: the wet caress of his tongue against yours, his bangs tickling your skin, the way his fingers curl around your ass, pressing you flush against him as his hips desperately grind against you.
Quiet whimpers of desperation slip into your mouth like he just can't help it, and you moan at the feeling. The reciprocated sexual longing tastes absolutely wonderful on your tongue. He breaks the kiss just enough to trail open mouthed kisses down your neck, sucking on your sensitive spot to tear a soft gasp away from you. Each one of the marks sucked into your skin pull at your arousal like a leash, his groans traveling directly to your core.
"Fuck— I need you Sam," you succeed to mumble between gasps, voice thick with desire.
Your fingers fumble at the hem of his shirt, impatient. You tug upward on the soft material, and his hands only leave your body for a split second before he's grabbing you again. He hums in return when he manages to get rid of the only piece of clothing you were wearing, revealing your underwear. Your hands find his hair again, tugging on the soft stands as your lips crash onto his.
"Need you too. So fucking bad," Sam mutters between breaths, eager to taste you better.
"God you're so beautiful," he whispers as his fingers tangle in your underwear. He could just sit there and watch you all night, all pretty and needy for him. "I wish you could see yourself, how good you're gonna look while taking me."
His words make your head spin, and you moan at the thought: you in front of a mirror, slightly bent over with Sam's big hands covering your hips, grounding you as he slides in and out of your cunt like there's no tomorrow.
"The bathroom mirror is broken," you whine at the eventuality of mirror sex with Sam vanishing right in front of you.
His hands settle on your waist, guiding you until the back of your knees hit the sharp edge of your bed. You sit, not breaking the kiss, hands still tangled in his hair.
"Wait for me," Sam whispers, and you already miss the feeling of his skin against yours when he backs away. You can't exactly make out what he's doing, your eyes are too focused on his back. His broad shoulders are glistening, already affected by the warmth of the room and his excitement.
Sam fumbles an attempt at opening your laptop, which was sitting on the edge of a small table standing across the room, perfectly aligned with your bed. He manages to open the camera app, and a green dot appears next to the webcam as his reflection appears on the screen.
You smile when he makes his way back to you, and you slide your panties down your legs as he watches your every movements, lustfulness written all over his face. He licks his lips before getting down on his knees, hands groping your thighs as soon as he hits the floor.
You close the distance between your faces, sliding your tongue in his mouth, so fucking impatient for him to touch you more and more. He hums in satisfaction when his long fingers reach your back, unhooking your bra in one single motion.
His lips trail down to find your chest, and you rest your hands on his shoulders. He drags two fingers along your inner thighs, teasing as he mouths at your breasts. You close your eyes, gasping as his fingers graze your folds lightly.
Sam thumbs at your slit, dragging it up and down your folds before settling on your clit. His lips wrap around the soft skin of your breast, stealing a moan from you as he sucks a dark spot. Your legs open up even more as your vision blurs.
"That's it, baby. So pretty opening up for me." he murmurs, a cool puff of air hitting the wet spots his lips left behind, a gasp tumbling from your lips at the sensation.
"Fuck, Sam—"
He wraps a massive hand around your body, fingers splaying over your back. You're wet. Really wet. You can feel it as he spreads you open with his middle and index finger, eyes blown wide, eaten alive by his arousal.
You whimper when he teases your folds, and it quickly turns into a moan as he leans down to lick the wetness of your cunt, his tongue flat against your sensitive part. "So wet and pretty for me," he hums.
His lips form a seal around your sensitive bud, sucking like his life depends on it. You don't get the time to respond before he dips further, humming against your clit as a thick finger slides inside you, stretching you out beautifully. Your lashes flutter when he drowns in it until the last knuckle, fire pulling at your core.
A second finger enters you, and Sam pumps in slow, wet squelching sounds echoing in the quiet room as he hits your favorite spot, making you whimper as he stuffs you full.
He smiles against your pussy. Your pretty sounds make his head spin, and he can't help but moan against you, the vibrations of his voice electrifying every nerve in your body. "Come on, look at yourself baby. Already a mess."
The tone of his voice makes you shudder. Your half-lidded eyes find your reflection on the laptop's screen. The sight alone could make you cum on the spot. Sam kneeling in front of you, his arm going back and forth as he fingers you eagerly, and those broad shoulders covering the view of your pussy, making it only his to see.
He's right, you are a mess, your eyes are glossy, jaw open, and eyebrows pulled in silent pleasure, waiting for more. "Oh god, Sam!"
Your fingers comb through his hair, unconsciously tugging on it as his pace fastens, pushing his tongue into your throbbing cunt as he rocks his face back and forth. He drags your orgasm down until you're just a wet, moaning mess under his touch.
"Want me to fuck y'like this, baby?" he prattles, curling his fingers to tear another loud moan from you. "Take you right in front of that camera?" Your pussy clenches at his words and he groans, "So you can see how much of a good girl you are?
"Y-yeah," you sob, trying your absolute best to contain your orgasm.
"Say you want it." Sam urges, lapping at your folds. He can already taste your juices on the tip of his tongue, threatening to flow out.
"I— Fuck, want you to fuck me, Sammy. Just like that." You nod frantically.
This was everything you needed to send you over the edge. Sam's fingers curl and thrust deep inside you once again, as his lips find your sensitive clit.
Your climax washes over you, breaking you apart as the overwhelming pleasure makes your brain go numb. You can only babble Sam's name, all over again."God, Sam— Don't stop," you cry out.
"Go on, Sweetheart. Cum all over me." He moans when your juices drip down his fingers, coating them alongside his tongue. He licks and suck on your arousal, tasting you as a low whimper escapes him.
His fingers escape free, and he looks up at you with big caring eyes. Your release coats his chin and lips, and you can see a few drops sliding down down his neck. He drags his fingers to his mouth without hesitation, sucking them clean.
"You taste so good," he grins shamelessly, more than turned on by the sight of you, all broken, thigh open wide for him.
You're barely able to bite back a moan as he bends to capture your lips. His long fingers wrap around your throat, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. His free hand skim over your trembling thighs, soothing you.
Sam is hungry, desperate. He wants to bury himself inside you and stay there forever, he wants you to beg for him, all pliant and starving, ready to swallow him whole.
Soft giggles escape your lips as he picks you up, making you stand in front of the camera. God, how he loves it when you sound like this, so happy and full of light. He can't help it but smile, white teeth showing as he places himself behind you before kissing your cheeks.
You melt against him, leaning you back against his chest as he wraps his long arms around you. The feeling of his restrained cock against your ass makes you shiver, "Look at you," he whispers. "So fucking hot."
You hear the clink of his belt buckle as he takes his remaining clothes off, not wanting to waste a second before he pushes you flush against him, his hardness pressing against your back. You gasp softly and hear a low chuckle coming out of his throat. "Are you ready for me, baby?"
"Don't tease me, Sam. I need you right now," you whimper in desperation.
"So needy," he whispers against your ear before lightly biting your lobe.
Sam slowly shifts and rubs his cock between your folds, you slightly bend over to give him easier access. He lines himself up with your entrance and stays still for a few seconds, taking in the moment. You, on the other hand, can't bear to live another second without him inside your pussy. You suddenly bore down, splitting yourself open on him with a deep moan. "Fuck."
He grunts, then choke on a whimper as you continue, taking him almost to the hilt in one go. "You're so— Big."
"Oh Fuck," he breathes out, your name escaping his lips a he tries to keep his composure. "You didn't even give me a moment to—" His voice breaks again as you rock against him.
His forehead drops to your shoulder, grunting as he rolls his hips back. And, when he thrusts back in, you feel the entirety of him pushing against your walls, the curvy shape of him fitting into your cunt in the most appetizing way. The throaty sound it pulled from you both is obscene. Each one of your moans come out louder than the previous one.
"I'm so full, Sam," you almost cry, already overwhelmed by the fullness of your pussy as Sam's hips collide with your ass.
"Yeah, feels good?" He bites the skin at your shoulder, before licking on it to ease the soft, but delightful pain. "Look at us, baby. You're taking me so good."
The sound of his voice, raspy, burning with desire, has almost the same effect on you as his cock. You feel yourself dripping, your arousal sliding down your thighs as you come closer to a new orgasm. You whimper as he slows down, not far from crying of pleasure and desperation.
Sam wants to take his time with you, not ready to let go. He presses your knees together, closing your legs. He feels even bigger like this, taking you apart entirely. You almost taste him, and you start to think that you might be losing your damn mind over him.
He looks at you through your reflection on the laptop screen, "Let me savor you. 'M gonna take you slow and deep, and I won't stop until you cum all over me." His hand wraps around you face, holding your chin to make you face him. "Would you like that, Sweetheart?"
You nod with half-lidded eyes, and he kisses you. It's slow, full of care and affection. You grab his wrist, guiding his hand near your clit, urging him to touch you. The most broken sound of pleasure escapes you, feeling deep pressure everywhere you needed, craved.
He gently fucks you in return, slow enough to drag long moans from your lips, and your legs start to tremble again. "I wanna cum— Please, Sam"
"Fuck. Me too, baby. I got you," he mumbles, brain completely shutting down as he reaches his high.
You buck against him, meeting each one of his thrusts as he thumbs at your clit before circling it harder. Your eyes flutter open to watch him thrust into you, gasping, cheeks carrying a hot pink color. "Cum in me," you mumble, smiling at the hot frown on his face.
This is too much for Sam. He instantly goes dumb, thrusting harder while keeping a painfully slow pace.
You never thought you could ever be more full until he came inside your pussy, the both of you moaning and panting loudly, as his warmth brings you back to the real world. "That's my girl," he coos, leaving delicate kisses on your skin as you reach the end of your orgasm.
"That was fucking amazing," you pant, and he puts a reassuring hand on your waist. The both of you exchange a look as while coming back to your senses, flashing a smile to each other.
He wipes away the tears pricking at your eyes with a brush of his lips, before wrapping his arms around you. You stand there for a moment, looking at your reflection, until a flash of amusement makes itself known in your eyes.
"You look a mess, Sammy," you giggle, messing with his hair even more as he chuckles before giving you a sweet peck.
"Your fault for being so beautiful." His grip tightens around you, and he picks you up before setting you both on the bed.
You lay comfortably on his chest, sticky and glistening with sweat. You're too lazy, too exhausted to even think about getting into the shower right at this instant. You'd rather stay here, with Sam, the sweetness of your shared moment being more important than anything.
Unfortunately, your body gets the best of you. As Sam draws peppers kisses all over your face while whispering sweet, heartfelt words that sound like the most perfect melody to your hears, the comforting feeling of his presence lulls you to sleep.
The next morning, you wake up to an empty side of the bed. The room is clean, too clean as even Sam isn't here anymore.
You sit up carefully, looking around the room until your eyes catch the shape of a piece of paper, folded and lying on the pillow next to you. When you pick it up to open it, you read:
Left with Dean for the day :(
You looked so pretty asleep, i couldn't wake you up
please, wait for me.
— SW
On the other side of the paper is a surprisingly accurate drawing of you, asleep, with a soft smile on your face.
⧽ summary: Closeness with Dean never meant intimacy in the way you wanted it to be. Between stolen touches, smoking sessions and his undying selfishness, you learn that, maybe, he wants you as much as you want him.
⧽ tags/warnings: nsfw, slight angst, smoking, mentions of blood and injury, dry-humping, car sex, making out, grinding, coming in pants, no use of y/n for reader-insert
｡˚ a/n: this is my first time posting and first time ever trying to write smut so my apologies if this might feel a little rushed, but feedback is welcomed!
cross posted on ao3
By the time you manage to get a moment of peace in your motel room, it's almost three in the morning. You open the door in a rush, the feeling your muscles relaxing as you finally reach a safer place, quieting down all the negativity today brought.
Today's hunt was, and it's an euphemism, a fucking nightmare.
It wasn't exactly a complicated or overly dangerous case according to Dean, just some mass-murdering vengeful spirit that seemed more than willing to have you as its next meal.
That thing had you running in circles for weeks. You spent hours as the library with Sam to complete your research, days investigating and asking question to potential witnesses with Dean, and weeks wondering if it was actually a good idea to keep going.
All that time was thrown to the bin as soon as the eldest Winchester decided to use you as bait.
It's not like it never happened before, because it did, more than once. Working with the Winchesters has never been an easy task, and putting up with their constant bickering was probably one of the hardest part of the job. Until things started to go down between you and Dean.
You've been close for a long while, but not in a way that satisfies either of you. Pent-up feelings can be hard to handle for this exact reason, especially when Dean treats you like a burden for a day, then find his way to your room in the middle of the night, stealing you away to smoke cigarettes in the Impala, all while the tips of his fingers mindlessly trace circles over the curve of your thighs.
It never went further, this false sense of closeness with Dean never meant intimacy in the way you wanted it to be. It felt more like a convenience, a way to forget about the horrors that the day grants you. When he can't seem to find a girl to satisfy his needs, his pleading eyes will meet yours, begging for closeness without sex, nor romance.
Trying to be a good friend, you've never said no to his requests, offering him an impression or nearness as you quietly suck on the orange filter of your cigarette, lost in thoughts whilst the cold metal of his ring lays confidently on your jeans covered skin.
Your growing feelings blind you even more each day, coating your eyes like a lacy veil, making you follow him on each of his hunts, helping him and Sam as much as you can, in hope to reach the high of reciprocated feelings, ones that you can only dream of.
Because of this, you didn't think much of it when Dean asked you to cover the second floor of the dusty, abandoned abode you blindly entered earlier. You didn't think much of it either when you stumbled across old photographs of women, probably in their early to mid-twenties. You definitely did not think at all until you realized that all these women had the same obvious features, ones that you also happen to carry on your face.
Everything hit all at once, not giving you enough room to process, still blurry, like fog filling every inch of you brain. You could only make out the noises of glass breaking, wooden panels creaking, and the deafening sound of Dean's shotgun, firing rock salt hurriedly.
When the rumbling stopped, Sam rushed over to help you, grabbing some dusty old sheets laying on the rotten floor, and ripping them to create a tourniquet, hoping it'd be enough to staunch the bleeding until you get back to the motel.
The three of you sat in the Impala in complete silence, almost deafening as anger bubbled in your chest, desperately trying to claw its way out and prey on Dean.
You didn't want to give himthat. None of the names you wanted to call him could've been forgotten after, even though he deserved the title. Maybe today's events just showed how little he cares about you.
The bitter taste of betrayal on your tongue is almost as painful as the blood-dripping wound on your thigh, its previously trapped red liquid sliding down your skin like tears, ones that you could never shed.
You darted to your room as soon as the car stopped, asking to not be bothered until sunup. Sam had insisted to help you clean up your wound, but you shrugged him off before letting him know that you're not mad at him specifically.
After taking a few seconds to let your brain get rid of those tortuous thoughts, you rush to the bathroom, opening the tap to let cold water flow into the sink. The feeling of warm blood streaming down your skin harmonizing with the metallic smell numbing your nose couldn't be more unpleasant.
You shimmy out of your jeans, eager to get rid of the discomfort caused by the wet material sucking on your skin, before sitting on the edge of the small, green tiled bathtub.
You find a small towel on a drying rack and decide to soak it in water in order to clean the dried dirt and blood stains on your body.
Each of your movements become mechanical: rubbing your skin, dipping the towel in water to make the blood go away, rubbing your skin again with shaky hands, and no thoughts disrupting your peace anymore. Although, from an outside perspective, this scenery looks like everything but peace.
A knock on your front door tears you away from your chain of thoughts. It opens slowly and quietly, as if the person behind was still debating wether they should enter the room or not.
You sigh, not feeling composed enough to hold a conversation with whoever is waiting behind the door, so you just hope for the best option, "I'm not in the mood. Sorry, Sammy."
"Not Sam."
Dean. Great.
You scoff. "Just leave me alone, Dean."
He ignores your request and enters the room anyway but stays silent, standing awkwardly still in the middle of it.
"Sam said i wasn't allowed in the room if i don't say sorry, so…" he trails off, it's clear now that he doesn't have any regrets, or even excuses to mumble.
"So?" You wait for an answer for a few seconds that felt like hours, but you quickly realize that you'll never be able to hear him apologize, he's definitely never going to change, "You know what, Dean? You're forgiven. Now leave me alone."
His lips part slightly as you offer him a fake smile, as if he had something on his tongue, words fighting to escape without knowing they'll get locked away, once again.
"I know you don't mean it." He whispers, almost offended by the sarcastic tone in your voice.
His eyes trail off to catch a glimpse of your lower body, droplets emanating from your wound and hitting the floor, barely visible through the agape door.
"Let me help you," he offers, refusing to wait for a response as he barges into the bathroom, stomping like an angry child.
"Leave me alone," you repeat, tone harsher than before as you're clearly starting to lose your temper.
Dean doesn't listen, he never does. He makes his way right in front of you in a hurry, yanking the blood soaked towel away from your hand in the same manner.
"You can hate me all you want, I don't care. Just let me handle this."
His tone is harsh enough to make you shut your mouth, waiting for the right words to protest. Your eyes lock on his body as he kneels down on the cold tiled floor, examining you with knotted eyebrows. His fingers are cold against your calf as he lightly lifts up your leg to get a closer look.
The dried blood on his face makes you frown, he was probably too exhausted, or even too lazy to care about it. You try to fight the urge to clean him up, feel his skin under your digits, comfort him in ways you could never wish for him to reciprocate.
The slight hint of concern is his eyes is almost endearing, and your body gets the best of you. Without much consciousness in your gestures, you slowly and carefully raise a hand, cold fingertips finding their way on Dean's cheek.
Your feather-light touch awakes something in him, and you could swear that for a split second, you found him leaning against you touch.
Unfortunately, nothing lasts long with Dean, realization hits him as he stiffens under you.
"What are you doing?" Dean's tone is surprisingly sweet but demanding, and he's surely as surprised as you based on the soft, pink hue sitting high on his cheeks.
It's almost like your brain isn't wired properly anymore, words flow without care, "I do hate you, Dean. And it's as painful as loving you."
You've always wondered why, despite all the hatred surrounding the both of you, Dean was always both the reason of your misery, and its cure.
The way he's always extremely defensive when faced with affectionate gestures, his misplaced acrimony, or even this constant need to relieve those suppressed feelings with unhealthy coping mechanisms has always been quite of an issue when it came to your somewhat close bond.
You've always hated how selfish he could be, using everything and everyone around him just to keep his brother close and safe.
You despise how low of an esteem he has for himself, contradicting with how much he expects of others, of his brother, of you.
There's so much you hate, and have always hated about him. But no matter what, you'll always be there, because you have to. Not only for him or Sam, but for you, too.
You hide your feelings behind a mask painted with bitterness and rage, just to prevent you from falling, from being caught in an endless cycle that can only end with a broken heart.
Love and hate are two parallels that, for once, crossed paths.
You hate Dean as much as you love him.
Maybe you hate him because your feelings can't ever be expressed any other way. Because it's eating you alive. His soft, glossy eyes, his painfully irritating but endearing smile, how tough he looks compared to the silkiness of his heart. Everything hurts to see, to feel.
Dean can't pay much attention to what you said in the moment. His hands are too shaky for him to completely relax and focus, they fumble over the first aid kit sitting on the floor, opened wide, filled with metal tools, band-aids and rubbing alcohol.
The cold, stinging sensation of alcohol-soaked gauze pressing against your open wound makes you shift, squirming desperately, trying to find a way out of this painful trap.
Dean catches your leg, his grip is almost firm enough for it to ache, holding you still. "Stop squirming." He says, his tone too soft for his own mouth.
He brings up the gauze lower down your leg, cleaning the last crimson tears your cut has shed.
The next step is one you're always apprehensive about, stitching.
"This is going to hurt," he warns you, meeting your eyes for a split second before threading the small needle he found in the first-aid kit.
The first couple of stitches felt like someone had brought you to hell and back, the stinging of alcohol still clinging to your flesh like a reminder of what you went through. You squirm involuntarily, body driven by remains of adrenaline and your suffering.
Dean held you in place the whole time, a free hand keeping a hard grip on your leg while his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, chasing the warm feeling in his chest away. He threads the last stitches with visible annoyance plastered on his face, as if you were nothing but a stubborn child he was forced to take care of.
The room falls completely silent, except for the faint sounds of your shallow breathing and the occasional clink of Dean's jewelry against the floor as he reaches for his tools.
He ties off the last suture, breathing harshly through his nose as he tries to relieve the ache burning in his back from his bad posture.
After letting you breathe for a moment, making sure you were still alive and somewhat relieved of the excruciating pain of a sharp object fishing in and out of your flesh, he diligently wraps a clean bandage around your leg, keeping it tight enough to stay in place for the night.
You sigh, grabbing painkillers in the tiny cabinet under the sink, chugging down a pill with some water as he watches you, still sitting on the floor, his back leaned against the bathtub.
No words are shared as your gaze meets his, you don't need them anyway. Silence feels like the only thing acceptable to stand between you, until it isn't.
"D'you want a cigarette?" You offer. It's your way of saying thank you.
Dean doesn't answer, instead he just nod while slowly standing up, before making his way towards the motel room door, as if to say let's go.
When you meet him outside after changing into fresh, not teared apart clothes, he's sitting on the hood of his car, playing mindlessly with a blue clipper lighter, one you left in his pocket the last time you shared a cigarette together.
It was three weeks ago. Three very long weeks that got you missing every ounce of affection you could receive from him before that. Before he became distant, silent.
You sit next to him without a word, close enough to smell the faded scent of his daily perfume, mixed with a few drops of alcohol he must've spilled on his clothes without much care.
He watches you bring a cigarette to your lips with a hint of caution in his eyes, waiting for you to hand him one. "I thought you quit, when was it? Like three weeks ago?"
"I did," you admit, a small grin pulling at your lips before you let it fade seconds after "Just feels right tonight."
He hums, picking a cigarette from the pack in your hand before placing it between his plump lips, lighting its end in one single motion before leaning in towards you.
You didn't get the time to process what was actually intended in his movement, until his face appeared only inches away from yours, the faint orange glow highlighting the line of his jaw burns against the dry tobacco at the tip of your cigarette, lighting it.
For a while neither of you spoke. The nearby city filled the silence for you; low hum of distant traffic, distorted bass vibrating from a bar on the opposite side of the street, the sudden burst of laughter coming from someone who had one too many drinks. You let the quiet stretch, finding comfort in the weight of it.
Until Dean breaks the silence with words that don't feel rehearsed at all.
"I missed this," he admits, his tone light, but the tension in his jaw betrays him.
The last embers of the cigarette glows faintly between his fingers as a stubborn, dying pulse of orange light. He flicks the filter, dropping it on the floor as smoke curls up between the two of you.
You feel the night air press around you like a tight seal, locking in all your repressed feelings, forcing you to face them. "You can't say that, Dean. Not after everything you put me through."
He drags his hand down his face, already defeated, though you want him to argue, apologize, confess feelings to you in a way you imagined a hundred of times, a way that doesn't sound like him. "Forget it."
"No." You turn around to face him, the urge to stop him from pulling away stronger than the instinct to protect yourself. "Don't do that. Don't take it back."
"Why not?" He finally looks at you, and it's worse than before, the way his eyes glow under the red motel light, vulnerable, offering a view you've never been lucky enough to witness.
The ache of something you weren't supposed to feel is settling in your chest, and you don't know if you should run or stay here, just for a moment.
"Because," you reply, the word catching in your breath. "If you take it back, then I'll never know know if you mean it."
Silence stretches again, only now it buzzes with something different on Dean's end. Something mysterious, almost unknown.
"I mean it."
There it is. The truth. And yet, a part of it still feels hollow, almost meaningless, like he only said it in the heat of the moment, to make you feel better.
You're used to it, that's who he is. He benefits from his charming looks, reused words and confessions, just to get what he wants. He betrays, hurts, and still hopes for something in return; an affirmation, reassuring touch, the non-romantic intimacy of a sexual intercourse.
Nothing which you can afford to gift him without losing a piece of you in the process.
"This is stupid," You whisper, more to yourself than him.
"I know," he laughs, but if sounds more like a quiet sigh.
You can barely breathe, the air is thick, and almost as heavy as everything you aren't supposed to say, aren't supposed to feel.
A cold sting makes itself known on your cheeks, the familiarity of Dean's ring against your skin making you quiver. You slowly shift to face him, as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, using the opportunity to register the softness of it, something he's never allowed himself to do before.
It's your turn to lean against his touch, just lightly, enough for him to notice. The anger in your heart only growing smaller, the ache in his tearing him apart.
"I'm sorry." He looks at you, though these words feel more for him than they are for you.
You nod, eyelashes fluttering sluggishly as you try to enjoy the moment while it lasts. All rational thoughts dissipating from your brain. Each signs that previously screamed run don't even matter anymore.
Not being able to fight for an extra minute, you cave in, getting a hold of his arm, tugging on it to bring him closer against your warm, inviting body. Your lips collide with his, feverish and hungry. This is everything you both craved but could never admit.
Dean doesn't fight it, instead he melts into the kiss, into you scent, your warmth. He doesn't wait to nibble on your bottom lip, eager to taste you on a deeper level. Your lips part a little further, and he licks on your tongue, both of you tasting the earthy and woody flavor on tobacco coating your saliva.
Your fingers find their way to his nape, tugging on the strands to steal a groan from his lips, letting it resonate through your body as you lock tightly around him. Both of his hands hold onto your flushed face, desperately keeping you in place as if he was scared to let go.
The sweetness of your shared kiss becomes more aggressive, desperate whimpers escaping as you both explore each other's mouth. You're eager to have more of him, who's starting to feel a bit needy as one of his hands reaches for you waist, trailing lower until it stops, fingers settling lightly under your shirt.
Deans unexpectedly pulls away, lips pink and swollen as a string of spit breaks between your mouths. The wetness of his lips combined with the need in his eyes portrays and obscenely hot side of him you've never seen before.
"Tell me to stop," he breathes out, hot air against your face sending shivers down your spine.
"Don't." There's nothing else to respond to that. Your brain is melting into a puddle, only reflecting the light in his eyes.
He bites back a whine at the sight of you, because he's easy like that, and before you know it, he's burying his face into your neck, licking and nibbling at every inch of skin he can get between his lips and teeth. You shiver when his hand travels up under your shirt, carefully laying on your bra, the hotness of his palm grounding you.
You tug a little harder on his hair and he groans against your skin, muttering words you can only try to decipher. His lips meet yours once again, and it's hot. As sinful lust grows in your chest, you can only whisper, "Get in the car."
The only response you receive is a low hum before Dean stands up, not breaking the kiss. He hastily leads you near the back of the car, your spine hitting the door handle when he presses you against the cold exterior of the Impala, hands automatically finding your hips, pinning you so perfectly as he cages you in.
You push his chest lightly, trying to repress as smile, and you take the opportunity of the small space between you to open the door, gesturing him to get in with a nod. He follows, a smug expression on his face that you'd usually crave to slap away.
He climbs onto the long leather covered bench, pushing himself back until his shoulder blades press against the cold glass of the window, and you don't waste a second waiting in the cold, immediately crawling inside the car, closing the door before you climb on top of him. His eyes rake over you as you do so, the both of you smiling like love-blind idiots, his arms stretching out to get a hold of your waist, keeping you firmly against him.
Your hands first settle on his chest, before going lower, caressing his skin through his clothes, the material of his shirt rubbing against his toned body, your face hovers over his to offer a kiss that never lands.
His grip on your hips becomes tighter, fingers pressing deeply against your flesh, holding you like he needs more. A rush of confidence floods through you, drowning the hesitation away. You grind against him as you bend forward once more to catch his lips with yours. His hands accompanying your movements, your core pressed flush against his crotch, fitting flawlessly like you were made for each other, only two thick layers of jeans separating you.
"Tell me, Dean, what do you want?" You whisper against his ears, the sound of your voice, raspy with need, making his eyes shut and eyebrows furrow.
"Fuck—" He almost chokes on his words as your pace fastens, "I want you. All of you."
His voice is raw, strangled, making you throb with want. His right hand slides lower, caressing your wounded leg, a simple way to show you he cares, the look in his eyes ordering you to be careful not to hurt yourself.
You take off his shirt, craving the feeling of his skin against yours, and he does the same. His eyes trail down from your face to your exposed chest, left in a quite revealing bra. "Beautiful," he breathes out.
His developing hardness presses against your core, desperately wet and in need for attention. Your hunger for a release consumes each one of your thoughts, soft moans escaping your lips every time Dean presses you down against him. You sit so beautifully on him, your palms on his chest to help you keep a steady pace.
"Fuck, you're so big, even under your pants—" You bite back a moan before he cups your breasts with both hands, earning another one of your whimpers when his tongue travels from your sternum to your collarbone. He stops a few times to catch your skin between his teeth, lips sucking hard in ways that will definitely leave marks.
You gasp, feeling an knot in your stomach build up slowly, your body so responsive to each friction caused by your repeated movements against him. Dean joins the ride, his hips following your movements as he holds you, rocking your hips back and forth as you both reach for your high.
"I didn't know that could feel this fucking good," He grunts, taking a fistful of your hair to draw your face closer in order to kiss you, but he softly gasps as you lean forward, the added pressure making him go stupid. The sight makes you feral, so fucking hungry for him.
Your tongue slips in his open mouth, leaving you both a moaning mess as you chase the release you so deeply need. Your hands reach for his belt, trying to undo it before he stops you, placing his hand on top of yours.
"I don't think i can wait," He whispers, not breaking the kiss. His voice coated with desire mixed with a hint of desperation, he's close. "Just come for me, Baby," He adds.
"I wanted you inside me," you whine, and a smile stretches on his lips, satisfied to know you need him as much as he needs you.
Your pace fastens, suddenly impatient to come. Your arms lock around his neck, and you press harder into the kiss, saliva coating your chin as you feel your orgasm building up, the wetness of your panties ruining your pants. You can feel his restrained cock twitch, hard and deliciously big under you.
"Dean, I'm gonna—Fuck." You moan, uncontrolled whimpers and gasps leaving you.
"That's it sweetheart, keep going," he grunts loudly in your ear, and it sends you over the edge.
You slur, head tipping forward, your forehead settling against his as you both come together as a sinful, whimpering and groaning mess, overwhelmed with surprisingly immense pleasure.
The two of you try to make it back to the real world, mind-numbed and dizzy from your shared orgasm. "Well, that was—"
"Fucking good," Dean breathes out. You palm the still visible bludge in his pants, eyeing the wet spot darkening his jeans. You can't help but smile before kissing him, in a softer, almost loving way.
He melts into the kiss before whispering. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."
And he will not waste time before proving it to you again.
summary: your dad hosts the neighbourhood Fourth of July get-together every year, and every year, his best friend, Beau Arlen, is there. After Beau meets your new boyfriend and realizes you deserve better, he wants to make sure you know it.
♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, outdoor sex, angst, taboo-ish relationship, lotsss of pet names, unprotected sex, nothing rlly kinky or freaky, no mentions of y/n, reader insert, everyone is 20+.
.ᐟ.ᐟ : i just love beau i'm sorry | i have more fics of him posted now! Check them out <3
The Fourth of July, the damn biggest event in your neighbourhood, and your dad was the one who hosted it every time.
Families gathered in your backyard, kids running around, neighbourhood moms bringing their homemade goods, and all you had to do was sit back, smile, and tell the silly stories about college. It was pretty easy, and your boyfriend sitting beside you made it easier.
You’re sitting at one of the tables scattered around the yard, giggling to your boyfriend about something, his hand on your thigh, rubbing where the edge of your denim shorts stops. You met him in college, and he’s currently the talk of every grandma who comes by you, immediately accusing the young guy of being your future husband.
Yeah, right.
Your dad stands by the grill, quietly cursing to himself, and it catches your attention; he’s messing around with the propane tank beneath it, mumbling something about being out. He’s clearly stressed out; the entire neighbourhood’s stomach depended on him serving something.
Slipping off the lawn chair, you hurry to your dad’s side, and he turns to you.
“Dad, what’s going on?” you ask, eyes glancing at his struggle, then back at the kids behind you, asking their parents when the food will be done.
“Left the new friggin’ propane tank in the garage,” he groans, peeking up at you through a wrinkled brow. “You don’t mind grabbin’ it, do you, honey?” he asks, giving you a nervous-needy smile.
“No–no, I don’t mind,” you mumble, shaking your head and glancing at your boyfriend, who should be the one grabbing it, but he acts like he doesn’t notice. You roll your eyes.
You bypass the parents and kids, go through the side gate of the house, and head to the front yard, then to the garage.
“Kiddo,” a familiar, deep voice drawls behind you, and you quickly turn around, seeing him, in all his stupid cowboy glory; Beau Arlen.
He stands in your driveway, a grin curling at his lips, his beard untrimmed and unforgiving, his green eyes roving over your body, his hair messy, strands falling over his forehead. How the hell has this man babysat you before?
“Sheriff Arlen,” you say in disbelief, not having seen him in about three years, and his grin widens.
“C’mon,” he laughs with a shake of his head, taking long strides towards you. “You use’ta call me Uncle Beau, and now I’m Sheriff Arlen?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.
“It’s–it’s just been so long,” you stutter, shaking your head as he approaches. “Like… not since I went off to college, type of long,” you laugh, finally smiling.
“And ya’ missed me that entire time, yeah?” he teases, lifting his hand to ruffle your hair. “C’mon, give me a hug,” he says, not even offering; he just opens his arms, and you naturally find your way into his.
It’s not the same as when you were twelve, and he hugged you to calm you down after you fell off your bike.
He’s all firm and muscular now, warm and thick, his cologne wrapping you up just like his arms, and his large hands rest against your back, pressing into the white cotton of your shirt. It’s a longer hug than usual, gently squeezing your frame.
“Cannot believe the size of ya’,” he says, looking you up and down. “Remember when you were jus’ a little thing, could fit in my arms,” he shakes his head, looking back at your height.
“Yeah.. yeah, it’s been a while,” you agree, shyly backing up, and he adjusts his belt with one hand.
“Your daddy givin’ you trouble?” Beau asks, his grin still stuck on his face. “Even when you were off at college, still pissin’ me right off, callin’ me over and all that,” he laughs, briefly wetting his lips with his tongue.
“No… no, he’s been fine, everything has been fine,” you nod, and he huffs, resting his hands against his hips.
“Good… I’m glad,” he agrees, looking past you at the open garage. “Need help with somethin’, darlin’?” he asks, noticing you’re not in the backyard with everyone else having a good time.
“What on earth is taking you so long?” your dad suddenly blurts, stepping into the front yard to see you and Beau standing there, and he instantly drops the dad-mode he shifted into.
“Beau, finally, thought you were skippin’ this year,” your dad laughs loudly, instantly forgetting the conversation, leaving you to stand awkwardly there. You ignore the propane tank completely and walk back into the backyard to find your boyfriend again.
“Hey, babe,” your boyfriend grins as you return, and you cringe at the silly pet, giving him a small smile. “You mind if we leave before… like eight?” he shrugs, looking beside him as you sit down.
“Fireworks don’t even start until nine?” You furrow your eyebrows, staring at his boyish features twisting into an obnoxious glare.
“You wanna watch fireworks?” he laughs in disbelief, his mouth hanging open. “We have my car, babe… you know… maybe,” he teases, reaching over to pinch your waist, and you shift away, rolling your eyes.
“In your dreams,” you groan, crossing your arms, looking away, and sighing.
You watch as Beau enters the backyard; all broad and smiling, his strong hands carrying the tank. You swear you’ve never seen him this way, but it’s hard not to when everyone around him is fawning over him, and his jeans fit him a little too well. You look away when you notice him approaching.
“Beau,” you say softly when he reaches you and your boyfriend, and he glances between the two of you, suddenly eyeing the young man instead of you.
“And who’s this?” he drawls, his southern accent heavy.
“My boyfriend,” you nod, looking to him; he’s busy doing something on his phone, ignoring the Sheriff’s hand that’s currently hanging in the air, waiting for your boyfriend to shake it.
God, you want to crawl into a hole.
“Seems like a gentleman,” Beau says sarcastically, turning to you, and that’s when he finally looks up.
“Oh, hey,” your boyfriend mumbles, shoving his phone into his shorts. “You’re her uncle?” he asks, looking back at you.
“Close,” he shrugs, his thumbs resting in his belt as he stares down at the two of you. “She’s like m’daughter, ya’ hear?” he mumbles, and there’s a threat laced into that tone that makes you shift in the plastic chair.
“Yeah… I hear…” your boyfriend mutters, mostly confused, awkwardly looking away from the much taller man, whose eyes do not leave that poor son of a bitch.
“You havin’ fun, sweetheart?” Beau asks, switching his attention to you, and he looks at your shy body, curling into itself in the chair.
“Yeah,” you mumble with an unenthusiastic nod, and he knows you well, so he purses his lips.
“Why don’t ya’ come with me? I’ll make you somethin’ to eat,” he offers, waving you over, and you look to your boyfriend, who is currently flipping through something on his phone.
You hesitantly nod, but smile the minute Beau grabs your hand. It’s like you’re twelve again.
“Piece o’work, I’ll tell you that, darlin,” Beau mumbles quietly to you, still holding your hand as he walks towards the table filled with food others brought. “That boy… the hell are you thinkin’?”
“Shut up,” you mumble to him, laughing a little, and he grins at the way he’s made you laugh more than your boyfriend ever has.
“No… no, darlin, I’m serious,” he laughs along, stopping in front of the table, and he releases his hand from yours, gently resting it against the back of your arm. “Dumbest decision I’ve seen ya’ make… and I use’ta watch you go barefoot in ponds,” he shakes his head, clicking his tongue.
“He’s better when you get to know him,” you explain as Beau hands you a paper plate, and you reach for one of those sugar cookies that make your teeth rot. “He’s just… shy, awkward,” you defend, shrugging.
“Mmm…” Beau hums, giving you a knowing look as you shuffle down the long table. “We’ll see,” he shrugs, reaching over to add another sugar cookie onto your plate. He knows your taste buds more than you do.
After the two of you finish loading your plates with food, treats, and appetizers, Beau carefully walks you back to the table you were sitting at; two random people have taken the other spots, and your boyfriend stands there idly, realizing there are just two spots left.
“I don’t know what the fuck happened. I left to take a piss, and suddenly they’ve taken up the spots,” your boyfriend rambles on, and Beau cringes internally at the foul words leaving his mouth, and he glances at the disgust curling in your features.
You deserve better, and a mere 10-minute observation tells him everything.
Beau had been there before you could even remember; he was in the audience at your middle school graduation, watching you win award after award, and he even made it to your high school graduation, your GPA as high as ever. He couldn’t have been prouder of you. He braided your hair, tied your shoelaces, wiped your tears when boys picked on you, and now you were grown as ever, with a boy who did not deserve you.
“I got you, kid,” Beau suddenly chimes in, taking a seat in one of the chairs and immediately glaring as your boyfriend awkwardly takes the other.
Unfortunately for the poor kid, it plays into his plan.
You look between him and your boyfriend, suddenly noticing Beau patting his thigh, and your eyes widen.
“C’mon, it’ll be like y’er ten again,” he laughs, and you look at your boyfriend; back on his phone, completely oblivious to Beau asking you to sit on his lap.
You look at Beau, and he’s looking right up at you; those green eyes pour into yours, eyes crinkling in the corner from his gentle smile. You look back at your boyfriend again, then slowly turn around and lower yourself onto Beau’s lap.
“There’s m’girl,” he mumbles happily, leaning back in the plastic chair, one hand holding the plate, the other resting lightly against your hip. This feels a lot different from how it used to.
You glance down at your plate and realize your appetite is mostly gone; the pressure of Beau’s thick thigh between your legs is doing for you more than your boyfriend’s lousy thumb has ever done. You really want to die right now.
Your shaky hands pick at the food on your plate, lifting the sugar cookie to your mouth and taking a slow bite. You glance at your boyfriend, who is either oblivious or simply doesn’t care that you’re sitting on another man's lap. You sigh.
“Ya’ doin’ okay?” Beau draws quietly from behind you, and you turn your head slightly to glance at him; he’s looking right up at you, and the summer breeze stirs the stray strands of his hair that fall against his forehead.
“Yeah… yeah, of course,” you smile nervously, and Beau’s eyebrows furrow as he glances at your mouth.
“Hey, c’mere,” he mumbles, and you look around nervously, laughing at the way he lifts his hand. “Icin’ on your chin,” he explains, his thumb lightly wiping away the red-and-blue mess.
Beau smiles in satisfaction, looking up at you. Maybe he really does see you as the little girl he drove to school, but it’s hard to tell with the way he’s gently rubbing your hip with his free hand.
“Hey,” your boyfriend suddenly mumbles to you, nudging your shoulder, and he grimaces when he realizes the position you’re in; on Beau’s lap, his warm hand holding your hip.
“What?” you ask quietly, trying not to let Beau tune in to the conversation, but he already has a hand gently squeezing the soft skin beneath his palm.
“Too hot out, can we go to your bedroom?” he asks, his tone casual and carefree, glancing back down at his phone. Your cheeks burn red, knowing Beau obviously picked up on his implication.
“No… no, we can’t,” you mumble awkwardly, looking away from your boyfriend, who is huffing dramatically, shaking his head. You feel the embarrassment creeping up your neck and settling into your cheeks, all red and warm.
A silence settles around the table, and you shift on Beau’s thigh, looking down. You make the softest noise when you do, and he lightly taps the waistband of your shorts with his thumb, and you shift again.
Beau looks at you from behind; your hair draped down your back, the white cotton shirt glowing in the warm sun, and he has the strongest urge to slide his hand right up the back of it. He holds back and shifts his hips in the chair, glancing at your dad, who occupies the barbecue.
“Ya’ havin’ fun, kid?” Beau suddenly asks you, and you look behind, seeing those eyes looking right back at you. God.
“Of course,” you say, smiling and nodding.
“I can get ya’ somethin’ to drink if y’er thirsty, or anythin’,” he offers, nodding towards the cooler packed with drinks. He taps your waistband again, watching your expression shift in real time.
“I’m okay,” you practically whisper, and he pats your hip in confirmation.
“Jus’ makin’ sure, baby,” he drawls quietly, and you feel yourself melt onto his thigh, all soft and warm, and it’s not from the July heat.
By the time dinner is finished, the evening has fully settled in; the sun is setting, and it begins to cool down, soft lanterns lighting up the backyard, kids already with sparklers. You’re still on Beau’s lap, the half-eaten plate in front of you, while he chats with another neighbourhood dad, all the while you occupy his thigh.
“Babe, hey,” your boyfriend says, and your eyebrows furrow as he stands up, looking down at you. “Gonna head out now… something going on with my friend,” he lies, gesturing toward the backyard gates.
“What?” you ask in confusion, standing up too, and Beau naturally guides you with two hands, not breaking away from the conversation he’s having with the man beside him. “Fireworks are in like, forty minutes, you said you’d stay.”
“Yeah… but, you know, there’s booze at this party,” he laughs, acting like you’d understand his reason for dipping early; his friends are having a better party, with alcohol.
“Yeah… but you said you’d stay for fireworks, and then you were going to sleep over,” you explain more, shaking your head. “My parents don’t care if you sleep in my bedroom.”
Beau raises an eyebrow, glancing at the two of you as you have a light argument, then returns to talking about the things Sheriffs usually talk about.
“Yeah, like we’ll have sex,” he scoffs, and you grimace at how loud he’s talking.
“Stop,” you mumble through gritted teeth, and he rolls his eyes, looking over his shoulder.
“I’m just saying,” he waves you off, looking around the yard, crossing his arms.
“Fine, then go,” you say, dismissing him, not wanting to beg someone to stay who clearly doesn’t want to. “Just… I don't know, text me when you get there,” you shrug, looking away from him and back at Beau.
Your boyfriend scoffs and turns away from you, slipping out of the backyard and bypassing the kids running around with their moms. You sigh, taking a seat where your boyfriend once sat instead of Beau’s thigh, and groan quietly to yourself.
There’s a beat of silence before Beau chimes in, leaning forward a little, resting his forearms on his thighs.
“Kid,” he mumbles quietly, clearly seeing that interaction. “You doin’ okay?”
“I’m fine,” you say quickly, raising your eyebrows at Beau in defence, and he sighs quietly, realizing he had missed most of the angry young-adult stage.
“No, you’re not, darlin’,” he drawls just as quietly, and before you can snap back, he reaches over and gently pats your knee, shutting you up.
“Remember when you were jus’ a lil girl?” Beau starts, blinking slowly, gazing at the side of your face. “I use’ta drive you aroun’ whenever you got upset, to calm ya’ down,” he explains, and you slowly turn your head to realize what he’s offering.
“Right now?” you ask in surprise, remembering all the times he had you sit in the passenger’s side, driving you around town, buying you ice cream, and sneaking you back in when your parents were tucked away in bed.
“Right now,” he agrees, and you quickly smile, standing up from the chair, and he’s standing too, with a soft groan, quickly remembering he’s pushing fifty and can feel it in his knees.
Beau lightly takes your hand again, and you pass your dad, who is currently hunched over, messing around with fireworks in a way that would make anyone who knew anything about them have a panic attack. You don’t bother interrupting him.
Stepping into the front again, and you immediately spot it; the red Land Rover, years old, much too outdated, but it fits him perfectly; the rugged sheriff, spending his days off drinking. You remember it like it was yesterday and quickly head to the passenger side.
Beau watches you run across the lawn and towards it. He remembers hoisting you up, grabbing your waist, and you’d giggle when he buckled you in, wide eyes staring up at him, and now here you were, grown as ever without needing his help.
“Hold y’er horses,” Beau laughs as he jogs across the road, finding his way into the driver’s side.
“I remember all of this,” you smile, gazing at his dashboard, the CDs discarded in the centre console, bands and artists you didn’t know. He had a knack for that.
“M’sure ya’ do,” he smiles, quickly firing up the engine and rolling down the windows, immediately taking you down the street.
The summer breeze blows through the windows, your hair messy and blown out, and he can do nothing but watch you; streetlights occasionally dust across your pretty features you’ve grown into, and your teeth aren’t crooked anymore, all fixed by braces, taken off before he could notice them. He’s in awe of you and what you’ve become, and he knows that kid doesn’t deserve an ounce of your time.
You and Beau speed into the town square, and most people know his vehicle by now–dark red and completely vintage, and they smile as he drives by, occasionally waving. You forgot just how renowned he was in this small town, and you suddenly feel lucky for getting this time with him.
You glance back at the sudden loud sound; fireworks are going off in the background, being lit from your backyard, though you don’t care at all. You’re currently with Beau Arlen, soft music on the radio, the summer breeze in your hair, and all he can do is eye you. The pretty thing you are.
“Ya’ wanna watch em’?” Beau asks over the radio, reaching over to gently rub your shoulder when he notices you’re focused on the bright explosions behind you.
“You don’t mind?” you ask softly, and he instantly shakes his head, quickly making a sharp turn down a back dirt road, taking you both out of town.
“Use’ta take you here when you were just a lil’ girl,” Beau smiles with a slow nod, and he’s pulling up to a small clearing in a cornfield. “You loved it–the fireworks, watching them all damn night,” he explains further, taking a left into the driveway that leads to nowhere.
Beau parks the Land Rover on the dirt road, and you instantly hop out, taking his hand in yours as he guides you a little farther down the endless dirt driveway. Crickets buzz around you, and it’s still as humid as ever, but he’s taking you to the light clearing right beneath the stars. He’s always known this place.
With a thud, the two of you land on the hard ground, and he smiles at you, immediately wrapping his arm around your shoulders, keeping you close and into his side. You lean into him, resting your head onto his shoulder, and he doesn’t even hesitate before pressing a gentle kiss against the side of your head. Warm and grounding.
“Listen,” Beau starts quietly, and you lift your head up, turning it to face him. “That boy…”
“Beau,” you cut him off, biting your lip with a light tilt of your head.
“C’mon, baby,” he scoffs, shaking his head and lifting a hand to brush your hair back. “Smartest lil’ thing I’ve ever known, and y’er with him?” he asks in disbelief, eyes widening.
“Who should I be with, then?” you ask, raising your eyebrows, but you’re smiling now, and he lets his hand cup your jawline, a warm thumb brushing your cheekbone.
“You tell me,” Beau nods, his eyes narrowing, his tongue swiping over his teeth.
“No,” you refuse softly, shaking your head, and he finds it the most endearing thing he’s ever heard in his life.
Beau pauses and gazes at you, green eyes darker in the nighttime, and he slowly leans in, and you hold your breath. He doesn’t kiss you, no, he merely lets his forehead rest against yours, noses innocently brushing, and you’re still not breathing.
He leans in just a bit more, breathing quietly against your lips, and his tongue barely slips out, running over your lower lip, which is drooping from your mouth being agape right now. You exhale, and that’s when he finally leans in, pressing his lips against yours.
A soft sound slides by your lips, slipping right into his, and Beau doesn’t hesitate to carefully slide his long fingers in the back of your hair, long fingers curling into your strands, tugging, and you pull back, moaning softly at the grip. You’ve never been treated like this.
“Baby,” Beau breathes out at your reaction, staring at the way you’re already melting, breathing heavier. “He never touch ya’ like this, yeah?” he asks, and you quickly shake your head.
He immediately kisses you again, pressing his warm lips right into yours, tugging even harder to get that sound out of you again–a soft moan breaking out of your mouth and right into his. He’s basking in it, the feeling of you finally experiencing something, instead of just serving some stupid boy.
You’re kissing back sloppily, not used to being kissed properly. You lift your hand and gently hold the side of his face, his light beard pressing into your palm, and you slide your hand down, resting it against Beau’s chest, and he grins into the kiss.
You pant softly as he carefully maneuvers you, slowly but surely moving you to lie on your back, right against the dirt ground, and you whimper, and the thought of your shirt getting dirty.
Beau is nudging his way between your thighs now, gazing down at you; eyes wide, and soft lips parted and glistening in the mix of your saliva, and he swears this is the prettiest he’s ever seen you.
He moves down against, this time lightly kissing your jaw and then down the side of your neck, mouthing at the warm skin–he’s quick and feverish, breathing heavily, running on pure adrenaline, and your head is tipped back, gazing at the darkened sky and stars.
“Beau,” you moan softly as he lightly bites into where your neck meets your shoulder, and you grip his shoulder, squeezing. “Someone–someone is gonna see us,” you plead quietly.
“M’know this place like tha’ back of my hand, darlin’,” Beau mumbles into your neck, his hand briefly sliding down, long fingers finding the button of your shorts. “You trust me, dont’cha’?” he whispers, pulling back to look down at you.
You hesitantly nod, and he’s carefully unbuttoning your denim shorts, unzipping them. You gasp quietly when he lets them open, and he takes a look at your underwear; that’s when the guilt slips in, but he’s too far gone to stop now. You don’t even want him to.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he whispers, lifting his hand to rub the side of his jaw as he shakes his head. “Prettiest thing ever,” he shakes his head again, fingers hooking into the denim waistband, and you whine.
“Beau,” you whisper again, and he looks up at you, his eyes narrowed. “I… I’ve always wanted this,” you admit quietly and nod, and he practically groans at your admission.
Beau curses quietly under his breath, breathing heavier now, clearly affected by your sweet words.
“Good, baby, that’s good,” he nods, reaching downwards, tapping the side of your hip, and you instinctively lift them, and he doesn’t hesitate to slide your underwear down with your jean shorts.
Beau leans back on his haunches, eyes blown out at the sight of you; spread out on the dirt ground, hair splayed behind you, wetter than you’ve ever been in your damn life–the pathetic sex you have with your boyfriend doesn’t compare.
“My God,” he mumbles in awe, glancing down between your thighs, and his jaw ticks; he sees the slick gathering, and he doesn’t hesitate to slide his hand down, two long fingers gathering it.
You moan softly the minute he touches you, head tipping back, and he quickly realizes how neglected your body is.
“He never touches ya’ does he?” Beau asks, referring to your boyfriend, who is off at some party, oblivious. “He don’t deserve a second with ya’, baby,” he shakes his head, shifting further between your legs.
You whimper, your white sneakers digging into the ground beneath you, and he lightly slides a free hand up your shirt, the other one mercilessly exploring your folds; he’s just touching around, almost analyzing. Your head is tipped back, mouth agape, breathing ever more heavily.
“He don’t know how to fuckin’ touch you,” he practically groans in disgust, his thumb immediately pressing onto your clit. “Can’t fuckin’ do anythin’ for my girl,” he growls this time, rubbing in quick, even circles.
You moan louder than you ever have–you didn’t think you could, not with the way you’ve been touched before; your back arches and your hips stutter, a small hand reaching to wrap around Beau’s strong forearm.
“Yeah? M’makin’ you feel good? Better than he ever could, huh?” Beau sneers, pressing harder than ever, and you feel every nerve in your body twitching and igniting. Dear God.
“Yeah–oh, my gosh, yeah,” you pant out, whining through a bitten lip, feeling the cool earth ground beneath you. It’s firm, keeping you somewhat grounded.
“This is all you ever should feel, sweetheart,” he mutters, watching your eyes practically rolling back into your head. “Sucha’ shame you’re datin’ some loser.”
“Sorry–I’m sorry, Beau,” you whine, feeling him picking up the quick circles, only to pull back, immediately going towards his leather belt.
“Don’t apologize for nothin’,” Beau says, quick fingers undoing the clasp, the soft clink clattering amongst the crickets. “Jus’ upsettin’ you’ve never been fucked properly.”
Your eyes widen at the vulgarity dripping from each word, and you glance down; he’s hard as ever, a prominent bulge right at the front of his denim jeans, thick and throbbing. He notices the look on your face and scoffs.
“Lemme’ guess,” he croons, letting his belt hang open as he pops open a button. “Doesn’t compare to ma’size either?” he practically laughs, his zipper following suit, and your eyes practically pop out of your damn head when his large hand wraps around himself, pulling it out of his boxers.
“No… no, not at all,” you shake your head in disbelief, helplessly staring at the way Beau is stroking himself, long fingers careful, his thumb rubbing the tip, and your legs fall open further, an invitation.
“Could tell,” Beau ticks his head, nudging further in between your thighs, his free hand resting on your bare knee. “Squirmin’ around like a worm on ma’knee… knew right then and there that no man has ever pleased ya’ in y’er life,” he shakes his head, and you whine at the call out.
“No… no, don’t get all shy on me,” he laughs, shifting closer, aligning himself with your entrance, just a slight pressure. “It’s me… jus’ me,” he coos, and you bite your lip.
Beau doesn’t hesitate to rock forward, pushing in without a single ounce of care in the god damn world–he just wants to make you feel better, wants to make sure you know what it’s like to be fucked by an actual man, and not some douche who uses you like a living breathing sex doll.
You cry out the minute he’s in fully. You didn’t know sex was supposed to feel like this; pure fullness and pleasure, your body instantly clenching around Beau, tightening and constricting, and he tips his head back, groaning aloud.
“Fuck, no man deserves this,” he groans out, one hand now holding your hip, the other one gently spreading your thighs. “So.. fuckin’ tight, baby,” he pants, not even in disbelief.
You whine, feeling him push even deeper, and your head is tossed back, right in the dirt beneath you, and he instantly is thrusting, gripping your hips tighter than he can even think.
“Beau,” you moan louder into the night air, feeling the light breeze against your bare thighs, the soft echo of fireworks crackling behind the two of you. “Beau, oh, my gosh,” you cry.
“M’right… right here,” Beau grunts, each word punctuated with a hard, deep thrust, sending your body rocking. “M’got you… gonna make you feel.. So good, so deservin’ of feelin’ good.”
You’re seeing stars, and it’s not the one in the sky; it’s behind your closed eyes; a burst of light and warmth, and all you can feel is Beau Arlen, back and forth, deep, consistent thrusts. You can’t even think; all you can do is mewl and whine, still gripping his forearm.
“Look at ya’,” he mumbles, staring at that pretty face, all flushed and sweaty from the summer heat. “He ain't seen ya’ like this, never will,” he taunts, relentlessly thrusting.
The mere thought of your boyfriend being unable to do this is motivating the ever-living life out of Beau, and he feels he can’t stop himself as he moves deeper and deeper, watching your head loll back, limbs limp and blissful.
“Gonna look so.. So pretty, filled with me, so pretty,” Beau mumbles, his head tipping back, groaning and grunting, just thinking of filling you up, stuffing you, not your stupid boyfriend.
You’re just taking it and taking it, whining loudly, your voice suffocated by the emptiness of the field you’re currently lying in.
“He ever cum in y’er pretty tummy? Ever make ya’ all full and warm?” he asks, and you’re shaking your head, knowing you never let him despite taking birth control every fucking day.
“Yeah… yeah, savin’ yourself for me? My girl… my sweet girl,” he mutters through gritted teeth, and he’s it; the twitch in your hips, the tensing of your chest, and he knows you’re close. First time in your life you’ve ever been close.
“First time cummin’ too,” Beau comments, and you whine louder, nodding to his words. “Pathetic boy he is, gonna teach him a fuckin’ lesson or two,” he’s getting himself angry, and it’s turning you on more than you’d like.
You feel it; the tightness, the knot, the coil that has your toes curling into your shoes, and your back arches, and Beau watches it, and feels it; warmth all over him, the loudest sound you’ve made in your entire life slipping by your lips. He swells with pride, and it only pushes him further and further.
Beau still fucks into you despite you finishing, and he’s just as close now, his hand pushing down on your hip, applying pressure, and he’s breathing heavier and heavier, eyes closing in bliss as he feels it build, and build. He cums without a single warning; just a loud groan, and a warmth blooming deep inside of you.
“Atta girl… mhm, stuffin’ you,” Beau groans, his other hand resting right beside your head, holding himself up, panting heavily, letting himself just stay pushed inside of you. He wants you to feel it, every inch, the warmth.
“Only… I can ever do this to ya,” he mumbles, out of breath, shaking his head. “He don’t deserve… any of you, baby, nothin’,” he rambles on, just groaning and grunting, refusing to pull out.
You’re blissed out, head still tipped back, eyes fixed on the stars above you, glowing and bright. You can hear the fireworks still, mixed with his breaths and pants and groans, and you’re completely out of it, just high on him.
“My girl,” Beau finally claims, fingers pressing into your hip.
You’re not sure how you’ll explain the bruises in the shape of Beau Arlen’s fingertips on your hips to your boyfriend.
