can i get a thin crust slice with veggies and a cookie? please
(alexandria era! reader is pregnant and about to give birth and daryl is super nervous and everything. it isn't until the moment of birth that they find out they’re having twins [imagine there's no ultrasound machine in alexandria] )
sorry for the bad english it isn't my first language💔
ive got you babe
pairing: daryl dixon x reader
w/c: 2.8k+
warnings/tags: pregnancy, childbirth, fluff, daryls a softie
masterlist // pizza party
The late afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains Carol had helped you hang last month, turning the small living room in Alexandria golden. You shifted on the couch for what felt like the hundredth time, one hand cradling the heavy curve of your belly. The baby rolled slow and strong beneath your palm, a little foot pressing right against your ribs. Any day now. That’s what Denise had said at your last check-up, her voice calm but her eyes carrying that same wary hope everyone in Alexandria wore when it came to new life.
You were tired. Your ankles were puffed up like risen dough, your back screamed if you stood too long, and the Braxton Hicks contractions had been coming more often, tightening everything in a way that made your breath catch. But beneath the discomfort there was hope.
The front door creaked open.
Daryl stepped inside, crossbow still slung across his back out of habit, boots dusty from wherever he’d been. The second his eyes found you, the hard lines of his face softened in that way they only did for you. He didn’t say anything at first. Just kicked the door shut, dropped the crossbow against the wall, and crossed the room like the only thing that mattered in the whole damn world was getting to you.
“Hey,” he rasped, voice low and rough. He dropped to one knee in front of the couch without hesitation, big hands- scarred and calloused- gently lifting your swollen feet into his lap. His thumbs pressed into the arches with careful, practiced pressure. “How’s my baby?”
“Which one?” you teased, even though your voice came out softer than you meant it to.
A small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the highest point of your belly, then another, slower one, right over the spot where the baby had just kicked. “Both’a ya.”
He stayed there a minute, forehead resting against the swell of you, breathing you in. Then he was up again, moving toward the kitchen like a man on a mission.
“You ain’t lifted nothin’ today, right?” he called over his shoulder.
“Daryl, I’m pregnant, not helpless.”
“Same damn thing right now,” he muttered, but there was no bite in it. Only that fierce, quiet protectiveness that had only gotten stronger the bigger you got. He started pulling things from the pantry- canned tomatoes, some of the fresh greens from the garden, the last of the cornbread Carol had dropped off yesterday. “You sit. I’m makin’ that soup you like. The one with the little noodles.”
You watched him move around the kitchen, this man who used to sleep with one eye open in the woods, now carefully measuring water and muttering to himself about salt. He did everything. Carried every bucket, every load of laundry. Fixed the wobbly step on the porch before you could even mention it. Walked the perimeter of Alexandria twice as often just to make sure it was safe. And at night, when the fear got too loud in your chest, he’d pull you against him, one hand spread wide over your belly like he could shield both of you from the world with nothing but the warmth of his palm.
But you saw it. The way his jaw tightened when he thought you weren’t looking. The restless energy in his shoulders. The way he’d started disappearing for an hour here and there with Rick.
He was freaking out.
And you were too.
After dinner- eaten on the couch because standing for too long made your back seize- he wiped his hands on a dish towel and stood.
“Gonna go check in with Rick. You need anythin’ before I head out?”
You shook your head, offering him what you hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’m good. Go.”
He hesitated, eyes searching your face like he could read every worry you were trying to hide. Then he leaned down, kissed your forehead, your cheek, and finally your lips- slow, lingering, just like he does every time he goes somewhere.
“Be back soon,” he said quietly. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
You sat there for a minute, hand on your belly, feeling the baby shift again. Then you pushed yourself up- slowly, because everything was slow these days- and made your way down the street to Carol’s.
She opened the door before you could even knock, like she’d been expecting you. One look at your face and her expression melted into something soft and knowing.
“Come on in, honey. Kettle’s already on.”
You settled at her kitchen table while she poured tea. The house smelled like fresh bread and lavender. Safe. Domestic. The kind of normal that still felt like a miracle some days.
Carol sat across from you, sliding a mug over. “Talk to me.”
The words came out in a rush you hadn’t planned.
“I’m scared, Carol. Like… really scared. Labor. The baby. What if something goes wrong? What if Denise can’t… what if I can’t do this? And Daryl-” Your voice cracked. “He’s trying so hard to be strong for me, but I can see it. He’s terrified. What if I add to that? What if I’m not enough for him and the baby and-”
Carol reached across the table and took your hand, squeezing gently.
“First of all,” she said, voice steady and warm, “you are already enough. That man out there? He looks at you like you hung the moon. And he’s gonna look at that baby the same way. Second… being scared doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. I was scared out of my mind with Sophia. But you don’t have to do any of this alone.”
You blinked hard, tears threatening.
“He keeps doing everything,” you whispered. “Carrying things, cooking, rubbing my feet… it’s so sweet it hurts. But I know he’s talking to Rick because he doesn’t want to dump it all on me. And I’m doing the same thing to you.”
Carol smiled, small and sad and fond all at once. “That’s what we do for the people we love. We carry what we can. And we let them carry what they need to. You two are gonna be okay. That baby’s already got two parents who would burn the world down to keep it safe. That counts for a lot.”
You stayed a little longer, letting her steady presence settle your fried nerves. By the time you waddled back home the sun had dipped low, painting the sky in streaks of pink and orange.
Daryl was already there when you stepped inside.
He looked up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, like he’d been waiting. The second he saw you, he stood and crossed the room, pulling you carefully into his arms. His chin rested on top of your head, one hand sliding down to rest over the baby.
“You okay?” he asked into your hair.
You nodded against his chest. “Talked to Carol.”
He was quiet for a beat. Then, rough and honest, “Talked to Rick.”
You pulled back just enough to look up at him. His blue eyes were stormy with everything he wasn’t saying.
“I’m scared too,” you admitted softly. “Of the pain. Of doing it wrong. Of bringing a baby into all this.”
Daryl’s throat worked. He lifted one hand to cup your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ scared,” he said, voice low. “I’m scared shitless. But I ain’t goin’ nowhere. You hear me? Whatever happens… we do it together. You an’ me. An’ this little one.”
He dropped to his knees again right there in the middle of the living room, arms wrapping around your waist, face pressed gently to your belly. You felt his breath warm through the fabric of your shirt.
“Hey in there,” he murmured, so quiet you almost missed it. “Your mama’s the strongest person I know. An’ I’m… I’m gonna try real hard to be the kinda dad you deserve. So you just… stay in there a little longer, alright? Let us get ready for ya.”
Your fingers threaded into his hair, holding him there. The baby kicked once, right against his cheek, like an answer.
Daryl let out a shaky laugh, the sound muffled against you.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “I hear ya.”
You stayed like that for a long time- him on his knees, you standing with your hands in his hair, the last light of day fading around you. Two nervous messes in the middle of the safest place you’d known in years, holding onto each other and the tiny life between you.
Neither of you said it out loud, but the promise hung in the air anyway.
Whatever came next- you wouldn’t face it alone.
It was only a few days later when the first real contraction hit.
You were in the kitchen, trying to reach for a glass on the counter, when a deep, tightening band wrapped around your belly and lower back like someone had pulled a rope tight. It stole your breath. You gripped the edge of the sink, eyes wide, heart suddenly hammering.
What was that?
It passed after thirty seconds, but the fear didn’t. You hadn’t felt anything like it before. Not the little Braxton Hicks. This was different. Stronger. Real.
“Daryl!” Your voice cracked as you called for him. He was out back chopping wood, but he dropped the axe the second he heard you and came running.
One look at your face and he knew.
“Shit. Okay. Okay, darlin’. I got you.” His arm was around you instantly, steady and warm, the other hand already on your belly like he could hold the pain back himself. “We’re goin’ to Denise. Right now.”
You didn’t argue. The walk to the infirmary felt longer than it ever had. Another contraction came halfway there- stronger this time- and you had to stop, leaning into Daryl’s chest while he rubbed slow circles on your back and murmured, “Breathe, baby. Just breathe. I’m right here.”
Denise took one look at you and got you on the exam table. After checking, her face was calm but serious.
“You’re in early labor,” she said gently. “Contractions are coming, cervix is starting to change. Baby’s head is down and everything looks good… but you’re still a little early, and with how big you’ve been measuring, I want you on bedrest here in the infirmary so I can keep a close eye on you. Just in case.”
You nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. Daryl’s hand never left yours.
They got you settled in one of the back rooms with a real bed, fresh sheets, and a window that let in soft afternoon light. Denise hooked up a simple monitor to listen to the baby’s heartbeat- strong and steady, like a little drum.
Word spread fast.
Rick was the first to show up, Judith on his hip. He stepped in quietly, eyes soft when he saw you propped up against pillows.
“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Heard the news. How you feelin’?”
“Scared,” you admitted honestly.
Rick gave a small smile. “That’s normal. Judith came fast when she decided it was time. You got this. And if you need anything you just say the word.”
He stayed a little while, letting Judith babble at your belly like she already knew there was a new friend coming. When he left, he clasped Daryl’s shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. No words needed.
Maggie came by later with a basket of fresh vegetables and some of the good tea. Tara brought a stack of clean blankets she’d washed herself. Even Eugene stopped in, awkward but sincere, offering a long winded but heartfelt wish for “optimal outcomes.”
But through it all, Daryl and Carol never left your side for long.
Carol had claimed the chair on your left like it was her post. She brought soup, helped you sip water, braided your hair back when it started sticking to your neck from the nerves. Every time a contraction came, she was there- counting with you, reminding you to breathe low and slow, her voice steady and warm.
Daryl barely sat. He paced sometimes, ran a hand through his hair, but the second you reached for him he was there- climbing onto the narrow bed beside you, letting you squeeze his hand until your knuckles went white. He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. The way he looked at you- like you were the bravest, most beautiful thing he’d ever seen- said everything.
“You’re doin’ so good,” he whispered during one bad contraction, forehead pressed to yours. “So strong. I’m so damn proud of you.”
Hours passed. Night fell. Contractions got closer, stronger. Denise checked you again and nodded.
“It’s time.”
The delivery room was small but bright, lit with lanterns and the soft glow of an old lamp. Denise was calm and focused. Carol stood on one side of the bed, holding your hand and your leg when it was time to push. Daryl was on the other, your hand crushed in his, his other hand stroking your hair back from your sweaty forehead.
“You got this,” he kept saying, voice rough with emotion. “You’re the strongest person I know. Push, darlin’. I’m right here. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
It hurt. God, it hurt. But every time the pain crested, Daryl’s voice was there, low and steady, and Carol’s calm instructions guided you through it.
And then-
A cry.
A beautiful, strong, angry little cry.
Denise lifted the baby carefully, wiped her face, and laid her on your chest.
“A girl,” she said, smiling wide. “Healthy. Perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes. Look at all that dark hair.”
Your daughter.
She was tiny and pink and perfect, already rooting against your skin like she knew exactly where she belonged. Tears spilled down your cheeks as you touched her little hand, her soft cheek. Daryl made a sound you’d never heard from him before- a broken, awed laugh- and leaned in, pressing his lips to your temple, then to the baby’s head.
“Hi, little girl,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Hi, baby. I’m your daddy. I got you. I got both of you.”
Carol was crying openly now, one hand over her mouth, the other still holding yours. “She’s beautiful. Oh, honey… she’s so beautiful.”
You were still catching your breath after delivering her and the placenta, still floating in the overwhelming rush of love and relief, when another contraction hit- sharper, different. You felt the unmistakable, urgent need to push again.
Your eyes flew wide. “Denise- I- I feel like I have to push again-”
Denise moved quickly, checking you with steady hands. Her eyes widened, surprise and wonder flooding her face.
“There’s another head,” she said, voice full of stunned joy. “You’re having twins!”
The room erupted.
Daryl’s head whipped around so fast you thought he might hurt himself. “Twins?! The fuck-?”
Carol let out a shocked, delighted laugh that turned into happy tears. “Twins! Oh my God!”
You didn’t have time to process it. The urge to push was back, stronger than before. Denise coached you through it while Daryl held your hand so tight you thought he might break it- and you didn’t care. Another push, another cry, and then Denise was lifting a second baby.
“A boy,” she announced, laughing now. “Another healthy baby. You’ve got one of each!”
Twins.
A daughter and a son.
The room was pure chaos and pure joy. Daryl was laughing and crying at the same time, tears tracking down his face into his scruff as he looked between you and the two tiny lives on your chest. Carol was openly sobbing, kissing your forehead, kissing the babies’ heads, murmuring, “You did it. You did so good. Look at them. Look at your babies.”
Denise wrapped them both in soft blankets and laid them skin-to-skin on you- one on each side of your chest. Your daughter had a tuft of dark hair like Daryl’s. Your son had the same strong little cry. Both of them warm and alive and yours.
Daryl climbed carefully onto the bed beside you, one arm around your shoulders, the other hand gently touching each tiny head like he was afraid they might disappear if he blinked.
“Twins,” he kept saying, half in awe, half in disbelief. “We got twins. Holy shit. Where the hell were you hidin' lil man?”
You turned your face into his neck, laughing through your tears. “Surprise?”
He kissed you then kissed each baby again.
Carol leaned in, brushing a finger over your daughter’s cheek, then your son’s. “They’re perfect. Both of them. You’re all perfect.”
The door cracked open just enough for Rick to peek in- he must have heard the commotion. His eyes went wide when he saw the two bundles.
“Twins?” he breathed, grinning like an idiot. “Well I’ll be damned.”
“Twins,” Daryl confirmed, voice thick. He looked at you like you’d hung every star in the sky. “She gave me twins.”
The love in the room was thick enough to touch. Denise was still smiling as she finished cleaning you and everything else up. Carol kept stroking your hair. Rick stayed in the doorway, eyes soft, like he was witnessing something sacred.
And Daryl- Daryl- couldn’t stop touching you. Your face, your hair, the babies, like he needed to keep proving to himself that this was real. That you were all here. That after everything, you’d given him this impossible, beautiful thing.
“I love you,” he whispered against your temple, voice raw. “So much. All three of you. I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”
“We did it,” you whispered back.
Daryl’s forehead rested against yours, eyes closed, breathing you in.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “We did.”
Outside the window, the first pale light of dawn was starting to touch the sky over Alexandria.
And inside the small room, surrounded by the people who loved you most in the world, your family had just doubled.
Tags/Warnings: Smut, choking, rough sex, threat/talk of a gangbang, sex in a public bathroom, no aftercare, face fucking, deepthroating, cunnilingus, fingering, dry humping/thigh humping, hair pulling, degradation, dirty talk, spanking, slapping, unprotected sex, cream pie, squirting, pussy slapping, finger sucking, edging, orgasm denial, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, Sir kink if you squint, masochistic reader, brat reader, no use of Y/N, reader has no descriptors other than being slightly shorter than Dean and has enough hair to pull.
Summary: It's been six months since you struck the deal with Dean, and true to his word, he comes back like clockwork—even when you're not at home.
Word Count: 7.7k
Author's Note: Title from the song Animal by Chase Holfelder
A part two to this post from 2025 Kinktober was requested, so here it is!!
This counts for the Mirror Sex square for @j3bingo
Thank you to @gappyswife for beta-reading this for me!
Dividers: Line Divider 1 by @olenvasynyt Line Divider 2 by @omi-resources SPN Divider by @talesmaniac89
Tag List: @copperboom82 @sleepycues @xpurdyglambertx @flanneledfae
Neon paints your body in hues of red and blue as you cross the dance floor. The dive bar has little by way of illumination beyond the signs on the wall depicting beer and food, half-naked cowgirls, and the name of the joint. A few yellowed lights hang from the ceiling, joining the bright colors to shine down on the crowd below.
You wind your way through the throng of sweaty bodies, their boisterous conversations meld with the thrum of music soaking into the atmosphere. Cold glass bites into your palm as you carry your fresh beer back to the edge of the dance floor.
It’s standing room only— a regular occurrence on Thursday nights where ladies drink free— and since your friends have long since returned home, you don’t see the point in trying to snag a high-top for yourself.
No, half drunk on the music and the cheap beer, you don’t want to sit–you want to dance.
Between line dances, you down long-necks and tall glasses of water alike, feeling like you’re sweating it out faster than you can consume; the last thing you want is to wake up in the morning with a splitting headache, even if your freelance job awarded you a day off.
After being contained to your apartment by the threat of being ripped to shreds at the razor-sharp claws of a pack of supernatural beasts, you want to spend your new lease on life as you pleased, and right now, you are doing just that.
You’ve lost count of how many dances you’ve finished by the time your bladder begs you to vacate the floor and empty it. Reluctantly, you shuffle off the dance floor, having to only wait behind three other girls before you snag an open stall.
The bathroom itself leaves something to be desired. Dingy tile line the floors; you aren’t sure if the patterns were actually design choices or were poorly cleaned stains. Raunchy love notes cozy up to random phone numbers with instructions to ‘call for a good time’ with crude pictures of dicks on the cheap stall walls and door.
Noting the bathroom was empty, you finish up and wash your hands, smiling at the additional graffiti etched into the edges of the dirty mirrors. Most of it is hazy anyway, the blanket of alcohol warming you at the edges. You pull your tube of lipstick from the pocket of your miniskirt, the denim barely covering you enough to avoid a public indecency charge.
You don’t think much of it when the music grows louder, too busy shoving the lipstick back into your pocket. The door to the bathroom creaks open before it shuts hard with a thud, muting the sounds once more.
It isn’t until you hear the snick of the lock sliding into place that you look up to see a figure standing behind you in the reflection of the mirror. Your heart drops to your stomach in the same second your pussy throbs violently when you whirl around to familiar green eyes that blink black before returning to their alluring jade.
“Hiya, Sweetheart,” Dean purrs, stepping closer so that there’s less than a foot of space between your bodies. “Forget what day it is?”
Your boots have a bit of a heel, so there’s less of a height difference than the first time he visited you. Usually, you’re at home. Most of the time you’re already in bed when he arrives, sometimes in the shower, sometimes making food.
“No. Just lost track of time.” Somewhere between the dancing and the drinks and your phone being tucked away in the purse you’d brought, the time had slipped away.
His head cocks to the side, the move more animalistic than human. “That so?”
“I wanted a night out with my friends. Sue me.”
His eyebrows raise but he says nothing.
Not right away at least.
Instead his attention drifts from your face, slipping down your body.
You can see his eyes catch on your strappy tank top where the halter neckline plunges to near obscene levels, showing off the scalloped lace of your bra. The green in his gaze goes dark in a different way than you are used to the further down it travels, down all the way to the bare expanse of your legs and where your boots sit upon your feet.
“Must’a had every guy in here tonight drooling over you,” Dean says appreciatively, eyes flicking back up to yours.
You brace your hands on the sink behind you and lean back with a shrug, trying to act casual and not like your pussy isn’t growing wetter by the second. The heat that rises to your cheeks is in humiliation. He hasn’t even touched you yet and here you are like a bitch in heat.
You’d noticed the heated stares, the way some of the men in the bar’s eyes would pop out of their skull like some cartoon, and you’d be lying to him and to yourself if you said you didn’t revel in it.
He leans in, and you’re not sure when he got this close to you but you’re assaulted with the intoxicating smell of him. Something masculine and dark that makes you want to bury your face in the crook of his neck.
You jump a little when the warmth of his palm spreads along the inside of your thigh, too entranced by his gaze, heavy and focused, to notice his arm slipping between your bodies until it’s there. His fingers tease along the soft skin, the tips just inches from the throbbing need between your thighs.
“Too bad your pussy’s already got someone takin’ care a’her, right?” He croons, slipping his hand up.
Words escape you as he slides your panties to the side, not that the lacy scrap of fabric was covering much to begin with.
Your mouth gapes open at the first teasing touch, the calloused tips of his fingers sliding through your slick, bumping against your clit. Hands gripping the edge of the sink so hard you’re sure the porcelain will crack any second, your hips buck up against his hand, seeking the stimulation.
The sense of euphoria is short lived when his other hand shoots out, wrapping around your neck. A gasp gets stuck in your throat and your eyes flare wide. His fingerprints dent your skin.
“Right?” He asks again with a darker edge this time.
The bathroom around you narrows to the tightness of his grip on your neck and the pleasure derived from his fingers still working over your soaking core. Every inch of your body erupts in tingles, and you would have nodded if his hold allowed it.
“Yes,” is all you manage to choke out.
It is a funny feeling. Dean quite literally has your life in his hand. By all accounts you should be pissing-yourself-terrified. But you’re not. Instead, all you can focus on is the dark whorls of lust eddying in the depths of his eyes, the green heightened with his enjoyment, and how his middle finger is circling your clit with precision.
That was, until it retreats and you nearly whine at the loss of contact.
You sense where his hand is going milliseconds before his open palm makes contact with the side of your face. It’s not hard enough to do any damage beyond a buzzing beneath your skin that will last probably as long as this encounter, but it’s hard enough for tears to sting at your eyes.
“Yes,” you wheeze, his grip on your throat just loose enough for the words to squeeze out. “My pussy’s yours.”
Another slap, this one no less gentle than the first. “Say it again.”
Your hand slips up, wrapping around his wrist. “My pussy’s yours.”
His pulse is even under your frantic grip. If it weren’t for the desire written in his gaze and the sizable bulge straining against the front of his jeans, you wouldn’t have guessed he was enjoying this. You’re painfully aware of arousal dripping down your inner thigh, your core clenching around nothing.
Dean’s hand connects with the side of your face one last time then returns between your thighs. The edges of your vision start to go fuzzy, and the moan he pulls from your lips when his fingers press harshly against your clit comes out more like a high pitched keen.
He leans in, keeping steady pressure on your neck. “You’re gonna cum for me before I let you go. Can you do that for me, whore? Not like you need to breathe, anyway.”
“Yes,” you choke out, voice a little louder than a whisper.
“Yes what?” Dean asks teasingly, his fingers moving across your core in a way that makes it really hard to formulate words.
“Yes, sir.” Your words are slurred, but they seem to suffice anyway as his hand picks up the pace.
Your hips grind against his palm, matching the rhythm he’d created. You feel dazed when his hand slips lower, two fingers shoving inside you while the heel of his palm acts as the perfect surface to grind your clit on.
He doesn’t seem to notice or care when your nails dig into the inside of his wrist, your other clawing at his shoulder to brace yourself against the rapidly growing wave of pleasure stemming from between your thighs.
His muscles shift under your grip as he angles his arm better so he can send his middle and ring finger even deeper into you, curling them up towards your belly. Your hips grind down against his hand, the rough surface providing the most divine friction against your needy clit.
An amused chuckle from Dean vibrates through your body. “I can feel your pussy clenching around my fingers. Fuck, I can’t wait to feel ‘er around my cock.”
A strangled whine is all you can muster as he curls his fingers inside you, stroking that soft spot within you that darkens your vision even further. Arching your back, you press your chest into Dean’s, his preternatural warmth soaking into you.
You’re sure he can feel the way your nipples are hardened, even through both your shirts. The bralette underneath is little more than decorative lace with a paper thin backing there to not irritate your skin.
His blood-red button down is immaculate, tucked into a pair of dark wash jeans; it’s similar to the outfit he wore the first time you met him.
Well, he’s nothing if not consistent, you think before stars burst behind your eyes, which you squeeze shut as the tightness in your belly gives way.
You cum harder than the first time he fucked you. Harder than you ever have in your life.
Your body goes rigid, trembling from head to toe as electric shocks spark through you all down your spine. The ache of pleasure pulses through your body as he works you through the throes of your climax.
Head lolling to the side as Dean’s grip on your neck lessens, you gasp in air. The room around you spins as you gulp down oxygen the best you can through your unabashed moans.
Dean’s lips slot over yours, drowning out your sounds of ecstasy and you can taste the whiskey on his tongue when it sweeps into your mouth. Your hand slides up his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the shaggy ends as you kiss him back with matching intensity. A low rumble of satisfaction emanates from his chest.
As you slowly come back into your body, Dean’s hand slows, his fingers leisurely dragging out of you and stroking your oversensitive clit on their way out from between your trembling legs. He grips your chin none too gently, breaking the kiss.
There isn’t enough time for you to miss the feeling of his lips on yours, to savor the tingling he left behind, before his fingers are in your mouth.
The calloused tips press down your tongue and instinctively you wrap your lips around the second knuckle. You can taste yourself as you work them over with your tongue, your whimper turning into a gag when Dean shoves his fingers deeper into your mouth.
“That’s right,” Dean all but purrs, looking on with a lust-drunk expression. “How are you gonna take my cock if you can’t take two little fingers?”
He’s right, you think, but I wouldn’t call his fingers small, either.
His grip on your chin relaxes just enough for you to work your jaw open more. Viscous saliva floods your mouth as Dean moves his fingers in and out of your mouth. Every time he bottoms them out, you cough and gag as the tips wiggle against the back of your throat.
Tears sting your eyes, spilling down your cheeks in fat droplets when you blink up at him. There’s a hungry edge to the way he gazes down at you, obsession bleeding in as he fixates on how your spit collects on his knuckles and rolls down his hand.
Another rush of want crashes over you at the way he’s looking at you and in response, your thighs clench together unconsciously. The miniscule movement isn’t missed by Dean, not that you were really trying to hide your insatiable need anyway.
“God, you’re such a greedy slut,” he groans. “I just got you off and you’re already wanting more, aren’t ‘cha, Sweetheart?”
With his fingers shoved into your mouth, all you can do is hum in agreement.
Dean hums his approval, and with the slightest nod his fingers slip from your mouth, the hand on your jaw following suit. You suck air in greedily, the strings of drool starting to cool on your chin.
With eyes half-lidded out of pure lust, you watch him raise the hand pulled from your mouth up to his own. A particularly strong pulse of arousal nearly sends you to the floor as his tongue darts out from between his lips. The sounds that come from him slurping your spit from his hand are purely pornographic, all while he keeps his eyes locked on yours.
“Knees. Now,” he commands, wiping the mix of your spit on his jeans.
With how shaky your knees have become in the aftermath of his display— as well as the leg-shaking orgasm he gave you— you’re tempted to comply. A glance down to the bulge in his pants is enough for saliva to pool under your tongue, but the alcohol in your system has made you bold.
“And if I don’t want to?”
His head cocks to the side, eyebrows quirked up. “No?”
A shake of your head as you look up at him through your lashes. “No.”
“You don’t want me?” He asks, his hand curling around your wrist, bringing your palm to rest on the evidence of his arousal. “You don’t want my cock?”
His grip disappears, but you press the heel of your palm against him, dragging your hand along the length of him. “No, I don’t.”
Dean gives you a knowing smirk, and the moment stretches wide between you before he finally speaks.
“Liar.”
His hand moves too fast for you to react, fingers tangling painfully in your hair as he grabs a fistful.
You cry out softly, half from the pain and half out of shock. He leans forward and the sound dies out into a quiet gasp. Your eyes dart from the depths of his gaze to his lips, which are still tugged upwards in a satisfied grin, and back again.
“You want me. I’ve been inside you. Tasted you.” His thumb traces the plush of your bottom lip, smearing your lipstick even further. “I know just how desperate you are for my cock, whore. You can’t ever pretend otherwise.”
Your knees make contact with the grimy bathroom floor and you can feel yourself tremble with anticipation as Dean angles your head to look up at him.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he says, undoing his belt with his free hand.
“And if I don’t?” You ask before you can think better of it.
Dean doesn’t even bother to shove his jeans and boxers down his muscular thighs. They barely make it down past his balls before he’s languidly stroking himself, the tip red and already leaking.
Your throat bobs and you barely flinch when he grips himself at the base and slaps his heavy cock against your cheek.
“Oh, Sweetheart. Don’t make me ask twice,” he says.
Heart beating a million miles a minute, you barely feel the small sting of contact nor the dull ache of the tight grip he has on your hair. Your world is narrowed to the throbbing need in your pussy and Dean’s hard cock bobbing in front of you.
“Now don’t be difficult and open your fucking mouth,” he growls, shoving his cock towards your mouth.
You have the good sense this time to obey, your lips parting without hesitation. Tongue lolling out, you barely have enough time to situate yourself before his cock is halfway down your throat.
Instantly, your throat is on fire and you gag at the sudden intrusion. Hands flying up to brace against his denim clad thighs, you brace yourself as Dean holds your head in place.
“Fuuuck,” he rasps, dragging his hips back and briefly allowing you to breathe. “I missed this. Had a lotta girls, but none of their mouths feel half as good as yours does.”
It takes a second for you to adjust to how he’s stuffed into your mouth. Drool has already started to leak out of the sides of your mouth with every thrust of his hips. The stretch of your lips, the taste of him is just right. He smells warm, like sweat and skin and some clean, masculine soap.
And it’s pathetic the way you silently enjoy him pressing your face further onto his cock until your nose is buried in the thick, curly hair at his pubic bone. Your throat spasms as he holds you there, unable to breathe and frozen with sensory overload.
Hot tears crawl down your cheeks, blending with your drool on your chin. Just when the edges of your vision start to blur, Dean yanks you off his cock by your hair. You cough and sputter, replenishing the void of oxygen in your lungs.
Thick strings of drool stick to your chin and neck, and you just know your mascara is running down your cheeks, half-dried to your skin with your tears.
“Such a messy girl,” he coos, honey-laced words dripping with condescension. “See, all you needed was a good dick in that brat mouth.”
You welcome the sting as his hand leaves another hot print on your cheek and you have to resist from leaning into his palm when it caresses the hurt. It slips away just as quickly, and in turn you wrap a hand around the spick-slick shaft of him.
“Gonna keep fucking my face, or do you want me to make it actually feel good?” You ask, locked on his eyes as your mouth closes around the head of him.
The groan Dean utters when your cheeks cave around him, when your tongue slides along the sensitive underside of his cock, is all the answer you really need.
You’d learned early enough on that you really had to squeeze your hand around his cock when stroking him. “Harder, bitch,” he’d growled. “Don’t be fucking scared. You’re not gonna break it.”
His fingers still threaded themselves in your hair, the tips gliding across your scalp as you descended back down upon him. His head falls back, and the red ambient lighting in the bathroom gleams along the column of his throat, skin dewy with sweat.
You’d like nothing more than to stand and lick the salt from his skin.
Tongue pressed to the underside and cheeks hollowed, you slide his cock all the way to the back of your throat. Your gag reflex balks, but you ignore it, pulling back barely half way before bobbing your head back down. The small whimpers and moans that you make no attempt to stifle travel along his cock.
Dean’s hand curls further into your hair, leaving your head littered with sharp pinpricks. All it does is add to the slickness between your thighs. Thighs that you press together seeking any kind of friction; you can feel your arousal roll down the insides. Your skirt is still hiked up around your hips, leaving your dripping pussy exposed to the cool air.
A dull ache makes itself known in your knees, the bathroom tile extremely unforgiving on the joints. You do your best to ignore it, hand sticky with spit abandoning his shaft in favor of cupping his balls.
Dean’s hips buck into your mouth at the additional touch, seeking the wet heat.
“Oh fuck,” he grunts. “Keep doing that.”
So you do, fondling him there while maintaining your rhythm; push your head down on him until you can feel him in your throat— until you gag harshly— then pull back enough to breathe through the spasm. Rinse and repeat all the while your free hand inches closer to your throbbing pussy. The wet, sloppy sounds from your mouth meld with his decadent grunts and groans, filling the bathroom.
The system works, up until the point it doesn’t.
You come up for air only for Dean’s hand to press against the back of your head, pushing you back down onto his cock. Your eyes screw shut as your nose is mashed into the mess of curls at his pubic bone.
A sound of displeasure vibrates from your lips up the length of him, and after a second you try and pull your head back. It ends fruitlessly, though, as Dean only presses harder.
“Shut up. Just a little longer,” he growls. “Fucking take this cock. Fucking choke on it like the whore you are.”
Your tear-filled eyes screw shut as your throat spasms hard. Bracing a hand on his muscular thigh, your fingernails dig into the denim. Dean’s cock moves, barely pulling out an inch before it’s back, harshly slamming into your throat. A soreness grows in your jaw for how long you’ve kept it open.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he moans, his chest heaving. “Gonna fucking cum, baby.”
That fuzzy, floaty feeling returns as you struggle against the need to breathe, against the intrusion of cock in your throat. He starts to twitch against your tongue, and the pistoning of his hips grows sloppy and uneven. Pushing through the haze, you swallow around him, earning yourself a string of curses from above you.
The crass words are cut off by a garbled moan. You hear your name somewhere in there, but you’re too busy swallowing down Dean’s cum to pay much attention to what he’s saying. He holds you there, cock pumping his seed down your throat until he stops twitching and his length softens a bit.
Lines of spit connect your lips to his cock once he finally wrenches himself from your mouth, and they snap back against your chin when he takes a step back. Your body is wracked with wet coughs as you gasp for air. Heart beating what seems like a million beats a second, you lean back on your heels and wipe the spit from your face.
Out of the corner of your eye you see Dean tuck his half-flaccid cock back into his boxers, leaving the jeans unbuttoned.
“Up,” he rasps, still breathing hard from his climax.
On shaky legs, you rise up, wincing at the stiffness in your knees. You brace a hand on the sink behind you as the feeling returns to your lower extremities.
Dean’s hand slips around to the nape of your neck, drawing you in. His lips capture yours before your brain can catch up. He licks into your mouth and you whimper when his leg slots between yours. The top of his thigh bumps against your neglected core and you nearly cry at the sensation.
“I can fucking feel you soaking through my jeans, baby,” he says, sliding both hands to your hips. “Soaked just from sucking cock, just like a proper whore.”
Your brain buffers, overloaded with the repeated deprivation of oxygen and the way the roughness of denim feels against your needy clit, your panties still pulled to the side. All that leaks out of you is a pathetic whimper that’s mostly intelligible.
Dean laughs cruelly, kissing a line of fire down your jawline. “So dumb, baby, and you haven’t even had my cock yet.”
He bounces his thigh against you and you cry out, hands scrambling to find purchase on his broad shoulders.
“Please,” you manage to whine.
“Please what?” His teeth graze the line where your jaw meets your neck.
“Need’a cum. Please.”
“You think you deserve it?”
“Mhmm,” you nod vigorously. “Please, Dean.”
You can feel the wet spot your soaked pussy has made, now. The dampness of the fabric allows you to slide easier along the rigidness, your movements barely a fraction of what you need.
“You think you can make yourself cum on just my thigh?” He pulls back from your neck, an amused tilt to his lips. “Gonna hump my leg like the dog you are?”
“Please,” you say barely above a whisper, legs trembling again.
“I’m not gonna help you. Gonna have to be a big girl and do it all yourself.”
“That’s okay, it’s okay. I can do it. Please, please,” you babble nonsensically now, much to his sadistic satisfaction.
“Better get on with it then,” he says.
No sooner are the words spoken into existence are your hips grinding down against his thigh. You feel him flex his quad beneath you, creating a ridge that feels mind-numbingly good against your clit.
You cling to his shoulders for stability, wanton moans spilling from your lips unimpeded. It takes less than a minute for a tightness to grow low in your belly. The heat from his body, the smell of him, it all wraps around you and soaks into your veins like an aphrodisiac.
There’s no sane part of you left to care how humiliating this is, how desperate you are to dry hump his thigh just from having a dick down your throat. Everything in you is narrowed down to how good dragging your pussy along his thigh feels. How with every shift of your hips, sparks of pleasure threaten to set you alight.
“Such a dirty girl,” Dean croons in your ear as you puff out breathy moans. “So goddamn pathetic it’s almost sad.”
Your pussy clenches on nothing at the words, at the names he’s calling you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, hiding the way your cheeks warm. The scent of him is stronger here, and you inhale deeply.
Dean’s hands have moved to the sink directly behind you, his body effectively caging you between the solidness of his torso and the cool porcelain. It’s that fact alone that keeps you mostly upright, your legs shaking. It grows worse with each drag of your pussy along his thigh, pressure building between your legs.
“I can feel you shaking, you close?” Dean’s words rumble through you.
You nod against his neck, moaning into his skin like you can imbue your need to cum into his system. You squirm and hump against him, mouth falling open as you rapidly approach the edge of your orgasm. It’s so close, the final build up making your movements erratic as you push yourself just that little bit further.
But just as you are about to tip over the edge, Dean pulls his thigh from between your legs and steps back enough you have to reach behind you to keep yourself from collapsing to the ground.
“No!” You cry out, very nearly at the verge of tears. “Wha—what the fuck?!”
Dean chuckles darkly, meeting your frustrated gaze. “Did you really think it was going to be that easy? God, you’re dumb.”
“Fuck you,” you spit at him.
“All in good time, baby. Now turn around, put your hands on the sink.”
You scowl and instead you reach down, tugging your skirt back over what little it covers before crossing your arms over your chest. “No.”
Dean’s head tilts and he pouts his lip mockingly. “No? Gonna throw a little tantrum now?”
“Fuck. You.” You say again.
“You’re really gonna try this with me?”
He’s stepped closer again, so if you really did want to go anywhere, you’d have to push past him.
But you don’t, and he knows it.
It’s all part of the game. You play it up, act like you don’t want him, just so that he’ll snap and manhandle you into whatever way he wants you. The best part about it is, he wants to fuck you just as much, so no matter how much you brat, how much you pretend, you’ll end up with his cock shoved into you anyway.
It’s a welcome change to all the hook-ups you’d had before. Men— boys, really— who would give up at the slightest bit of pushback, who’d pussy out at the level of roughness you so desperately craved.
And that’s why, even though Dean popped up once a month to rock your world and leave you sated, you never felt the need to indulge the men like the ones who’d been at the bar tonight. They could never satisfy you in the same way.
“Turn around, and put your hands on the sink,” he instructs again, both of you knowing you won’t before the words even leave his mouth.
You stand taller, looking him straight on. “Make me.”
You can see the instant his resolve snaps. Something in his face twitches and his expression darks the millisecond before his hands grasp onto your hips roughly. A gasp makes its way out of you when you’re spun around and shoved roughly into the sink.
The edge digs into your stomach, but that’s the last thing you’re paying attention to when Dean kicks your legs apart with his boot. His hand presses into the middle of your spine, pressing your upper half forward so you are half laying across the sink.
Looking up, you are met with your reflection for the first time since Dean walked into the bathroom.
You were right to assume you looked absolutely wrecked. Mascara is streaked down your face, your red lipstick smeared across your kiss-swollen lips. Then your eyes cant up and you catch Dean staring, but not at your face. His eyes, pupils blown so wide you can barely see his green irises, are trained lower.
Bent over like this, your skirt rides up an obscene amount, baring your panty-clad pussy to him. His lower lip is caught in between his teeth, and he almost looks contemplative in his admiration.
“Gonna keep staring or are you gonna do something?” You snark, watching his eyes snap up to yours in the mirror.
“And what are you gonna do if I don’t?” He asks in turn. “What if I just make you stand like this and let all those guys out there who were eye-fucking you come in here and take their turn?”
Your pussy clenches at the thought, and even though Dean no doubt caught the motion, he makes no comment.
“You wouldn’t. You’re too fucking possessive,” you respond, calling his bluff with not a bit of confidence in your statement.
Dean smiles, and it’s not a kind expression.
Warm skin against the backs of your thighs makes you flinch a bit, even though you can see him take a step forward. His hands slide your skirt back over the swell of your ass, bunching the fabric around your waist.
“Maybe, maybe not,” he muses, slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties. “Maybe when I’m all done with you here they can fuck you while my cum’s still leaking out of you.”
Cool air meets your soaked core as Dean drags your panties down your thighs, down your legs. His fingertips skate your skin as he lifts your feet, removing the scrap of fabric completely. Your mouth twists in a fleeting moment of disappointment when he shoves them into his back pocket.
Those were my favorite pair.
“Either way, I still get to cum,” you finally say.
You yelp as his hand comes down hard on your ass. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession. It stings, leaving your skin tingling. The sensation shoots right between your thighs, reinvigorating the swelling need inside you.
“You really wanna cum that bad you’d let strangers fuck you?” He says with a condescending incredulousness. “God, you’re more pathetic than I thought.”
Another slap, this time to your other asscheek. Your fingers grip the edge of the sink as you resist the urge to rock back towards him. Your cheeks burn from the sting of his words, but he’s not finished.
“Do you think of me when you fuck yourself?”
You didn’t think your cheeks could grow any hotter in embarrassment, but he never fails to surprise you.
“What the fuck kind of question is that?” You squeak.
“The kind I expect answered,” he says with another slap to your ass.
His hand smooths over the warm skin and you nearly moan when it slides inward, his thumb ghosting across your pussy.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because I wanna know if I make you scream my name even when I’m not here to fuck you senseless.”
Your mouth opens and closes as you try to formulate a sentence, but it’s hard to focus with his thumb stroking the slickness of your core. It’s teasing, not enough for the sensations to build, just enough to keep you on edge.
You cry out, flinching forward only to be stopped by the sink, when Dean’s hand makes contact with your exposed pussy this time. It hurts more than your ass, but the pleasure that it turns into isn’t diminished.
“Answer me, slut.”
His hand comes down on your core again and you can’t contain the moan that comes with it.
“Yes, I think of you,” you relent, gripping tighter to the sink.
His thumb presses against your clit and your breath catches in your lungs. The pad rubs circles around the nub and you could cry from the direct stimulation.
“Good.” Is all he says before you lose sight of him in the mirror when he sinks to his knees behind you.
Your head drops forward at the first puff of his hot breath against your core. His tongue follows, licking a hot stripe up your pussy. A soft moan leaves your lips as he does it again, the tip of his tongue swirling around your clit as he uses both hands to grope your asscheeks.
His stubble scrapes against your inner thighs, the combination of sensations making your head spin. You rock back against his face, and surprisingly he lets you. His tongue and lips lick and suck at your core, and nothing about the way he’s eating you out is quiet.
Your hips buck when his teeth close around your clit, not ready for the sudden second of pain. His tongue is right there following, licking away the immediate hurt. His thumb takes over, his tongue dipping inside you.
“Don’t stop, please,” you moan, grinding back on his face.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says, pulling away from your pussy just long enough to say as such before going right back.
The pressure of your climax rushes up and you barely have enough strength in your legs to keep yourself upright. The orgasm roars through you in one giant wave. Your mouth falls open as his mouth works you over through it.
In the mirror, you see him stand, and then you’re being flipped around so that you're leaning back against the sink again.
His lips connect with yours and you can taste yourself on his mouth as he kisses you. It’s not gentle, his teeth clash with yours, your tongues dancing and somewhere in the way he licks into your mouth you feel his hand slide between your bodies to your pussy.
You’ve barely recovered from the orgasm he just brought you to, and now his middle and ring finger are slipping inside you.
Carding your fingers through his hair, you kiss Dean hard, letting his mouth swallow your desperate moans. Stars spark behind your eyes as he curls his fingers up towards your belly. Quickly, he finds that soft spot that makes your legs feel like jelly, threatening to send you to the floor.
“De-Dean! Oh fuck,” you cry out.
His mouth has migrated to your neck, sucking hard on your pulse point. You clench hard around his fingers, a different kind of pressure building low in your belly. Another orgasm builds slowly, especially as the heel of his palm presses against your clit.
“That's right, bitch. Scream my name. Scream it loud so everybody out there knows who you belong to.”
He shoves his fingers further into your sloppy pussy, wet and obscene sounds reaching your ears. Your head lolls to the side, allowing him better access to kiss and nibble on your neck. You’ll have to wear make up to cover up the hickies that he’s undoubtedly placing along your skin like a sign to say you’re his. He punches his digits in and out of you, petting that fucking spot.
Your thighs are trembling so hard now— so is the entirety of your body. The pressure just keeps building and building. He’s everywhere, between your legs, other hand groping your body, his mouth on your neck. Nowhere is left unattended and it is so much.
“Feel you clenching so fucking tight on my fingers, baby. Gonna cum again for me?” Dean says against your neck, leaning up to nip at your ear.
All you can do is nod. Words don’t feel real to you right now and no amount of anything could change that.
Your nonverbal confirmation seems to satisfy him well enough. Then, he does something, something so good and he keeps doing it. Everything around you fades to just his ministrations and the feel of his body caging yours, and you feel the pressure snap.
Everything goes white and your body seizes up with the intensity of which your orgasm slams into you. But Dean’s fingers don’t stop. They continue to pump into you, curling into you. You don’t even feel in control of your body as you feel yourself gush all over his hand.
Dean curses under his breath and you just barely acknowledge it as you gasp for air, clinging to his shoulders with all your might.
Dean draws his fingers from you and a perverted sense of deja vu hits you as he licks you from his fingers. He keeps you upright with his other arm snaked around your waist, and for that you are grateful.
“Did— did I just…?” You pant, slowly realizing what’d happened.
“You just squirted all over my fucking hand,” Dean affirms, wiping his hand on his jeans. “Wish I would’a just stayed down there. Drank it right from the source.”
You groan at his obscene words, unable to stand the way his verbal filth immediately makes your overstimulated body respond in kind.
He taps your cheek none too gently. “Don’t go tapping out on me now. We’re not done yet.”
You’re putty in his hands as he spins you around, bracing your hands on the edge of the sink. He let’s go, and on shaky legs you stand there watching him shove his jeans and boxers back down his thighs.
“You’re so wet, not gonna have any issue getting in,” Dean mutters quietly.
You moan softly at the drag of his cock through your arousal. The spongy head of him bumps against your clit and you whimper, the overstimulation becoming borderline painful.
“What’s a’matter?” Dean asks. “Too much?”
“Uh huh,” you nod.
“Too fucking bad.”
You moan weakly as Dean presses forward, shoving the blunt tip of his cock inside you. Involuntarily, your hips sway forward, away from the stretch. With how wet you are, there’s not much pain, but his fingers can only prepare you for the girth of his cock so far.
Dean’s hands grab fast to your hips, pulling you back to him, the motion sinking you down onto him almost to the hilt. You gasp a moan, feeling unbelievably full to the point it knocks the air from your lungs.
“Where you goin’?” he grunts, working his hips forward and back. “I know you’re not running from my cock after crying for it.”
“So big,” you gasp, inner walls clenching around him as you try to adjust to the sudden stretch.
Dean leans forward, rutting his cock into you. “Stop your fucking whining and take it, pathetic slut. I can feel you dripping down my balls.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as his words hit their mark. It’s all so much; you can practically feel every vein and contour of him inside you. As he drags himself out, the bulge of his head catches on that sensitive spot, immediately making your legs shake.
“Oh, baby, cry all you fucking want,” Dean lays a sloppy kiss to your bare shoulder. “All it’s gonna do is make me harder.”
As if in emphasis, he snaps his hips into yours. You are thrust forward, the unforgiving edge of the sink digging into your lower stomach. Blinking, the tears leak down your cheeks, rewetting the paths from the ones that had fallen earlier.
His arm snakes around to your front, pulling you back against his chest. A big hand pulls your shirt and bra to the side, enveloping a breast. He rolls the hardened nipple between his fingers, every movement made with expert precision.
You swear you can feel his cock in your stomach with every grinding thrust into you. His hips barely break contact with your ass like he can’t be bothered to pull out for even a second. The outcome is his cock stimulating that sensitive spot; the pressure is helped by the way the sink edge ensures he slides along it with each and every movement.
“So fucking tight, baby,” Dean moans in your ear, still fondling your breast. “Always a perfect fuckin’ cumslut for me.”
Your hand reaches behind you both, sinking your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. His balls slap against your skin as his thrusts grow longer, his hand sliding up from your tit to your neck. He doesn’t squeeze this time, but just the feel of his calloused palm and fingers circling your throat makes you clench around his cock.
“Fucking me…so good,” you moan out, holding a hand to his wrist.
“Say my name, bitch. Who’s fucking you so good?” He growls, nipping at your shoulder.
“You are, Dean,” you babble.
The hand not on your throat dips between your legs, finding your thoroughly abused clit. A whine crawls its way up your throat and you feel his hand tighten almost imperceptibly around your neck.
“Shut up. I don’t wanna hear it,” he snaps. “Just take it. Fucking take it.”
“But—”
“I don’t care. Not my fucking problem.”
And he doesn’t, his fingers speeding up their motions on your clit. Sharp pangs stab at you with each brush of his callouses over your swollen nub. It all melts into pleasure and all you can do is push your ass back against him, meeting his thrusts.
Dean moans his approval. “See, that’s a good whore. Feels fucking good, don’t it.”
“Yes,” you keen, slamming yourself back on his cock.
His thrusts don’t let up. Instead, they become more forceful, sending you into the sink hard enough you’re sure you are gonna have bruises on your hips tomorrow morning. His cock throbbing against your inner walls, and his panting moans in your ear have become ragged. His fingers on your clit are unrelenting, pushing you towards the brink of yet another orgasm.
He’s all but draped over your back at this point, snapping his hips into yours erratically. Just when you think you can’t take any more, Dean groans into your ear.
“Gonna fucking paint this pussy white, and you’re gonna take it all. Y’hear me?”
Your pussy pulses in response. “Yes, please cum in me.”
Dean moans and it’s one of the sexiest things you’ve ever heard. “That’s fucking right. Beg for my cum, bitch.”
His hand slides from your neck to your shoulder, bracing you and himself as he thrusts harder, balls slapping harshly against you. The grip is bruising, but you’re too far gone to care.
“Please, cum in me, Dean. Need’a feel you fill me,” you whimper.
“Oh fuck, baby.”
You feel hips stutter then, his cock throbs as his orgasm hits him. He’s not quiet, moaning your name loudly.
You can feel his cum filling you, thick ropes spurting into your pussy, and that alone sends you over the edge, yet another orgasm crashing into you. This time, your violently shaking legs give out.
Instantly, Dean's arm wraps around your waist, holding you there as he gives a few more rutting thrusts into your pussy, milking his cock. You both stay there for a second, heavy breathing filling the room as you gasp for air.
He breaks the silence first. “Can you stand?”
You take a second, assessing your still trembling body. Finally, you nod.
Taking you at your word, Dean relinquishes his hold on you, leaving you to brace yourself on the sink as he walks over to the paper towel dispenser. He snags a few, using them to clean his cock off before tucking himself away.
He doesn’t offer you any, instead he turns and unlocks the door.
Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he gives you that sharp grin. “So, same time next month?”
You tug your clothes back into place. “Fuck you.”
“Darlin’, you just did,” is all he says before he disappears out the door.
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at first, ben despised the idea of anything pr related. he let it slide when vought started to go hollywood and he became more of a heart throb than a hero. but, a pr relationship was a lot.
until they told ben the truth.
you were made just for him.
miss merica. ben never saw anything more beautiful in red, white and blue.
and you were nothing but america's sweetheart. all bright smiles and soft words— perched right next to soldier boy in front of dozens of cameras— talking about how honored you were to be standing there with vought. with ben.
he learned to love having you next to him. his pretty little arm candy. america's favorite couple.
but it took him a while to get you to stand next to him so pretty.
"ohhh–b-soldier boy!" you couldn't feel anything but ben. his huge arms were pinning you down completely.
your eyes were blurring so much that the green in ben's suit was taking over your vision and his tongue was taking over everything else.
you could lie and say you were shocked you ended up with soldier boy in your bedroom at vought tower. but really, it was inevitable.
you knew you really wanted each other when he started practically living with you. sleeping in your bed, changing in your green room— he refused to eat a meal without you.
and you knew it was more real than you realized when clara started looking at you like you took her favorite toy.
because really, you did.
ben's eyes were shut while his mouth was sucking in anything your pussy had to give him. he'd been doing this for a while— almost an hour now.
he pulled back from your soaked cunt to hit his heavy palm against it. you jolted at the sensation and whined up at him.
he grinned at your reaction with that stupid soldier boy smile. he was rubbing your clit now to sooth you from the smack and simultaneously keeping you on edge.
he laughed at you before leaning back down and getting ready to dive in again.
"come on doll, i wanna see how sweet america's sweetheart can really get."
“ fuck sweetheart . ” those are probably the least offending words you ever heard him say . his fingers tightened on your hips , skirt caught up around the circumference of your waist and panties pulled on the side while his dick disappeared in your gummy walls . you could feel the fabric of his costume pants brush against your thighs at each of his thrusts. a few moans spilled from your lips and and you started to wonder how you'd ended up there .
stan edgar asked you to go fetch soldier boy from whatever shit he had been doing and bring him straight to his office . you weren’t surprised when you found him high on the immense couch dominating his penthouse living room .
the french tips of your nails dug in the leather material of the couch.
“ you’re tighter than a fucking virgin—look at her dripping on my fucking cock . ” his thumb slipped past the rims of your butthole and you immediately clenched both around his thumb and length. your slick gushed down the girth to form a white ring at the base of his cock .
there was something wrong about hearing the wet squelch of his dick driving into your weeping cunt and the grunts that escaped both of you in ben’s quarters .
“ you sure love it raw , yeah ? didn’t know you were a dirty little slut . ”
pov: something happened between you and Daryl on one of the supply runs. Neither of you wants to name it, but you both know you'd protect each other no matter the cost
“Truth is,” Daryl said slowly, his heavy hand landing on your shoulder—warm and sure, “don’t got words for it. Just… don’t want nothin’ happenin’ to you.”
castiel being weird about boobs because he can't understand why they're so sexualised in media, and believing that any time anyone brings them up (cough cough, dean), that he has to fall into monologue about how important they are to human anatomy.
"but.. why?" he asks, in that gruff, deadpan tone of his. "they are a functional thing. why do people have to.. use them like that?"
and yet, behind closed doors, he's an absolute freak. he's so fascinated with your boobs; massaging the flesh between his hands, getting all touchy-feely with them. "they're so.. warm," he comments– with the clinical tone of a doctor– and, hey, maybe you'll have to give the guy a tit-job or two..
hi could u write the reader is having a really bad day and she kinda tears up so ben (sb) comforts/babies her but he’s not gentle or soft
BAD DAY WITH BF!SOLDIER BOY
Tags: established relationship. Fluff. pure fluff. Comfort. Age gap intended. Mean Ben if you squint. No use of y/n. No description of reader. Soldier Boy just wanna take care of you. (wc: 968)
You couldn’t be having any worse of a day than the one you were having right now. You had so far locked yourself out of your apartment, lost one of your AirPods as it fell down between the platform and the train on the subway and gotten all wet from the rain as you walk to your campus, soaking up your feet entirely and most probably caught a cold. And it was only 8 a.m.
By 10 a.m., you had also failed your exam, to which you had studied for weeks. Bought a coffee that fell all over your already drenched coat.
You carried a heavy heart for the whole day, every little victory feeling to insignificant to make you feel better and every bad thing that happened just added to your bad luck streak, to the pile you were carrying on your shoulders. Even as you decided to get home at the afternoon by uber, to get there faster. But the uber driver was smelly and hit traffic.
So it was only natural for you that as soon as you got home and threw your backpack and coat to the ground, your eyes well up with tears. You’re exhausted, it took you forever to get home and everything that could have gone wrong, went wrong. Ben is laying on the couch, rolling up a joint and he furrowed his eyebrows as he saw you dragging your feet and holding back the tears as you sat up right beside him.
“What the hell happened to you?” he asked, his tone low and lolling up on his tongue. You tried replying, saying something, trying to explain how everything in your day just went to Hell, but no word came out, only a sob and a hiccuped and small I can’t anymore before you broke, finally, crying to his side.
Ben raised his eyebrows at you, huffing a little and you threw yourself to his arms, burying your swollen face into his chest as you cried. “Wow. Easy there, sweetheart.” he whispered, his hands hovered over you for a moment, pinched eyebrows as he stared at your crying self. He finally caved in, his arms wrapping around your body and he patted your back slowly. “It’s okay, you’re fine.”
It’s not that he was ever taught to be… soft or how to bring comfort to anyone. Ever. Not even he had it. It was hard for him to know what to do exactly or how to… help? maybe? He caresses your back softly, trying to be soothing. He only lets you cry it all out, holding you in his arms.
You wipe away your tears, pulling away a little. He uses his thumb to catch a stray tear. “There you are.” he says with a small smile.
He doesn’t do gentle. He doesn’t know how. His hands just try caressing your back as you hiccup your way through your story. And of course you know he’s only half-listening to you. “C’mon, doll. You can’t be like this because of a sole bad day.” You know he’s trying, he wants to *help. But he’s coming off a little mean. You sniff, looking up at him through your eyelashes. He leans in, kissing your forehead as he believes he has given you the best advice you’ve heard in ages.
His expression is tight as you two stare at each other and he gruff. You know he’s getting annoyed by your tear-streaked face, your swollen eyes and your red nose, but it’s not like you can help it!
He huffs as he leans back on the couch, pulling your feet up on his lap. He tossed you his phone before he started taking off your shoes. “Order something in one of those things you like so much, my treat.” he grunted, throwing your shoes away on the ground. “You probably didn’t have a proper meal in all day.”
He took off your wet socks, starting to massage a little your feet to get them warmed up. You took the phone with trembling hands, ordering a pizza finally. You knew Ben would want some afterwards too. He got up and brought from your bedroom your fuzzy socks. Those he makes so much fun of but you keep saying how much you love them cause they keep you warm. As he sat up, he put them on your feet slowly, uncharacteristically careful.
He pulled the ridiculous weighted blanket you had there on the sofa and he manhandled you to make you snuggle to his side, your back resting on his abdomen. And he tucked you in —poorly— but still.
“I ordered pizza.” you say with a small voice and you gain a hum in response while he absentmindedly changed the channels on TV. He kissed the top of your head, his eyes glued to the screen.
“See, doll? You’re fine.” he said and you snuggled more into him, cuddling into his chest and seeking for the heat of his body. His heart was steady close to your ear. He keeps you close while he’s caressing your back and every now and then leaving a small kiss on top of your head.
He’s trying his absolute best to show that he cares. It’s not his fault he can’t do more than that.
He lights up his joint, holding you against him and he offers it up. You take it, just raising your head a little and taking a puff from between his fingers. He smiles. “Good girl.”
His praise makes you finally smile and you leave a kiss on his wrist before cuddling again, awaiting for your pizza.
a/n: Based the whole thing in an actual bad day I once had. How I WISH he was there to do all of this for me and baby me like this.
lowdown ☆ sleep doesn’t come easy. at three in the morning, you take over the living room.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 3845 ride style ☆ the enemies are back to lovers ( smut !! )
danger on the trail ☆ insomnia, emotional tension, crude/sexist comments from soldier boy, alcohol, guilt, rough kissing, explicit sexual content, dry humping/grinding, fingering, dirty talk, emotional cruelty
liv's log ☆ fucking warnings!!!
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
three in the morning belongs to people who can’t sleep and things nobody wants to say in daylight.
the new safehouse has finally gone quiet by then. which isn’t the same thing as peaceful. you’ve learned that lesson enough times to resent the difference. the hallway sits dark behind you. every closed door carries its own version of exhaustion: annie’s careful breathing somewhere down the hall, hughie probably lying awake beside her, frenchie and kimiko tucked into a room with too many wires and stolen files stacked near the floor, mm sleeping lightly because men like him don’t really surrender all the way to rest. butcher is either unconscious, plotting, or doing both with his boots still on, always ready to move, punch someone and ask questions later.
soldier boy is behind another door. that’s not your problem. you tell yourself that twice on your way to the kitchen, barefoot and cold, wearing sleep shorts and an old shirt soft enough to make you feel briefly less armed.
the bruises under your jaw have faded into ugly little ghosts, gone if the light is kind. your wrist aches where his hand had closed around it earlier, but not badly enough to matter. not badly enough to touch. you’ve been very committed to not touching it.
the kitchen light stays off. you know where the fridge is. you know where the beer is. you take one bottle, then stare at the rest for a second before shutting the door with your hip.
one beer is fine. one beer at three in the morning while your chest feels too tight and your brain keeps replaying soldier boy’s voice saying i made a mistake is completely normal.
you don’t think about that. instead, you move into the living room and claim the couch with the stiff seriousness of a woman establishing territory. the room is dim, lit mostly by the weak blue glow of the television after you find the remote wedged between two cushions. the couch isn’t sagged in the middle like the one left at the old safehouse. this one doesn’t carry the shape of too many nights. this couch is firmer, colder, unfamiliar beneath your legs when you curl them under yourself.
you turn the tv on low and flip through channels until you find something aggressively stupid. a love island rerun. a neon villa, pretty people with shiny skin and terrible emotional boundaries. women in bikinis sitting by a pool while men with abs and the conversational depth of soap stand around pretending to have thoughts. perfect. meaningless. nobody on screen has ever had to run from black noir through an alley or stab a man to save hughie or make soldier boy kneel with a sentence.
a blonde girl is crying because a man named mason or jaxon or some other asshole-guy-name kissed her friend after saying he was “open to exploring connections.”
you take a sip of your beer.
“idiot,” you mutter at the screen. the blonde keeps crying. the man says he didn’t want to hurt anybody. you hope a palm tree falls on him.
for a while, that’s enough. the low voices from the tv. the rain thinning against the windows. the bottle cold in your hand. the house finally still around you.
then the hallway floor creaks. your shoulders tense before you can stop them.
you don’t turn. you know those steps. heavy, unapologetic, impossible to mistake even when he’s trying to be quiet, which he never really is. the sound moves closer, pauses near the kitchen, then continues toward the living room. a shadow fills the doorway.
soldier boy stops when he sees you.
you look at him then, because not looking would be worse. he’s in an old shirt and sweats, hair messy from whatever version of sleep he didn’t get, jaw rough, eyes sharp even in the low light. he looks too awake. too solid. too much like every bad thing you’re trying not to feel.
you glare at him.
he stares back.
you roll your eyes and look at the tv again.
from the doorway, he exhales through his nose. not a laugh. not quite a scoff. something irritatingly close to both.
he doesn’t leave. leaving would mean you moved him out of a room by existing in it, and soldier boy would rather walk into traffic than hand you that.
he crosses to the kitchen without a word. the fridge opens. glass clinks faintly. it shuts again. his footsteps return.
you take another drink and keep your eyes fixed on the blonde girl, who’s now decided to forgive mason-jaxon-whatever because he called her “special” beside a fire pit. humiliating.
the couch dips on the opposite end. soldier boy sits with a full cushion between you and then some, body angled toward the tv, beer loose in one hand. not close. not far enough either. the space between you feels staged. childish. two people refusing to leave the same room because both of them are too stubborn to admit the room changed when the other entered it.
the woman on screen walks toward the pool in a bikini small enough to leave little to the imagination. which is kind to say. her lips are glossy and overfilled, chest bouncing with every step.
soldier boy lasts exactly twelve seconds. “jesus,” he says. “look at the tits on that one.”
you make a disgusted sound before you can stop yourself.
his eyes flick toward you. “what?”
“nothing,” you take a slow drink.
the answer doesn’t satisfy him. “that was somethin’.”
“just forgot you’re a walking harassment lawsuit.”
“lawsuit?” he repeats, as if personally insulted by the concept. “i complimented her.”
“you stared at a stranger’s chest and announced it to the room.”
“only room’s you.”
“tragic for me.”
his mouth twitches. you make the mistake of glancing his way and catch it. something ugly surges. shame. hurt. regret. the words are on the tip of your tongue. make the moment softer. fix things. explain. make it right.
“listen…” the word trembles pathetically on its way out. “i—”
he knows what you’re doing. still, he doesn’t flinch. instead, his eyes stay on the tv. he talks over your weak attempt. “you watching this crap for the plot?”
a soft scoff leaves your lips. “yes. i’m deeply invested in whether chastity forgives a man with the personality of damp cardboard.”
“she the one with the rack?”
“obviously.”
“then he should be apologizing harder.”
you turn your head slowly and stare at him. “you are so unbelievably old.”
he looks back with infuriating innocence. “and yet… still right.”
“women could vote when you were born, right? just checking.”
“don’t start.”
“i’m trying to understand where history failed you.”
he takes a drink from his beer, gaze returning to the tv. “women used to have standards.”
“men used to die from infected paper cuts. maybe progress is fine.”
his mouth does it again. the almost-smile. smaller this time, buried before it can become anything generous. you look away.
the show keeps going. someone receives a text and the entire villa reacts as if god has spoken through an iphone. a man in a linen shirt says he feels “tested”. another woman cries. a brunette with lashes large enough to create wind resistance says she’s “not here for drama” while actively walking toward drama with both hands open.
for five minutes, neither of you speaks. the silence isn’t comfortable. it has too many teeth for that. but it’s not the silence from earlier either, the one in the kitchen after he said he made a mistake and left the words inside you to rot. this one is stranger. quieter. full of old muscle memory and new caution. the couch knows too much even if the walls don’t.
you can feel him beside you. not even close enough for his body heat to reach your legs properly. still, he’s there, taking up space like he always does, one arm spread along the back of the couch, beer balanced against his thigh, attention pretending to belong to the tv.
eventually, he grunts a reluctant “can’t sleep?”
you don’t look at him. “you conducting wellness checks now?”
“heard you moving around.”
your mouth tightens around the next breath. “didn’t know you still listened.”
the tv murmurs between you. some poolside nightmare says she needs to protect her peace. you need to protect your peace, too.
soldier boy is quiet long enough that you have to physically restrain yourself from staring at him.
“hard not to,” he says. something inside your chest reacts stupidly. then, after a beat, he adds, “you walk loud.”
you turn your head just enough to glare at him. “go fuck yourself.”
and he grins. actually grins. not the cruel curl from earlier. not the mean, empty thing he wore while holding butcher against the wall or your wrist in his hand. this is quick and sharp and horribly familiar, there and gone before you can decide whether seeing it hurts more than missing it did.
you kick his leg. you kick his leg with your foot. not hard. not enough to hurt even if he were human, which he isn’t, and that’s apparently something you can’t stop reminding him of tonight. it’s childish. petty. the kind of thing you do because your mouth has already said go fuck yourself and your body is too restless to let the insult be the end of it.
his hand closes around your ankle before your foot can drop back to the couch. firm. fast. not tight enough to hurt. tight enough to stop you.
the tv keeps flickering over both of you, blue and pink and stupidly cheerful, some woman on screen crying into a plastic champagne flute because her best friend whom she met 73 hours ago is after her man.
your foot is caught in soldier boy’s hand, your heel resting against his palm, his fingers wrapped around the bone just above it, and for one suspended second the whole room feels too small for the shape of that touch.
you look at his hand. then at his face. his grin is gone.
“you need to stop touching me,” his voice is low. flat. not loud enough to wake anyone down the hall, but sharp enough to make the air between you change.
your throat tightens before you can stop it. something mean rises to cover it. something colder than the want sitting under your ribs, colder than the guilt that’s followed you from room to room for days, wearing your skin better than you do.
“you’re all about consent now, huh?”
you know it’s ugly the second it leaves your mouth. you know it’s unfair in a way that feels good for maybe half a heartbeat before it feels rotten. because the thing between you isn’t clean enough for a line like that to land anywhere simple. because you were the one who said stop and made his body listen. because you were the one who took choice from him in a motel room with your voice shaking and power still hot in your blood. because there are things you can throw at him, and there are things that come back with teeth.
soldier boy’s eyes go still. his grip on your ankle tightens by one degree. “careful.”
“or what?” you ask, and the words are stupid. stupid, stupid, stupid, because your pulse is in your mouth now and your face feels too warm and your foot is still in his hand. “you’ll tell me to stay away again?”
his jaw shifts. you should stop.
“you’ll call me a liability?” you continue, voice quieter now, rougher around the edges. “tell me i’m a mistake? what’s next, soldier boy? you got a list?” the name lands hard. not ben. not anymore. you use it because he told you to. because it hurts less if you pretend the difference is respect and not punishment you agreed to by accident.
he stares at you for a long second.
then his hand pulls. sharp. warning.
your leg unfolds with the motion before you catch yourself, body sliding a few inches across the couch, beer bottle wobbling near your thigh. your free hand catches the cushion. the distance between you shrinks by half.
soldier boy doesn’t let go. “your mouth keeps getting you into trouble,.”
your laugh comes out too thin. “and yet you keep poking.”
his eyes drop to your mouth. that’s the first honest thing either of you has done all night.
heat cuts through you so fast it almost feels like anger. maybe it is. maybe there’s no difference anymore. not with him. not after everything. you want to pull your foot back. you want to kick him again. you want to crawl into his lap and bite that stupid, mean line off his mouth before he can use it on you twice.
you hate that wanting him has survived this. you hate that it doesn’t even feel weaker.
his thumb shifts against your ankle. a small adjustment of grip. practical. possessive. a warning pretending to be nothing.
“let go,” you say.
“get out”
the words land between you with a weight neither of you misreads. your lungs forget how to work for one second.
the tv laughs for you. canned, bright, humiliating. some girl on screen says she just feels really “disrespected, babe”, and under any other circumstances you might’ve found that funny. under any other circumstances, you might’ve made a joke. under any other circumstances, soldier boy’s hand around your ankle wouldn't have felt like the last weak thread of restraint in the room.
you push yourself upright, every movement slow enough to pretend you’re still thinking.
his gaze follows. “don’t start something you can’t finish.”
the old rhythm is there, buried under fresh damage, under the motel room, under butcher’s voice saying give her another dose, under your own voice telling him to shut up and his body obeying. still there. sickeningly familiar. a wound with a pulse.
you tilt your head. “you first.”
his hand pulls again. harder this time. and this time, you go with it. easy. too easy. the way he taught you, back when the worst thing between you was pride. follow force instead of fighting it. use the pull. close the distance. don’t waste motion trying to prove you can overpower something stronger than you.
your knee lands beside his thigh. one hand hits the back of the couch near his shoulder. the other grabs the front of his shirt, fingers curling in old fabric before you decide to let them. his beer hits the side table with a dull clink, abandoned. your body ends up over his lap, not fully settled, not yet, hovering at the edge of a choice both of you have already made by the time your faces are close enough for his breath to touch your mouth.
for a second, neither of you moves. there’s still time not to. that might be the worst part.
then he kisses you. or you kiss him. it happens too fast to divide the blame cleanly.
his mouth hits yours hard enough to knock the breath out of you, and you make a sound you’ll hate yourself for later, small and furious in the back of your throat. he swallows it. his hand leaves your ankle and grabs your waist instead, fingers digging into you like he can pull the last few days out by force. your other knee finds the couch on the outside of his thigh, and then you’re in his lap properly, too close, too hot, your beer forgotten somewhere near the cushion, your hands in his shirt, then his hair, then the side of his neck.
teeth catch. his lower lip drags between yours. your fingers tighten in his hair until he makes a rough sound against your mouth, and the sound goes straight through you, bright and awful. he grips your waist harder. you grind down before pride can stop you, more anger than rhythm at first, just a mean little press of your hips into his because you want him to feel what he still does to you. you want to punish him with it. you want to punish yourself more.
his body answers immediately. his hand slides up your back, dragging your shirt with it just enough for the cool air to touch your skin. you shiver and bite his mouth for noticing. he catches your jaw in one hand, just enough to hold you there, enough to angle your face so he can kiss you deeper, dirtier, until the stupid tv sounds far away and the only thing you can hear is your breathing and his and the rough drag of fabric where your hips move against him.
“does this count as out?” you say against his mouth, because you’re committed to ruining everything with words.
he huffs something almost like a laugh, then kisses you hard enough to shut you up. the sound you make is swallowed whole. his grip on your waist turns bruising as he pulls you down fully into his lap, your knees sinking into the couch on either side of his thighs. the heat of him is immediate, solid, the thick line of his cock already pressing up against you through his sweats. you grind down without thinking, a slow roll of your hips that drags a low groan out of his chest.
“fuck,” he mutters, one hand sliding down to grip your ass, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your sleep shorts. he squeezes, encouraging the motion, guiding you into a filthy rhythm against him. “all that mouth and you still climb right into my lap.”
you bite his bottom lip in retaliation, but it only makes him buck up harder, grinding his cock right against your clit through the thin layers separating you. the friction is too good, too much, and you’re already wet enough that the fabric clings. his other hand slips under the waistband of your shorts from behind, palm hot against bare skin, then lower.
he finds how wet you are and goes still for half a second. just long enough to make it worse. his eyes lift to yours, dark and mean and too satisfied. “look at that.”
“shut up,” you breathe.
“no.” his fingers drag through you, slow and filthy, spreading the slick mess he finds there. “you don’t get to kick me, crawl all over me, soak through your fucking shorts, and then act like i’m the problem.”
your hips move before you can stop them, chasing the pressure, and his mouth curves against your jaw.
“there she is,” he says, rough and low. “knew you were still in there.”
the words hit too close to something tender. not sweet. not gentle. tender in the way a bruise is tender. tender because there was a version of you he used to pull out with his hands and his mouth and that awful voice, a version of you that didn’t flinch from wanting him, that didn’t have to measure every touch against what you did in the motel.
she’s still in there. apparently. still stupid enough to answer when he calls.
his fingers press against your entrance, and you hate the sound you make. small. broken. honest enough to humiliate you. he feels the way you shift into it, the way your thighs tense around his hips, the way your body gives him permission your mouth is too proud to shape.
“yeah?” he asks, close to your ear. “that what you want?”
he pushes two fingers inside you, slow enough to make you feel every inch, rough enough to make your forehead drop against his shoulder. the stretch steals the air out of your lungs. your nails dig into the back of his neck, and his free hand tightens at your waist, holding you there while his fingers work into you with the same cruel patience he used to have on the training mat.
“always got something to say,” he breathes, lips brushing your ear. his thumb finds your clit through the slick, messy heat between your thighs, circling hard enough to make your hips jerk. “running your mouth like you’re in charge. but look at you now… falling apart on my hand in the middle of the fucking living room.”
his fingers thrust deeper, curling just right, and you clench around them, a broken sound escaping before you can stop it.
“got me under some kind of spell, don’t you? can’t seem to stay the fuck away even when i should.”
the second the word tumble out, the both of you freeze. not because of the words exactly. but your body knows. his body knows. the room knows. the phrase lands with the shadow of power behind it even though there’s none left in your blood.
soldier boy’s face changes beneath yours. not fear. not full anger either. something guarded, instant and reflexive, his eyes sharpening as if some part of him still has to check whether his mouth will obey him.
that’s what breaks it. you push off his lap so fast your knee slips on the couch.
his hand catches your elbow before you can stumble. you jerk back like the touch burns. “don’t.”
he lets go. immediately. no fight. no pull. no mean little grip to keep you there. his hand drops away, fingers curling once against his own thigh instead. it leaves you standing there with all your heat and all your shame and nowhere to put either of them.
your mouth feels swollen. your breathing sounds too loud. your shorts sit crooked, wet, on you. your shirt twisted where his hand dragged it up your back. you fix none of it. fixing it would mean admitting there’s something to fix.
soldier boy looks up at you from the couch, eyes dark, jaw tight, mouth red from yours.
for one stupid second, you want to go back. the thought horrifies you enough to make you cruel. “that didn’t mean anything,” you say.
his face closes. he leans back by half an inch, slow, like he’s giving himself room to look less affected. “sure looked like something.”
your hands curl at your sides. your fingers still remember his hair. your thighs still remember the shape of him beneath you. your body is a traitor, every inch of it, warm and awake and confused enough to mistake being wanted for being absolved. you don’t deserve absolution from him. you’re not asking for it, but it doesn’t stop you from wanting things you have no right to want.
soldier boy’s gaze drops once to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “running?”
you laugh, but it comes out wrong. “from you?”
“looks like it.”
for a second, you just stand there. the tv keeps playing behind you, bright and stupid and impossible. someone by the pool says trust is really important to me, and you almost laugh because the universe has a sick sense of humor.
you pick up your beer from the couch cushion. it’s warm now, useless. you hold it anyway. “this was a mistake,” the words come out before you can stop them.
soldier boy’s expression hardens so completely it feels like watching a door shut.
you feel it then. the echo. his voice from earlier. the way it carved through you and left you standing in the kitchen with your face held together by pride alone. you didn’t mean to give it back to him. maybe you did. maybe that’s the ugly part.
his eyes stay on yours. “seems to be going around.”
hurt lands in you with a dull, familiar weight. you nod once, like you earned that. because you did. “yeah,” you say, quieter now. “guess so.” the softness in your own voice disgusts you.
you turn before he can hear any more of it. before your face does something stupid. before you can look at him long enough to remember the exact sound he made when your hands were in his hair. the hallway waits dark beyond the living room, and you head for it with your beer still in hand and your pulse still wrecked.
behind you, soldier boy says nothing. no stop. no insult. no old nickname tossed at your back to make you turn around. the silence follows you down the hall anyway, hot and mean and alive.
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