Guys my best friend gave me the most amazing thing ever and I havent stopped sobbing and she gave me a bunch of kpop stickers and she wrote down all my baises from all the groups I Stan, and she wrote down all thr lyrics to my favorite songs, and she colored in a kpdh coloring sheet and wrote the sweetest, best, most amazing note ive have ever snd will ever receive and I havent stopped crying and I need to her give her smt back, all ive given her is a bouquet of yarn dandelions, and i need to give her the world and idk what to make pls help, im so new to kpop, and i havent stopped sobbing
He’s been mean to you the entire day, slapping your ass while you stood in the kitchen cooking, while you folded some laundry and then when you bended over the table to talk to Hughie. Finally when you and him were in your apartment alone you started complaining about it, started whining about him and everything he does. But Ben really wasn’t a fan of that so in one quick motion he put an end to it and got you to shut up real quick.
„Aww poor baby wants to catch her breath huh?“ Ben laughs and just clamps his hand down on yours mouth for another few seconds before finally lifting it and letting some air back into your lunges. „Okay okay fine but just for a second.“ At his words you hope that he’ll finally show some mercy so you go on and take a deep breath but just then his hand comes down on yours mouth mouth again. The other one pinching your nose shut.
You feel his tip hitting that exact spot inside your spongy walls that makes you arch your back of the bed but Ben really does prefer for you to stay still so he moves his own body further on top of yours.
When he finally moves his hand again you gasp for air, you push at him chest, not to actually get him off since you were still enjoying this in some sick way but cus him being so close and so on top of you made it even harder to catch your breath.
„Oh baby don’t act like you don’t enjoy this.“ he coos. You’re already starting to feel a little lightheaded but to be honest that just made the whole thing better.
Ben goes on to fuck into you harder and faster now and again his hand clamps down on your mouth. He steadies himself on his elbows to shut up the air thru your nose too. All the air thats left in your lungs doesn’t help since he doesn’t let go this time, not until your eyes start to flutter. Only then does he slow down and let you get some air.
Tears have started forming in the corner of your eyes from the lack of oxygen but be, the sick man he it laughs at that and goes to kiss over your cheek where the tears fell down. „Aww poor baby am I being too mean to you?“ he asks in this face comforting voice that makes a shiver run down your back.
In your dizzy and fucked out state you don’t even realize and just nod while letting out a „uh huh“ but that just earns you a harsh slap on the cheek before the same hand clamps down on your face again. With your air cut off again he quickens his pace and for some reason almost passing out really does it for you since just a second later you clench down hard on him.
The warmth spreads in your lower belly fast and makes you whole body shake in pure ecstasy. Ben doesn’t immediately let go of your face, even tho you’re almost blacked out now. Instead he fucks into you a few more times before finally pulling out of you with a groan and letting go of your face. „Will ya quit whining now?“ he asks with this face annoyance lacing his voice.
content warning/s & word count: 18+!!!, first and foremost—ben is his own warning here because jesus christ, language and swearing, misogyny, violence, threats, spitting, smut (kissing, biting, oral/cunnilingus, throat-fucking, fingering, unprotected p in v, threat of p in a, spanking, overstim, coming on face, ben being mean, reader has an implied breeding kink), manhandling, degradation, gentle humiliation, mocking, i believe that's it. 6.4k
The safehouse door slammed shut behind you with a rusted metal groan, the sound sharp and final—like a lid sealing on a coffin.
You dropped your bag at the threshold without looking back. Your shoulder was bleeding again—torn wide when the mission started unravelling, torn wider when he got involved. You hadn’t even wrapped it. Couldn’t stand the thought of asking him for help. Would rather bleed out on the floor than let him touch you.
The air in the safehouse was sour. Sweat, smoke, old rot behind the walls. A single naked bulb dangled from the ceiling, flickering every few seconds like it couldn’t decide whether to expose or protect.
Behind you: boots. Slow. Heavy. Cocky.
You heard him exhale like he was bored. Like this whole thing—the mission, the mess, you—was just another inconvenience.
“Y’know…” he drawled, voice low and lazy, like he was savouring the words before spitting them into your spine, “He’s not wrong.”
You didn’t turn around.
“Butcher,” he added, in case you needed clarity. “You heard him. Said we’re a liability. Said we fucked it.”
You still didn’t move. The pain in your shoulder pulsed in time with your heartbeat. You could feel him behind you—close enough that your skin prickled.
“What was it he said again? Somethin’ like—‘get the fuck back to base before you fuck everything else up, yeah?’” He snorted. “Fuckin’ poetry.”
You turned slowly. Deliberate. Controlled. Like you hadn’t been burning the entire way back.
Ben leaned against the table like he owned it. Like he owned everything. His shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled, streaks of blood dried on his forearms. A cut split the corner of his mouth, barely crusted over. He looked like hell. He looked smug as sin.
“This your way of apologising?” You asked flatly.
He grinned.
“For what? Havin’ to drag your sorry ass out of the crossfire?” He tipped his chin toward you, voice soft and sharp. “You’re the one who decided to break off formation, sweetheart. You’re the one who thought she knew better. As usual.”
“You were supposed to be on my six.”
“I was,” he said, with a smirk that could rot teeth. “But your head’s so far up your own ass, you probably couldn’t see straight.”
You took a step forward.
“Don’t fucking talk to me.”
“Why not?” He tilted his head, mock-confused. “Scared I’ll say somethin’ you don’t wanna hear?” He clicked his tongue. “Or scared I’ll say somethin’ you do?”
He pushed off the table and started toward you, boots deliberate, like he was giving you time to flinch.
You didn’t.
“Touch me and I’ll gut you.”
He laughed. Full-bellied. Loud in the cramped space.
“Jesus Christ. Every time. You get that little snarl in your voice and think it makes you dangerous. But sweetheart—” He closed the distance, close enough to smell the blood drying on his skin. “—you don’t scare me. You get me hot.”
You flinched before you could stop yourself. And he noticed.
“That’s right,” he said, voice dipped low like a secret, like a threat. “Say my name like it don’t hurt you to come out that pretty, wet little mouth.”
“I’d rather chew glass.”
“Don’t tempt me. I’d still fuck you with blood on your teeth.”
Your hand twitched toward your blade.
He saw it. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“What are you gonna do?” He asked, voice husky with mock concern. “Stab me?”
He leaned in. “C’mon, baby. Don’t tease. You and I both know you ain't gonna do shit.”
You shoved him.
It was instinctive, desperate, not meant to land so much as buy space—but he didn’t budge. Didn’t stumble. He just looked down at the spot where your hands had hit his chest. Then up.
Then smiled.
“There she is,” he murmured. “My little junkyard dog. All bark. No bite.”
You punched him. Hard. Right across the face.
His head jerked sideways with the impact. And for a moment—blessed silence.
Then he licked the blood from his lip and grinned.
“That all you got?”
You went for him again. This time he blocked it. Then the other.
You were shaking. Breathing too fast. You didn’t care. Your shoulder screamed, your vision burned—but you kept swinging. He caught your wrist. Twisted. Pressed you back against the table.
His face hovered over yours, grinning like a devil that just found a loophole.
“Always a mean little bitch under all that scowling,” he rasped, his breath hot against your cheek. “Now what? You gonna hit me again…”
His other hand slid across your hip, slow, possessive.
“…or you gonna fuckin’ kiss me?”
You shoved him—hard.
This time, Ben moved. His ass slammed against the table’s edge with a thud, the sound loud in the breathless space between you. The legs screeched against the concrete floor, the flickering bulb above swaying ever so slightly from the shift.
He didn’t look angry. He looked delighted.
That fucking smirk twisted across his split lip like sin incarnate. His eyes tracked your movements lazily, like he was watching a predictable game play out exactly as he'd imagined.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” you snapped, voice low, warning-laced, vibrating with the kind of rage that tasted like blood at the back of your throat.
He tilted his head. “Ohhh,” he said slowly, savouring the shape of the sound like a fine cigar. “Feisty now, huh?”
Your chest heaved. Your shoulder throbbed. The sleeve of your jacket was soaked through, blood soaking the fabric where the wound still wept. You didn’t care. Not now. Not when he stood there like every word that had ever left your mouth was just foreplay.
“You are a walking piece of shit, Hargrove,” you hissed, each syllable laced with months of bitter frustration. “Every time you open your mouth, it’s like someone scraped the bottom of a fucking urinal and taught it to speak.”
He barked out a laugh, loud and cruel, cutting across your words like a blade. “C’mon, sweetheart. You can do better than that.”
You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
“You’re a liability. A danger to your own team. You’re not a soldier—you’re a relic. Washed-up and bitter and desperate for someone to look at you like you’re still relevant—”
“There she goes,” he said, louder now, over you. His tone dripped with amusement, his grin all teeth. “God, you run that mouth like it’s gonna win you a medal.”
“Shut the fuck up and let me finish!”
“Why?” He shrugged. “You only like hearin’ yourself talk?”
Your vision blurred, fury red-hot behind your eyes. You didn’t even realise how close you’d stepped until you felt his breath ghosting across your lips.
“You think this is funny?” You hissed. “You ruin everything you touch. Every mission, every team—you tank it. Because you can’t handle anyone not looking at you like you’re a fucking god.”
He didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked pleased. “And yet you keep comin’ back,” he murmured. “Can’t help yourself. Bet you lie awake wonderin’ if I’m thinkin’ about you. Wantin’ me to.”
You scoffed, but his grin widened.
“Hate to break it to you, honey, but you ain't special. You're just easy.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Nah. I'm honest.” He stepped in close, voice dropping to a murmur. “Y’know what your real problem is? You don’t know your fuckin’ place.”
You blinked. Something in your spine stiffened. That sick-slick tension tightened between your ribs.
“Back in my day,” he continued, slow and deliberate, “girls like you weren’t out in the field. You were fuckin’ dinner entertainment. Something soft to come home to. Not stompin’ around, actin’ like your tits and your tantrums count as tactical advantage.”
Your nails bit into your palms. He kept going.
“You wanna play soldier so bad, but you can’t even keep your emotions in check. Bleedin’ all over the floor and yellin’ like a brat who didn’t get her way.”
“I am ten times the asset you’ll ever be—” you began, but he cut you off again.
“Sweetheart, the only asset you got is between your fuckin’ legs.”
Silence fell. Ugly. Hot.
Then you spit.
Right into his face.
It landed just beneath his eye, slid slow and gleaming down his cheek to where his jaw tensed. He didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t blink.
Then, fast as a whipcrack, he lunged.
His hand snapped up and clamped around your jaw with bruising force, fingers digging into the soft parts of your cheeks, thumb pressing into the hinge like he was daring it to break. He squeezed hard enough to make your lips part, to force your chin upward until your eyes had nowhere to go but him.
You jerked, tried to wrench away, but he held you firm. Unyielding.
“Don’t waste your fuckin’ spit like that,” he growled.
His breath was hot. His face inches from yours, that cut on his lip glistening red and wet.
“You got no idea how many men would’ve dropped you where you stand for that.”
He paused, then smiled. A slow, filthy thing.
“But not me.” His voice rasped low, reverent in the worst way. “Nah. I like you like this. All mouth and no plan. Lookin’ at me like you wanna kill me and come on my cock at the same time.”
You tried to speak, and he tightened his grip. The ache bloomed instantly, your jaw locked in place.
“Don’t. Speak.”
His eyes roamed over your face, dark and gleaming with something feral.
“You’re not gonna say anything I haven’t already jerked off to.”
Your jaw ached in his grip, cheeks squeezed between his calloused fingers, lips parted just enough for breath to pass—but nothing else. He held you there like a fucking trophy, his thumb rough against your skin, his smirk rotting through your bloodstream like venom.
You could hear yourself breathing. Could hear him breathing. Close and sharp and slow. Measured, like he was savouring the scent of your unraveling.
You hated the silence. Because in the silence—you felt it.
The throb. Low and dark, blooming in your gut like a bruise. Not from rage. Not from shame.
From want.
And it hit you like a slap.
No.
No, no, no.
Your pulse pounded hard against your ribs. Your body buzzed like it had just realised what kind of man had you pinned. What kind of voice was in your ear. What kind of fingers were on your jaw.
And that—that’s what made your stomach twist. Because somewhere in the middle of all the hate and heat and violence—
You were getting wet.
You scowled. Tried to pull back. But Ben’s grip didn’t loosen. Instead, his smile stretched into something even worse.
“Ohhh,” he crooned, soft and vicious, “there it is.”
You froze. Heart lurching.
“That little squirm,” he said. “Took you a minute, huh? Thought you were gonna keep up the act a little longer.”
You growled in your throat, furious, but he just kept going.
“Should’ve known. All that righteous little rage—” he leaned in, voice dipping like a secret, “—was just your pussy tryin’ to negotiate terms.”
You twisted in his grip, but he followed you like a shadow.
“Bet you’re soaked. Hatin’ every second of it. Poor thing.”
“I’m gonna kill you,” you hissed.
He ignored it.
“What is it?” He murmured. “The voice? The muscles? Or is it the fact I treat you like a fuckin’ dumb little girl who doesn’t belong on the field?”
You spat again—but this time, you missed. It hit his collarbone, slid down his bare chest where his shirt wasn't fully done up.
He chuckled darkly.
“Temper, temper.”
Then you bit him. Hard.
Your teeth sank into the curve where his shoulder met his neck, the tang of his sweat hitting your tongue like copper and salt. You heard him grunt—deep and involuntary—but he didn’t pull away. If anything, his hand tightened on your jaw, holding you there like he wanted the pain.
You pulled back and glared up at him, lips slick with spit and rage.
“You are not fucking me,” you snapped.
Ben didn’t blink.
“No?” He said, voice sharp with laughter, laced with something darker beneath it.
Then his hand dropped low, low enough to brush between your legs, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the heat there.
His eyes lit up.
“Well I ain’t fuckin’ the hole in your shoulder, sweetheart.”
You slapped him.
The sound snapped through the room like the crack of a whip. His face turned with the force of it—but his smile stayed. Wider now. Red glistened on his lip where your palm had split it further, curling into the corner of his mouth like a badge of honour.
And still—he laughed. Low and steady, like he was enjoying this more than anything that had come before.
“Still got fight,” he rasped. “God, I fuckin’ love that.”
He stepped forward again, forcing you back until your spine met the rough cinderblock wall. His body caged yours, broad and radiating heat, his breath ragged but measured like he was controlling it just to make a point.
His hand landed on your hip. Possessive. Heavy.
“You’re burnin’ up,” he murmured. “Tryna hide it, but you’re meltin’ for it. I can feel it. You’re pulsin’.”
You sneered. “You’re hallucinating.”
He laughed again, but there was a tension coiled beneath it now. Something tight and hungry and climbing.
His fingers dragged slowly up your thigh, the heat of them searing through the fabric. He didn’t go high enough to touch anything worth touching—but close. So close. Just enough to make your skin buzz and crawl.
“You always get this hot when you’re mad, or is it just for me?”
You turned your face away.
That smug fucking tone. That condescension. That voice.
Your body hated you for it. You hated you for it.
He leaned in until his mouth grazed the edge of your jaw, his lips brushing skin with infuriating softness. His stubble scraped, and your breath hitched—just once.
He heard it.
“C’mon,” he said, softer now. Dangerous. “Stop fightin’ it, baby.”
You clenched your teeth.
“I’m not—” you started, but he cut you off with a groan that was almost frustrated.
“Jesus. You are the most stubborn little fuckin’ thing I’ve ever met.” His palm pressed flat against your stomach now, not moving higher, not yet. “I’m right here. You know it. I feel you, sweetheart.”
He pressed his hips against yours.
You felt it—his arousal, straining against his pants, heavy and hot and very, very there.
And still—your jaw locked.
He chuckled again, but this time it was quieter. Rougher. His lips ghosted over your ear.
“You ain’t gotta beg,” he murmured. “Don’t gotta say please.”
He nipped your earlobe, and you flinched.
“But fuck,” he breathed, “I want you to. Just once. Just a fuckin’ whimper of it.”
His other hand came up and gripped the back of your neck, dragging your head back against the wall, making you look at him.
“Just gimme somethin’,” he growled. “Let me have it.”
You stared up at him, eyes defiant, chest heaving, lips trembling with a fury you couldn’t name. His pupils were blown, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple.
“You want me to say it?” You whispered.
He nodded, once. Jaw ticking.
You leaned forward, lips almost brushing his.
“No.”
His eyes flared. Just for a moment. Then his forehead hit the wall beside your head with a hollow thunk.
“Fuckin’ tease,” he growled, nearly breathless. “Goddamn little—”
You kissed him.
Or maybe he kissed you. It didn’t matter. Because suddenly—there were no more words. Only teeth. Tongue. Pressure. Only hands everywhere, dragging, grabbing, bruising. Only the sound of your breath punched out of your lungs as he pinned you harder, like he wanted to break something open just to see what spilled out.
And still—you didn’t beg. Not once.
His mouth was on yours, hot and hungry and entirely too satisfied with itself. He kissed like he fought—with dominance, with grit, with absolutely no care for anyone’s breath but his own. Your teeth clashed, tongues fighting for control, every gasp turning into another insult.
“I fuckin’ knew you wanted it,” he muttered against your lips, breath ragged, voice ruined. “God, you’re such a fuckin’ prick tease sometimes.”
You bit his bottom lip, hard enough to make him grunt. “Shut the fuck up,” you panted, fingers already yanking at his half-undone shirt.
He growled—deep and primal—grabbing the hem of your top and pulling it over your head like it’d personally offended him. You barely had time to toss it aside before his hands were on your tits, greedy and rough and everywhere.
Between kisses, between moans, between muttered curses, you were tearing at his belt, yanking and fumbling, both of you shaking with urgency.
“Fuckin’ finally,” he hissed, snapping the leather free. “Gonna ruin you.”
“You already have,” you spat.
His grin split wider. “Aww, baby. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
Then he went for your pants.
And froze.
You were kicking off your boots, halfway done when he huffed—truly, violently irritated.
“Fuck this shit,” he barked.
Before you could speak, his arms wrapped around your waist and he spun you—fast, like the air was thick with smoke and he didn’t have time to be gentle.
You barely got your hands out to brace yourself before your hips hit the edge of the table and you were slammed down onto your front.
“Hargrove—” you started.
He didn’t listen.
Didn’t care.
His hand wrapped around your waistband and in one brutal, fluid motion, he ripped your pants and underwear clean down the back of your legs, the fabric tearing with a shriek and hitting the floor like surrender.
“Are you fucking serious?! I liked those pants!”
He grabbed a fistful of your hair, just enough to tilt your head back.
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth.”
Then he dropped to his knees.
You barely had time to process the shift before his hands gripped your ass and spread you, and his whole face pressed in like he was trying to suffocate between your thighs.
And then—his mouth.
“Oh fuck—”
The first lick was devastating. Broad and slow, from your clit to your dripping entrance, and then back again, like he was learning you.
Then came the second—filthier. Sloppier. Louder.
“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, voice muffled in your cunt. “You taste like a fuckin’ war crime.”
You choked on a laugh and a moan at once, half turning to glare over your shoulder.
“Don’t flatter yourself—”
But he growled—deep—and sucked your clit into his mouth like he was punishing it. You almost collapsed.
“Shut up,” he muttered against you. “Just fuckin’ take it.”
Then he really started working.
Tongue pressed flat, then curling. Lapping and sucking and moaning like he’d gone feral. One hand keeping you spread, the other sliding down your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise.
“You hear that?” He said, pulling back just long enough to spit onto your pussy and spread it with two fingers. “That squelch? That’s you, baby. Drippin’ all over my fuckin’ face.”
His mouth dove back in, and this time, he added teeth.
You cried out. His name. A curse. Maybe both.
He laughed into you. “That’s right. Fuckin’ mess. And you act like you’re not into it.”
You tried to push up, to speak, but he slapped your ass—hard—and buried his tongue deep again, humming like it was the best goddamn meal he’d ever had.
“Keep that mouth shut and let me eat, sweetheart,” he growled, voice wrecked. “You’re so fuckin’ wet I could drown in it.”
And he wanted to. You could feel it—in the way he moved. Desperate. Devoted. Obscene.
You were moaning. Panting. Swearing. But even now—still, now—you were running your fucking mouth.
His tongue had been buried in you for what felt like hours. Alternating between lapping, sucking, biting—his face drenched, his groans constant, hands gripping your thighs like a lifeline.
And you? You were taking it. You were suffering for it. But not quietly.
“You sound like a dog,” you hissed, voice breathless, broken, but still smug. “Fucking mutt. Bet you’d hump my leg if I let you.”
He growled into your cunt. You gasped. But the grin was still there, stretching across your face like sin.
“You’re pathetic, Hargrove,” you whispered. “Fucking starving like you haven’t had pussy in—”
His voice rumbled, low and sharp: “Shut your mouth.”
But you didn’t. Couldn’t.
“Can’t get enough, huh? Pathetic little—”
“I swear to God, sweetheart—” His breath was ragged, trembling with something dangerous. “I will fuck that pretty throat if you don’t stop talkin’.”
You arched your back and laughed, breathless and triumphant.
“Aww,” you taunted, “Did I bruise your ego?”
That was it.
He moved. In a blur of strength and heat and fury, he grabbed your waist and lifted you clean off the floor. You yelped, legs kicking reflexively as your spine hit the table, your head dangling off the far side.
The world flipped upside down.
“Hargrove—what the fu—”
Your words were cut off by the weight of him—thick and hot and full, his cock driving into your mouth so deep your vision sparked.
Your throat convulsed.
He hissed through clenched teeth, head thrown back, arms braced over the table as he held you there.
“Fuck—told you.” His voice cracked, breath rattling through the growl. “I fuckin’ warned you,” he groaned, thrusting slowly, deeply, into your throat while your eyes watered and your fingernails dug into the edges of the table.
“Run that fuckin’ mouth one more time,” he panted, his hips grinding deeper with every word, “and I’ll use it just like this every goddamn time.”
He wasn’t pulling back.
Just shallow rocks of his hips, grinding against the back of your throat while he looked down at your body bent over the table like a goddamn feast.
And then?
His fingers slid between your legs again. Without warning. Two of them. Deep.
You choked—hard—around him as his fingers curled exactly where they needed to, dragging slick out of you like he wanted to make it messier.
Your whole body spasmed.
“You feel that?” He rasped, breath shuddering. “Goddamn. You’re squeezin’ my fingers like a fuckin’ vice.”
He groaned again—shaky, hot, fucked-out.
“Jesus, baby… and you were talkin’ like you didn’t want this.”
His free hand cradled your throat now—thumb pressed against the bulge of his cock visible in your neck, feeling himself inside you.
His eyes rolled back.
“Christ, your fuckin’ throat was made for me.”
You tried to move. Couldn’t.
Every breath you dragged in was him. Every sound was slick and gasped and obscene—the wet noise of his fingers plunging into your soaked cunt, the slap of his hips against your lips, the throb of your core twitching around his hand.
He laughed again—wrecked, barely holding on.
And you were still fighting it. Still glaring through tear-lined lashes, still gagging and clawing and refusing to break.
But he was gonna make you, even if he had to keep you full at both ends to do it.
He was fucking your throat like it was the last thing on Earth that could save him.
Every roll of his hips was deeper. Slower. Less angry and more delirious, like he’d tipped over into something hot and helpless and consuming.
His fingers were still inside you, working in tandem with his cock down your throat—crooking and twisting like he was testing reactions, mapping you from the inside out. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could barely think.
And he loved it.
You could hear it in the way he was groaning now—drawn-out, fucked-up sounds, torn from deep in his chest. He wasn’t even taunting anymore. He was worshipping.
“Jesus,” he gasped, looking down at you with wild, half-lidded eyes, sweat dripping from his temple. “This mouth. This fuckin’ mouth, sweetheart—"
He thrust again, slow and deep, hips stuttering at the feel of you twitching around him.
“I love it when you spit at me,” he groaned, voice cracking into a soft laugh. “I love it when you snarl like a rabid little fuckin’ animal—”
You gagged around him, throat clenched so tight he moaned.
“God, yeah. When you run that mouth like a spoiled little brat—when you hate me so fuckin’ loud—”
He curled his fingers inside you, deep and slick, pressing down on your front wall—that spongey, gummy, wreck-you spot—like he was playing a damn instrument.
“—and then suck me down like you don’t even need to breathe anymore—fuck—”
Your vision blurred. Everything started spinning. You tapped his thigh once. Twice. Desperate.
His hips froze. His cock still buried in your throat.
“Oh—fuck,” he gasped, already pulling out. “Shit. Sorry, sweetheart—got lost in the fuckin’ moment there.”
He was laughing. A breathless, ragged sound, part apology, part thrill. His eyes were wild with it. Face flushed. Hands shaking.
You gagged as air rushed back into your lungs, coughing, drool trailing down your chin, your mouth gaping as you tried to drag yourself upright.
“Jesus,” you rasped, blinking tears from your lashes. “You’re fucking insane.”
His fingers left you with a wet pull that made you flinch—and he watched it. Watched how your thighs twitched when you were empty again.
He was circling the table now, still breathless, his cock glistening, soaked in spit and flushed angry red.
“Damn right I am,” he said hoarsely, eyes raking down your wrecked body.
Then he gripped your hips and dragged you down the table, rough and fluid, until your ass met the edge and your legs dropped open—slack, shivering.
“C’mon.” His voice was low now. Different. Almost soft. “Lean up. Wanna see those fuckin’ eyes.”
You propped yourself up on your elbows, still gasping, still shaking. But you looked. You watched.
You watched him line up—the head of his cock rubbing through your soaked folds, catching against your clit, then sliding down to your entrance where you were aching to be filled.
He exhaled shakily, mouth falling open.
“God,” he muttered, like a man on the brink. “Look at you.”
One hand on your thigh. The other gripping himself, twitching at the base. He nudged forward again, teasing—not to torture, but because he was savouring.
You locked eyes. He was gone.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you,” he whispered.
Then he pushed in like he had all the time in the world.
No rush. No brutality.
Just that slow, devastating stretch as his cock split you open—inch by aching inch—like he’d been waiting for this, like he’d earned it. His mouth dropped open when he bottomed out, a filthy groan catching low in his throat.
“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “You’re so fuckin’ tight. Squeezin’ me like you were made for this.”
Your body arched, mouth falling open in a wordless moan as the table beneath your back creaked. You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. All you could feel was the weight of him—deep, thick, pulsing inside you—and the heat blooming out from where your bodies met.
And then he started to move.
Slow. Deep. Dragging his cock almost all the way out, then pressing it back in until your walls clenched and fluttered helplessly.
Your head lolled back. Your eyes rolled.
He slapped your thigh—hard.
“Uh-uh.” His voice was tight. Stern. “Eyes on me.”
You blinked, dazed.
He was braced over you, one hand on your thigh, the other fisted beside your hip. His hips rolled forward again—slower this time, deliberate. You moaned. Your eyelids fluttered.
Another sharp slap to your thigh.
“Look. At. Me.” he growled.
You dragged your gaze back to him, jaw slack, lips parted.
“Goddamn,” he rasped, staring down at you like you were an open flame. “Look at that face. Look at what I fuckin’ do to you.”
He rocked in again, groaning as your body clenched around him.
“I love this part,” he muttered. “When you’re still tryin’ to hold it together. Still actin’ like you’re not fallin’ apart.”
You whimpered, and his mouth curled.
“You like this, don’t you?” He crooned, voice thick with filth. “Being pinned open like this. Full. Spread. Watched.”
Your head tipped back again on instinct, eyes slipping shut—
And his hand snapped up, grabbing your jaw.
“No.”
He held your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, forcing you to meet his eyes.
“You don’t get to look away,” he said, voice sharp with heat. “Not when I’m inside you like this. Not when I’m this deep.”
He thrust again, deeper this time—grinding the base of his cock against you so perfectly you cried out.
“That’s it.” He grinned, breath catching. “I wanna see you break.”
Your hands scrambled at the table, nails dragging across the wood. Your thighs were shaking. Every time he bottomed out, your hips jerked, your breath hitched, your chest arched—and he watched. Every. Fucking. Time.
“Don’t you dare close those eyes again,” he warned, still holding your face. “I want to watch what I do to you. Every twitch. Every moan. Every little shiver.”
Your body pulsed around him like it was listening.
And that made him feral.
“Jesus, sweetheart—this pussy,” he groaned, slowing his thrusts again, dragging them out to pure torture. “Grippin’ me like it knows. Like it wants to be ruined.”
Your eyes fluttered again.
He tutted.
“Aw, baby. You tryna be good?” His cock slid deeper. “You wanna be good for me?”
You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. He let your jaw go—just long enough to slap your thigh one more time.
“Christ,” he groaned, hands gripping your thighs like restraints. “Still this fuckin’ tight…”
You felt it every time he bottomed out—hips flush to yours, cock buried so deep you could barely breathe. Your mouth opened on a moan that never quite found its voice, your head tipping back on the table, fingers trembling where they gripped the edge.
His hands moved—one sliding up to press flat against your belly, the other settling on your jaw, thumb grazing your lips like he didn’t know what part of you he wanted to control more.
“Pussy like this should come with a fuckin’ warning,” he muttered, thumb brushing your lower lip. “You feel that? How tight you’re squeezin’ me? It’s fucking perfect.”
You moaned, head tipping back more.
He slapped your thigh. Again. Sharper.
“Nuh-uh. Eyes. On. Me.”
Your gaze dragged back up to meet his—blurry, glassy, wrecked.
He looked devastated. Sweat on his chest. Jaw tight. His green eyes burning down at you like he’d die if you looked away again.
“You keep doin’ that, I’m gonna lose it,” he whispered. “I’m already hangin’ by a fuckin’ thread.”
Your walls clenched around him at the admission. He hissed.
“You like that, don’t you? Bein’ the one who makes me lose my fuckin’ mind.”
His thrusts got deeper, harder. Still slow, still controlled—but barely.
“God, I really do love this fuckin’ mouth,” he panted, staring at your lips now.
You whimpered. Shuddered. Your whole body was tensing.
He could feel it. His fingers reached down, thumb finding your clit, circling in tight, merciless pressure.
“You close?” He asked, voice gone rough and mean.
You nodded, whimpering, trying to say yes. But your throat couldn’t form it.
He stilled.
You cried out, grinding your hips, chasing the friction—anything—but he held you.
“Nope,” he rasped. “You wanna come? You ask.”
Your eyes flared. Fury and arousal crashing like thunder.
He grinned.
“What’s wrong?” He cooed. “Too proud to beg? Thought you were a tough girl.”
You clenched your teeth, panting.
“I can do this all night, sweetheart,” he said, hips grinding deep and slow again, teasing that spot that made your legs twitch. “I’ll keep you right here until you sob for it.”
He pulled back, just enough to make you feel empty. Then slid back in, eyes glued to your face.
“You gonna say it?” He whispered. “Gonna ask me?”
Still, you didn’t. But your eyes were glassy. Your hips were shaking. Your voice was gone.
And then, you said it. Soft. Broken.
“…Ben.”
His name. Your voice.
Everything stopped.
His hands shook. His breath hitched. His head dropped forward with a gasp.
“Oh, fuck…”
He looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with that sound.
“You’ve never…” he whispered. “You’ve never called me that.”
You said it again, even softer.
“Ben…”
And he shattered.
“Fuck, come.” His voice cracked. “Please. Now.”
His thumb pressed down. His hips snapped forward. Your body broke. And the moment it hit the air—
He snapped.
“Fuck—yes, yes, come, come for me—”
His voice fractured around it—command and awe bleeding together like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His thumb kept circling your clit, relentless. His cock buried deep. And your body shuddered beneath him.
You came hard. Again. Back arching, mouth open, eyes rolling.
And still—
He didn’t stop.
Not even for a second.
He was still fucking you. Driving into your wrecked cunt like he’d been given permission to devour.
You whimpered. Eyes fluttering.
“Ben—”
“Oh, we’re not done,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “Not even close, sweetheart.”
He kissed you. Open-mouthed and filthy. His lips found your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he couldn’t decide what part of you to ruin next. His hips never slowed. Each thrust was harder now. Rougher. Every wet slap of his body against yours made you twitch.
You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. And your body—shaking, overstimulated—begged for mercy you refused to ask for.
Your head tipped back again.
Eyes closed.
Your fatal mistake.
He froze. Just for a second. Then he snapped his hips. Hard. Brutal.
You cried out.
His hand cracked across your thigh. Again.
“Eyes,” he snarled. “The fuck did I say?”
You tried. Blinked. Dragged yourself back to him.
His eyes were wild. Hair damp with sweat. Jaw tight. His cock pulsing deep inside you.
“You look at me when I fuck you.”
He slowed. Just a little. Then slammed into you again, harder than before—making the table creak and your legs twitch.
“Can’t believe you dared to close your fuckin’ eyes again after I warned you.”
“Ben—fuck, I—”
He spit the next words like a threat:
“You do that one more time, and I swear to God, sweetheart—
I’ll flip you over, fuck your ass deep, and I won’t let you look at me.”
Your whole body spasmed.
His voice dropped, feral.
“Sound good to you?” He growled. “Want me there next? So every fuckin’ inch of you is mine? So you remember who fuckin’ owns this body?”
You choked on a moan.
He grabbed your face again, forcing your gaze back to his.
“That’s right. Keep those pretty little eyes where they belong.”
He thrust again—hard, fast, filthy. You sobbed. Clenched. He groaned like he was dying. Your thighs were soaked. Your vision blurred. And he was still going. Still holding you wide open.
Still not coming. Because he wanted you broken first.
He was fucking you like he was trying to carve a god out of your body. Relentless. Precise. The kind of rhythm that wasn’t chaos—it was control. Hard-earned. Hard-kept. Just barely contained.
Your thighs were soaked. His cock was dripping. You could feel your own come sliding down the insides of your legs from the last orgasm, and still—he hadn’t let up.
Then—
His pace broke.
He pulled back, hips stuttering as he groaned, “Fuck, I’m close. Fuck—where d’you want it?”
His voice was wrecked. Ragged. Wild. “Your tits? Your stomach? Wanna see it drip off your ass? What, baby—what do you want?”
Your answer was a sob. One word.
“Inside.”
And he stopped cold.
You didn’t even feel his cock anymore—just the sudden absence as he yanked back like you’d burned him.
His hand flew to the base of his cock, fisting it tight to hold himself back.
“Jesus fuck, sweetheart—”
He was breathing hard. Panicked. Laughing like it hurt.
“You can’t—you can’t say shit like that,” he gasped, squeezing himself as precum smeared over his knuckles. “You gotta give a guy warning before you pull that fucking move.”
You whimpered. Barely coherent. “Please…”
He laughed. Laughed like he was losing his mind.
“Oh, no. No, no, no—” he choked, circling around the table like he had to walk it off or he’d blow right then and there.
He looked feral. Cheeks flushed, sweat gleaming on his chest, cock throbbing in his fist.
“Inside?” He echoed, voice hoarse. “Jesus, you really are a little fuckin’ menace.”
You blinked up at him, dazed, mouth open, wrecked in every possible way.
“The last thing either of us needs,” he panted, “is me fuckin’ a baby into you.”
You shivered. Moaned. He grinned wider.
“Can you imagine?” He groaned, twisting his fist at the tip. “Half me and half you? That kid would be fucked. Wouldn’t even make it past the first trimester before startin’ bar fights in the womb.”
He shook his head, still circling, the slap of his fist on his cock echoing through the room.
“Hot in theory, sweetheart. In practice? Not so fuckin’ much.”
He came to a stop at the head of the table. Looked down at you—body blown open, thighs twitching, chest flushed, mouth wet and waiting.
“Back,” he said, pressing a hand to your shoulder. “Down. Now.”
You obeyed. Laid back across the table, head tilted slightly, breathing shallow.
He gripped his cock tighter, leaning over you with that wild grin stretched across his face, his other hand toying with your nipples, rolling and pinching until you gasped.
“Gonna make such a mess of this face,” he whispered.
Your legs spread wider.
He grinned. “That’s my girl.”
Then his hand hovered over your lips.
“Open wide,” he said, voice low.
You did.
He spit. Heavy. Wet. Right into your mouth.
“For earlier, you little fucker,” he muttered, eyes glittering.
You moaned around it. Swallowed. Smiled.
He groaned. “Jesus Christ, you liked that.”
Then—he slapped your cheek, light, teasing. The kind of touch that said mine.
“Here it fuckin’ comes, baby,” he panted, jerking faster now. “Open wider. C’mon.”
You looked up at him. Eyes glossy. Lips parted.
He groaned loud. “Good girl.”
And then—
He came. Hot. Thick. Everywhere. Over your tongue, your chin, your cheeks, your fucking soul. And when he was done, he stumbled. Laughed. Ran a hand through his hair and looked down at you like you’d just ruined him.
Because you had.
author notes: boy, oh boy... i went hard on this one. i need to get fucked like this at the moment, i genuinely believe it would get me out of my own fucking head for five goddamn minutes and then i can just get back on with my life. but alas, i hate all men, and will not go near one, even if it means the dicking of my life.
i love ben like this. fucking nasty asshat but so obviously reverent over reader. we live to see it.
i also haven't fully proofread this because i'm just delirious from last night, and let's be real, the past few weeks lol. my life is going down the fucking toilet.
let me know what y'alls think, please. i need some fucking praise right now. and that isn't even a hint, it's an outright request.
all the damn love.
Dbf!Dean who pushes his fingers into your mouth whenever you start whining about literally anything during sex, or not during sex. (This was one of the dbf!dean things here)
Kinda request by @leena-bee
He’d offer you his finger whenever you need something in your mouth. Whether that be while studying and nipping at the tip of your pens the whole time or when you start whining about how you can’t take him and how big he is.
„Dean pleasee-“
„Nah sweetheart nothing of that bullshit.“
When he first pushes into you after not seeing you for two weeks but he doesn’t red any of your whining around so he just shoves your face back into the pillow and almost forces his middle and ring finger into your mouth.
You immediately start sucking them cus by not it’s almost programmed into your brain. After a few second it actually calms you down, your lips wrap around his fingers more eger and willing and just like that he’s got you to his feet again, willing to take whatever he gives you as long as you’ve got something to suck on in your mouth.
masterlist | my AO3 account | more of „supernatural“
Dbf!Dean who holds onto your thigh underneath the dinner table, letting his thumb brush over all your sensitive spots and moving his hand height and higher, all while your dad sits right across from you two.
Dbf!Dean who pushes himself up behind you while you do the dishes after dinner, your dad outside cleaning the grill. You can feel his growing hard on and his firm muscles thru his clothes, making the wetness just pool between your legs.
Dbf!Dean who presses down at the bulge that forms in your tummy whenever he pushes deep enough into you. He just loves seeing you whine about how big he is but how you can definitely handle every inch of him.
Dbf!Dean who likes fucking you while he’s got you in a headlock, making you unable to move from the overstimulation he’s putting you in. While you love being so close to him I to just getting way too much for you body to handle, but you wanted it didn’t you?
Dbf!Dean who tells you he’s so proud of you whenever you show him how good you did in on a test for college. And go of course rewards you with burying his head between your legs for hours on end.
Dbf!Dean who slaps or pinches your ass whenever you walk by him and no ones looking, at the family barbecue or when he and your dad watch football on weekends and you’re so nice to bring them another beer. Right here beside your dad but he’s focused on the game so he won’t notice.
Dbf!Dean who pushes his fingers into your mouth whenever you start whining about literally anything during sex, or not during sex.
Guys I swear I do NOT have any issues with my dad
taglist: @needjoekeery @jason-vs-crowbar r @iloveneilperry @eidbcgduiajxbsu @rubyrubydoo09 @romydolly
content: EXPLICIT 18+, sex curse, fuck or die, mildly dubious consent (because of the fuck or die of it all), fem!reader, mutual pining, unprotected piv sex, cumplay (just a little), nipple play, size kink
word count: 6.3k
summary: You fucking hate witches. Especially the one that hit you and Sam Winchester, whom you've been harboring a crush on for years, with a sex curse.
notes: i don't usually even read sex curse/fuck or die fics. i have no idea where this came from. i think i was possessed by some sort of horny demon or something. anyways i've been looking at this one so long that i have no idea if it's even good anymore. hope you all enjoy it lmao. also, divider by @cafekitsune <3 EDITING THIS TO MENTION THE TITLE IS FROM DISEASE BY LADY GAGA OKAY BYEEE!!!
crossposted on ao3
You fucking hate witches.
Some of them are alright. Some of them are kind and generous and only use their magic for protection and good luck and they only put hexes on people who really deserve it. You don’t mind those sorts of witches. Most of them, though, like the one currently throwing you across the room, are the fucking worst.
Your back slams into the wall before you tumble to the ground—maybe two, three feet away from where Sam is currently stumbling back to his feet—and the impact knocks the breath right out of your lungs. You groan, shoving up on your hands; you don’t have time to try and catch your breath. This witch is, frankly, kicking your asses. But right now, she’s focused on Dean on the other side of the room. If you’re quick, you might be able to get the jump on her.
You drag yourself up to your knees, just high enough to be able to access the gun in the waistband of your jeans and to aim it straight for her fucking head. Once you’ve got the gun in your hands, though, several things happen in quick, extremely unlucky succession.
The witch gets Dean on the ground and turns her head just as you raise the gun to aim right between her eyes, and she begins to chant, crackling, magical energy sparking in the space between her hands. You have just enough to time to think—fuck it. If I’m going down, I’m taking her out with me—before that energy is shot straight at you. You squeeze your finger on the trigger just as Sam, who has apparently recovered enough to try to take a bullet for you, jumps in front of you, knocking you back and sending your aim way wide so the bullet hits the wall instead of the witch’s skull.
And the worst part is it doesn’t even work. Six feet and four inches of pure muscle barrels into you, has you slamming right back against the wall with a pained, breathless grunt, and still, you feel the magic when it hits you, the energy of it spreading over your skin and sinking into your bones like an electric shock. Either you hit your head when you hit the wall, or the spell is making your head swim, leaving you too disoriented to tell which way the witch goes when she runs out the door.
Sam groans where he landed half on top of you. You blink in an effort to clear your vision, blindly reaching out to touch his face, to check if he’s okay. You don’t know exactly what that spell did, you were too far away to hear exactly what she was chanting, but you can feel it tingling across your skin, settling in like it’s making a home there. Sam got blasted too, that much is clear when your hand lands on his cheek and magic sparks across your palm.
He sucks in a breath, flinching away from the foreign feeling at the same time as you yank your hand back. “What the hell did she do to us?” he asks, shoving up on his arms to look down at you. And isn’t that just the million dollar question?
You’re on the phone with Bobby almost before you’ve even made it back to the Impala. All three of you agree whatever is going on with this hex you’ve been hit with, you’re in over your heads. You need some expert help.
“You get the witch?” Bobby greets, just rubbing salt in the wound.
“Uh. No,” you answer, climbing into the backseat of the car. You and Sam have been avoiding touching as much as possible, and it’s been shockingly hard. Honestly, you never noticed how closely you usually walk until every brush of your shoulders or hands sent sparks cascading over your skin. “There’s been a bit of a…complication.”
There’s silence, and then an exhausted, beleaguered sigh from the other end of the call. “You idjits managed to get yourselves cursed, didn’t you?” Bobby asks, his tone exasperated.
Ugh, God. The sun must’ve recently peaked in the sky, beaming down on the car and cooking you like you’re in a damn oven. You don’t remember it being this hot before. “Jesus—Dean, can you turn the air up?” you call out to the front before deigning to answer Bobby’s question. “Yeah. Yeah, she hit me and Sam with some sort of spell before I could shoot her. Problem is, we can’t really tell what sort of spell it actually is. It’s sort of creating like…static electricity? Every time we touch it’s kind of sparking.”
“Well, did she say anything?” Bobby asks.
You frown, irritated. “Don’t you think if I knew what spell she cast, I would’ve told you? I was too far away, I couldn’t hear what she was saying.”
From the front seat, Dean says, “I heard it, sort of. She was speaking Latin for sure, something about cupid?”
As Dean says this, you watch Sam’s eyes go wide and his face go a little pale, which really doesn’t seem like a very good sign. “Cupiditas?” he asks. And it’s strange, looking into the front seat, you notice Sam’s face is a little red, a sheen of sweat starting to build on his forehead. Clearly, he’s noticing the heat as you are. And though you have a bit of a hard time drawing your eyes from Sam—though, when don’t you?—you can see that Dean doesn’t seem to be hot at all, not seeming bothered by the way the car is cooking you.
“Yeah! Cupiditas con… something,” Dean confirms.
You repeat what Dean said to Bobby, and you hear the pages he’d been flipping through stop turning. “You know, I wish you three would stop putting me in situations where I have to explain shit like this to you,” he mutters.
You feel as out of the loop as Dean, which is not a very comfortable feeling to have. Sam seems to have some idea of what’s going on, if the look on his face is to be believed, and Bobby’s long-suffering complaints make you believe he knows exactly what spell you’re suffering from. “Explain shit like what?” you ask.
“She hit the two of you with a damn sex curse, is what,” Bobby says, and you feel your stomach drop out your ass.
“A sex curse?!” you repeat, incredulous. Of fucking course this would happen to you. “You’re joking. That’s not a real thing.”
“It certainly is. And deadly, too,” Bobby says, and you hear the turning of pages start up again until he finds what he’s looking for. “Says here you’ve only got about two hours before the, uh…lust heats you up too hot, cooks your brain inside your damn skull.”
Well. That at least explains why it’s so damn hot in here. “Well, how do we make that not happen?” You’re pretty interested in not getting so horny you literally die, thanks.
Bobby is silent for a moment, his discomfort with the subject warring with the knowledge that time is of the essence. “You’ve gotta…sate it,” he says haltingly. “You’re an adult, I’m sure I don’t have to explain how. It won’t break the curse completely, but it’ll buy Dean time to find the witch and kill her; that’s the only way to actually break the curse.”
Oh, fucking hell. “So…we’ve got two hours, unless we…” you trail off, your stomach flipping at the thought. Sam’s hands desperately tugging at your clothes, needy, he’s got to have you or he’ll die, literally. You tug at the collar of your shirt, sweating for real now, and shake it off. “But if…if Dean finds the witch before then, then we wouldn’t have to. Right?”
“If you wanna tempt fate like that, be my guest. But it’s gonna be uncomfortable as hell. Soon enough, it’ll be pretty hard to remember exactly why you’re tempting fate in the first place.” You hear Bobby slam the book shut. “But if you do decide to sate the curse, keep it to yourselves, please. I already know too much about this, and I don’t wanna know any more.”
You swallow, your mouth dry with the images swirling through your head again. Familiar ones, sure; this is certainly not the first time you’ve ever thought of Sam like that. But these images are so vivid, so intense, shooting arousal down your spine and building in your gut faster than you’ve ever known it to do so. “Alright. We’ll just…let you know when we—when Dean gets her, then.” You hang up the phone, turning your attention to the front seat where both brothers are staring at you, eyes wide. Right. They could hear your side of the conversation.
“A sex curse?” Dean asks, voice flooded with disgust. Like Bobby, he probably already knows way more about this than he’d like to.
Sam though…his expression is strange, a little unreadable. You wish you could get a better handle on his thoughts here because you have pretty mixed emotions, yourself. On the one hand, you’ve wanted Sam…God, since you met him. The only thing the curse is doing is amplifying it, turning that desire into something deadly. But this was never how you wanted it to happen, although you’re not sure who would ever want a sex curse to be the reason they finally got to kiss their crush.
You relay what Bobby told you to the boys, everything Bobby told you, even when the mention of sating the curse makes Dean’s lip curl in disgust. It doesn’t escape your notice that Sam visibly relaxes when you say that you don’t necessarily have to do anything, so long as Dean is quick enough, and it stings a little, the idea that he would rather push through the discomfort of arousal burning him up from the inside out than touch you.
Dean nods, untwisting his body to face the front of the car again. “Alright. We’ll get you two back to the hotel, and then I’ll kill the bitch.”
By the time Dean drops you and Sam back at the room, the effects of the curse are in full swing. You’re so hot, stripped down to shorts and your sports bra and still sweating buckets. Sam is in a similar state of undress, his shirt tossed somewhere across the room after the heat became unbearable. Of course, you only know this from quick glances because if you look at him too long, the urge to touch him, lick him, bite him, starts getting almost too strong to ignore. Every time you see his pecs out of the corner of your eye, your mouth starts to water. It only takes half an hour for it to start to get a little bit too much.
“Do you think Dean’s found her yet?” you ask, striking a conversation just for any type of distraction from the ache between your legs. And it does ache; you think you may have ruined both your underwear and these shorts from the way your cunt is dripping.
Where you’re looking at him in your periphery—in an effort not to exacerbate the flooding of your panties—Sam shakes his head. When he speaks, his voice is low and rich and almost rasping, and you squirm where you’re sitting as it hits your ears. “He texted me a few minutes ago, said he thinks he’s getting closer, but…” But it’s not looking good. The words hang unsaid in the air.
You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “We might not have a choice,” you mutter, glancing at him through the gap between your fingers. Your eyes zero in on the hollow of his neck, your entire body buzzing with the need to attach your mouth to it, to see what noise he’d make if you did. You can’t drag your eyes away. “He’s not gonna find her in time.”
Sam’s gaze turns to you, and you finally manage to lift your eyes to watch his drag down your body, his pupils blown so wide you can no longer see the hazel of his irises. “He might,” he protests, but the argument falls flat with the way his eyes are locked on your cleavage, glistening with sweat.
“And if he doesn’t?” you ask, lifting your head from where you’ve been hiding behind your hands. Seeing him full on, no hiding in your periphery or stealing quick glances, it’s like staring straight into the sun. Blinding. You have to take a deep breath and dig your fingers into the sheets beneath you to keep from reaching out. “How long are we gonna push it? Are we gonna let it kill us just so we don’t have to—”
He interrupts you with a rasp of your name, and you almost groan out loud at the sound of it. Fuck, you’ve never needed anything like you need him right now. Like air, like water. “That’s the thing, I don’t want to have to. I—God, it feels like…forcing you. It feels wrong.”
Is that his hold up? He thinks you don’t want this? Jesus, you’ve gone this whole time thinking he’d literally rather die than fuck you, and it turns out he was just scared you didn’t really want him, that the curse was making you feel things you’d never feel otherwise. “Sam, I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but you’re hot. I’d way rather have sex with you than die.” You watch his hands flex, his fingers spreading before he balls them into fists, and your cunt flutters. “Actually, the list of things I’d rather do than fuck you is probably significantly shorter than the opposite. Not…not just because of the curse.” Of course, the curse is definitely making it worse. You can’t stop thinking of how good his thick fingers would feel curling inside you, imagining how attentive he’d be. How generous. Normally, you can curb it a little, save those thoughts for late at night, guilty and shameful. But right now they’re sticking at the forefront of your mind, no matter how hard you try to think about literally anything else.
You watch the conflict in his mind playing out on his face before he groans and rubs his hands over it. “You don’t get it; it’s not—I don’t want to just be someone you fuck, I want…I want everything,” he tells you, and if your heartbeat wasn’t already erratic, it would be skipping in your chest right now. “And this is just absolutely the last way I wanted you to find out, but that’s why I’m not…I just don’t know if I can do this if this is all I’m gonna get.”
“Oh, Sam.” His name falls from your lips before you even realize you’re saying it. You stand up and cross the room to sit next to him on the bed, and you don’t miss the way his throat bobs as he swallows, the way his eyes flick down your body for just a moment, the way he twists his fingers into the sheets. You set it aside for now; this is more important. He is more important. “You really don’t know?”
He’s silent for a moment, his eyes searching your face; although for what, you don’t know. “Know what?” he asks, his voice quiet as a breath.
You lift your hand to touch his face, and this time, when the magic sparks across your skin, it feels like a salve, cooling the skin of your palm. From the way he sighs, you imagine he’s feeling the effect as well. “Of course I want that. Who wouldn’t want everything with you?” You’re so engrossed in the look on his face—wide-eyed awe, as if he truly never believed you could want him too—that the sparking of his hand touching your waist makes you jump. Oh, but God, the relief is instantaneous. If just this, your hand on his cheek, his hand on your waist, feels this good, how good would it feel to kiss him? To drag his shorts down his legs and sink down onto his cock, feel the way it stretches you out— “Now if you’re properly reassured, could you please, please fuck me already?”
Sam may have the self-control of some sort of divine being, but he is, in the end, only human, and the curse is deep, and hot, and needy. You can see it the moment his restraint snaps, and even if you couldn’t, he drags you in and plants his lips on yours. Every feeling is amplified tenfold, and as you gasp at his hungry kiss, Sam takes the opportunity to lick into your mouth, his free hand coming up to the back of your head to hold you close, guide you how he wants you. It’s not how you imagined he would kiss you, not really, but it’s exactly what you need right now, and the magic sparks down your spine in a wave of cool respite from the heat that had been eating you up.
Then he pulls away—to speak, or maybe just to breathe—and the heat surges back in instantly, stealing your breath and leaving you panting into his mouth as you frantically drag him back in. “No,” you groan, shoving your hand into his hair to keep him from pulling back again. “We have to keep—oh, fuck.”
The feeling of his hand shoving under the fabric of your sports bra, pushing it up to expose your breasts, shuts you up quickly. He brushes his thumb over your nipple, and you moan, pleasure sparking across what feels like every nerve ending you have. He doesn’t pull away to speak this time, well aware now that the relief you’re both feeling is very dependent on the contact. “I wish I could take this slow,” he mumbles, and you feel his voice buzzing against your lips. “Lay you down and taste every inch of you until you’re begging for my cock.”
As if you needed to be any hornier. “I’m already begging for it,” you tell him, before dragging his bottom lip between your teeth. The noise he makes goes straight to your cunt, and you scramble to climb onto his lap. Fuck, you can feel how hard he is underneath you as you straddle him—even through the layers of fabric separating you, he feels huge. You need him inside you yesterday. “Next time—” you start, although it’s a little hard to speak with Sam’s tongue dragging over yours on nearly every other word— “we can have slow and sweet and whatever you want. But if you’re not inside me in the next two minutes, I’ll kill you before the curse even gets a chance, I swear to God.”
Sam laughs, like you’re joking. You’re absolutely not. “Alright, I got you,” he mutters, and your brain registers the magic sparking across your skin before his hand as he shoves it under the waistband of your shorts. Your entire body jolts as he brushes a finger over your center through the fabric of your panties, but only because it feels so good, more intense than it has any right to be. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”
You hardly have the brain power to even kiss him anymore, but it doesn’t matter as much now. His hand in your pants is providing infinitely more relief than kissing him could hope to achieve. You drag your lips down his neck before laving your tongue over the hollow of his throat, tasting the sweat that’s gathered there. “I need it so bad,” you mumble against his skin, and apparently you’re so fucking desperate for it that you’ve been reduced to cheesy, porny dirty talk.
Sam doesn’t seem to mind. He tips his head back on a groan as you scrape your teeth over the thin skin of his throat. “Yeah? I can tell. You’re soaked,” he says, and then his fingers deftly tug the fabric of your underwear aside so he can press a finger inside you. You’re pretty sure you see God. From the look on his face, Sam might be in the same boat. “Fucking hell—off. Off, take them off.” Tragically, he removes his hand from your cunt, and you could actually cry at the way the overwhelming heat comes slamming back into you the second his touch leaves. But it only takes a moment before magic is sparking over your skin again as his hands brush your hips in his efforts to drag your shorts and underwear down your legs.
You take over once he’s got them halfway down your thighs, crawling off his lap in favor of ridding yourself of the offending garments. And while you’re at it, you drag your sports bra over your head too. In the time between you crawling off him and tossing your bra carelessly aside, Sam has followed suit. When you turn your attention back to him, he’s entirely bare, having tossed his pants and underwear to the same careless void you’d abandoned yours to.
Despite your desperate urgency, you take a moment to let your eyes fall to his lap, and fuck, your mouth waters at the sight of him, hard and leaking. He’s…God, you expected him to be big—he’s six foot four for fuck’s sake, of course he’d be big—but this is just absurd. You can’t help but reach out, gingerly wrapping your fingers around his length. You’re so engrossed in the way your hand looks wrapped around him that you almost miss the choked little moan he gives, his body bowing towards you.
“Please,” he groans, and then he reaches out to grab you by the shoulders, tugging you back in close again, urging you to reclaim your perch on his lap. “I wanna feel you, I need to—God, you’re so hot; please let me fuck you.”
You aren’t sure if he means it as a compliment, or a comment on the insane waves of heat radiating off your skin. Either way, you’re more than willing to fulfill his request. “Yeah. Yeah, anything,” you murmur, ducking your head to press your forehead against his. From this angle, you can almost see as you use your grip on him to guide his cockhead to line up with your entrance. Where you touch, the magic between you sings. It’s nearly automatic; you sink down onto his cock without so much as a second thought.
Despite Sam’s…considerable size, somehow, you expected the slide to be easy, what with the aching desperation of it all. You’d expected your dripping cunt to suck him right in, make the stretch of taking his cock bearable. It seems even sex curses can’t work miracles, though. “Fuck, Sam—” you choke out, dropping your head to rest on his shoulder. The stretch doesn’t hurt, necessarily, but it’s so much—would be so much anyway, even without the curse amplifying it and making it so much more. You have to stop and take a moment just to remember how to breathe before you’ve even sunk to the top of your hand, wrapped no less than halfway down.
“I know.” His voice when he speaks is rough, teeth gritted like it’s a real test of his strength to keep still, to keep from fucking up into you, to keep from making you take it. God, you almost want him to, but the soothing tone of his voice is nice too. It rumbles in his chest, echoing through your body just as sure as the pleasure of his cock stretching you out. He brushes his hands over your shoulders and down your back to finally land on your hips. You think maybe he means to keep his grip gentle, because the pressure of his fingers digging into your skin fluctuates, like he’s fighting the urge to bruise you. He’s not doing a very good job of it, though, and it sends a thrill up your spine to know he’s going to leave his mark there, even if that’s not his intention. “I know, take your time. I’ve got you.”
It’s a sweet sentiment, but you both know time is something you actually don’t have a lot of right now. You can feel the heat crawling up your spine even now, though Sam’s cock spearing you open is holding it at bay. Somewhat. So you dig your fingers into Sam’s hair to steel yourself, and you sink down. And down, and down, until you can’t imagine how there could possibly be more to take, and then, finally, your hips kiss his, and he’s bottomed out inside you. “Fuck,” you groan, panting against the skin of his shoulder as you try to catch your breath. It feels like your lungs emptied out in an attempt to make room, like he’s buried so deep inside you they can’t quite fill right anymore. “Oh, fuck.”
Sam makes an attempt to soothe you, laying hot, open mouthed kisses over your neck and shoulder. “So good, you’re so good, baby,” he murmurs, his voice rumbling over your skin. His hands abandon their stations at your hips to pull your face up so he can press those same kisses all across your face. “Taking me so well, so perfect for me.”
Fuck, but he’s got your number, doesn’t he? The praise hits like a drug, zipping down your spine to your cunt and making you flutter around him. It’s frankly entirely unconscious when you shift your hips, but the stars that erupt in your vision when he moves inside you have you moaning in tandem with him.
“Shit—” He drags you into a messy kiss, all open mouths and panting breaths, his hands buried in your hair. “Can I—God, please, can I move?” You’ve never heard him sound like that before, just the very edge of a whine in his voice as he pleads against your lips. He sounds wrecked, and it feels…good, heady. Powerful. You want to drag that voice out of him a hundred more times, make him whine for you like that for the rest of his life.
You shake your head, tilting your head down to press a biting kiss on his jaw. “No. No, I’m gonna…” With that, you brace your arms on his shoulders and your knees on either side of him and lift your hips until you’ve nearly moved off him entirely, just the tip of his cock still pressed inside you. And then you drop back down. You feel every inch of it as he drags along your walls, and though it’s easier to take this time, the stretch is still intense, still nearly makes your eyes roll into the back of your head.
You force yourself to keep your eyes forward, though, because the look on Sam’s face is almost as good as the stretch of his cock. His brows furrow, face twisting in his pleasure, and his mouth falls open, like he wants to moan but something is holding him back. And, well. That just won’t do.
You lift yourself up to drop down again, satisfied when Sam groans and drags his hands down your back to dig his fingers into your hips again, pressing into familiar aches. You duck to press your smug smile against his neck, and find it so slick with sweat that you can’t help licking a stripe up his throat. “I’m gonna ride you so good, Sammy,” you mutter, your lips brushing his skin as you speak. His hands help guide you when you bounce this time, and it only makes the slide more delicious, makes your words drag out into a moan before you can continue, “Fuck, do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this? See your face while I make myself come on your cock?” You start up a steady rhythm with Sam’s grip spurring you along, lifting up to slam back down again, his cock spearing you open again and again and again.
Once you’ve got into the rhythm, his hands move from your hips to your upper back to drag you closer until he can lean down and press his face in the valley between your breasts, kissing and biting and licking the soft skin there, and all the while his hands keep pressing you closer, keeping your chest arched into his mouth. “How long?” he asks, his voice muffled as he drags his lips over the swell of your breast to leave his biting kisses there too.
You drag your hands up into his hair as you roll your hips, moving in more of a grind now than a bounce, and the new movement means his cock is frankly unrelenting against your g-spot, the pressure of it never leaving, only shifting. The feeling is near overwhelming, has your hips faltering so much that Sam has to bring his hands back to your hips just so you keep moving. “Mm, God, forever, feels like,” you answer, once you’ve gathered enough brain power to even process that he had asked you a question. “Since the first time I saw you, probably.” Saying it out loud, it feels a little bit creepy to confess that you’ve been fantasizing about riding him since the moment you met him, but you’re a little too blissed out at the moment to feel embarrassed about it.
Besides, judging by the way Sam groans against your chest and fucks up into you, he clearly doesn’t find it creepy at all. “Guess I’d better make it worth the wait, then,” he mutters, before dragging the blunt of his teeth over your pebbled nipple and then moaning against it when the shock of pleasure makes your grip tighten in his hair. And, fuck, if you thought it was good before…
He digs his heels into the bed to brace and starts thrusting up to meet every roll of your hips, his cock pounding so deep inside you now that you swear you can almost taste it. If there was enough room in your mind to even process it behind the fog of lust, you’d realize he’s fucking needy, desperate little moans from your throat with every thrust. And all the while he keeps his face buried in your tits, despite the way they bounce with the force of his thrusts. He drags his teeth over the skin between them, laves his tongue over your nipples, making noises like there’s no place he’d rather be. It’s intoxicating.
And you’re so close, toeing the edge and hurtling ever closer with every thrust Sam pounds into you. The entire energy of the curse settles in your core at the same place the coil of your impending orgasm grows ever tighter. “Sam,” his name falls from your lips like a prayer, and you use your grip in his hair to drag him up, to kiss him messy and deep. You swallow the sweet, hungry noises he’s making, and he nips at your lip, and you are so fucking close. “Please.”
Sam’s got you. Of course he does. He brings one hand from your hip to press between your legs and rub his thumb over your clit in quick, firm little circles. “Come on, pretty girl,” he murmurs, “let me feel you come on my cock.”
And who are you to deny him anything he wants? You cry out as your orgasm explodes through you, whiting out your vision with the force of it. You’ve never come so hard in your life, and it just keeps going, burning up your spine like it’s singlehandedly eating up the energy the curse had created in your body. You’re just conscious enough to feel when Sam’s cock twitches and spills inside you, the frantic spasming of your cunt milking him for all he’s worth.
You do come down, eventually, your fingers aching where they’ve been white knuckled in Sam’s hair. You bury your face in his neck and try to catch your breath, and his nose presses against your hair as he seems to do the same. It takes you a moment to notice—and you think you can be excused, considering you just came so hard you saw God—but despite the cum that you can feel slowly beginning to seep out of you, Sam is still hard, and doesn’t seem to be softening. Like, at all. And once you notice that, it’s a quick step to realize that the heat at the base of your spine, while significantly lessened, has not completely subsided.
Fuck. “She’s not dead,” you groan, which morphs into a whimper when an involuntary shift of your hips makes Sam’s cock press against your oversensitive sweet spot. “God, we’re still cursed.” You can feel the awful heat starting to build again, that same devastating arousal eating at you despite the way you’re still trembling all over with the aftermath of your last orgasm.
You feel Sam’s lips press against your hair, soothing hands rubbing up your sides as they do. “We’ve probably bought enough time,” he offers, smoothing his thumbs over your hip bones. It seems sweet, until he smooths his hand down your thigh and keeps talking, “If you can’t go again.” And that? Well, that sounds like a challenge.
Pushing through the oversensitivity, you rock your hips down, dragging your nails down the back of Sam’s neck and shoulders in an effort to dull the feeling. “Oh, I can go again,” you retort, with a confidence that you’re not sure you’ve really earned, considering the way your thighs are shaking. “Just…not on top.”
The rumble of Sam’s laugh in his chest is your only warning before you’re suddenly bouncing on the bed on your back, a shocked yelp passing your lips at the sudden movement, and the sudden emptiness—your cunt clenches around nothing but air, Sam’s spend spilling from your fluttering hole.
“There,” Sam says, his face smug as he climbs over you. “Problem solved.”
You roll your eyes, ready to shoot back some sassy retort of your own, but Sam’s not looking at you. Not at your face, at least. Instead, his eyes are trained between your legs, and simply because it seems like it would be more effective than a sarcastic comment—and not because of the way his eyes glaze over a little while he’s staring, definitely not—you let your legs fall open a little further. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and then he reaches between your legs to press two fingers in your cunt. It takes you a moment to realize he’s pushing his cum back in, gathering up whatever had spilled from you when he pulled out and fucking it back into you with his fingers.
You groan, tossing your arm over your eyes. It’s not really something you’d thought you’d be into, but now that he’s doing it… “Fuck, Sam…”
Sam laughs, but it comes out a little breathless, and you lift your arm to watch him as he draws his fingers from your cunt and brings them right up to his mouth to lick them clean. Holy fucking shit. “Yeah,” he mutters, tucking his hand under your thigh to lift your leg up onto his shoulder, “That’s sort of the idea.”
He doesn’t waste much time after that, lines himself up and pushes in. You’re so sensitive; it’s so good it almost hurts, and though this angle doesn’t allow him to get nearly as deep, it’s clearly better for him to drive into you. His thrusts are quick and punchy, drawing little ‘ah’s from your throat as he drags you back to the edge faster than you would’ve thought possible. Maybe that’s the curse. Maybe he’s just that good.
“Come on, baby,” he mutters, pressing sloppy kisses all over your face, down your neck. “You can give me one more, yeah?” You don’t even notice his arm move, but between one blink and the next, he’s got his thumb back on your clit, rubbing circles over the sensitive bud.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging down his back as you arch your own. “God, don’t stop, fuck—”
You feel it the second it happens. It’s completely instant, the sudden and total disappearance of the magic that had been consuming your and Sam’s bodies. The witch is dead, the curse is broken, and the complete relief in tandem with Sam railing you into the fucking bed sends you careening over the edge in an instant, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as you squeeze them shut.
Sam groans and digs his teeth into your shoulder, following right after you as the curse dissipates from his body as well.
The two of you don’t talk for a long while after that, going about the motions of recovery and cleaning up in silence. He pulls out—the both of you hissing with oversensitivity at the motion—and heads into the bathroom to get a rag. He wipes himself down and then you, mindful of the way you wince when he presses too hard.
You catch his wrist when he goes to walk away. “I meant what I said.” You wait until he turns to look at you, and then you tangle your fingers in his. “It wasn’t just about the curse for me.”
You can see it on his face, the hesitance. Like he really never thought he could have this. Fuck, if you had known, you’d have told him years ago, just to make sure he knew how adored he was. How adored he is, always.
“Yeah?” he says, his voice quiet as he leans down to press a kiss to your lips. It’s sweeter, much more tender than any of the kisses before, and this is exactly how you had always thought Sam would kiss you. With his entire heart on his sleeve. “Me too.”
Maybe you’ve got a little to thank witches for after all.
Go to another state, New personality, New style, New friends, Change your name. And just live, like I dont actually want to do this, just randomly get the urge, tf is wrong with me??
Genuinely WHY do womens clothes not fit?? Bc wdym im a size xxs in this brand a size medium in this brand, a size xl in in this brand AND NONE OF THEM FIT RIGHT?? And from what ive heard everybody has this problem. Who the FUCK are womens clothes made for if not WOMEN
June 1st is TOMORROW. It means that GAY PEOPLE will exist, but only for ONE MONTH. Do not forget to buy your tickets to see them NOW, or else you will have to wait AN ENTIRE YEAR to be able to meet them AGAIN.
