✄ Summary: You’re Dean's best-friend/hunting partner. When Meg exposes that you're a virgin and has plans to harvest your blood, he takes matters into his own hands.
✄ Warnings/Tags: Dean Winchester x F!Reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader or reader’s body, smut with a little plot, CNC, light angst, some dirty talk, pnv sex, breeding kink if you squint
✄ Word Count: ≈3000
✄ Author’s Note: Yoo! I’ve been MIA for a bit, nursing school is whooping my ass, but here we go! A new fic within a week! Enjoy and let me know what you think! Requests are open. Ta ta, love you lots like polka dots!
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"What did you just say?" Dean seethed.
You'd froze where you stood. Your blood ran ice cold as the shock-worthy truth spilled from Meg's lips. Helplessly stunned and left to watch as she taunted Dean from the chair she was bound to. Subdued under the Devil's Trap. She laughed, but the sound was cold and humorless.
"That's right, Dean," she drawled with a twisted smirk, "your precious little partner is a virgin. Innocent and intact—where it matters."
You could've crawled out of your skin. Combusted into pink mist just from the humiliation. Dean looked to you for...Hell he didn't know either. Confirmation? Denial? Either way, he didn't get it, because you couldn't meet your eyes. Not while she continued to expose every soft part of your underbelly.
"Not only is she a virgin, she's practically the virgin. So pure I wouldn't have to drain batches of girls who only go as far as third base," Meg snickered cynically, "you wouldn't believe how much it counts. A single pint from your partner is the equivalent to three of those girls."
"Oh, keep dreamin' bitch," Dean practically growled as he raised the colt, "you ain't gettin' a damn drop out of her! Or anybody else."
"Ah ah—not so fast," Meg smirked, "you still need me to tell you where sweet Sammy is. Can't exactly do that if I'm shot in the head, can I?"
Everything felt like it was spinning. One minute you and Dean were five-steps ahead, a minute later, you'd been tossed at least a mile backwards. This was supposed to be their way to find Sam. Instead, it turned into a scheme reveal neither of them were prepared for.
Before you could respond or even react, Dean already had your wrist in his hand. He drug you outside of the barn and into the cold night air. The wooden doors slammed shut behind him before he whirled back to face you.
"You're a fucking virgin? Seriously?! This isn't the damn forties!" He seethed quietly, gesturing to you wildly while he whisper-yelled, "the whole time—this whole damn time—our blind spot has been you! No wonder demons keep popping up around us like roaches, your blood's what they're after!"
"I'm sorry, okay?!" You groaned in embarrassed self-defense as you ran a hand through your hair, "but you can't actually be blaming me for this! How was I supposed to know I'd end up a damn personal-blood-bank just cause I hadn't gotten around to swiping my v-card?!" You whisper-yelled right back at him.
"Hadn't gotten around—Jesus Christ—are you serious? This ain't a damn joke! We ain’t at a slumber-party sugar." He actually yelled before closing the distance between the two of you.
In three short strides, he fisted the back of your shirt and pushed you toward the Impala. Your brows furrowed as you tried to dig your heels in the dirt.
"Dean—Dean what are you doing?" You stammered as he unlocked the car, then shoved you in the backseat. He quickly clambered in behind you.
"I think it's obvious sweetheart. We have two problems. One of them I can solve, right now." He grit as he unbuckled his belt. His jaw was clenched so hard you could see the protruding hinge of bone.
You flushed in embarrassment. Frozen again as your mouth opened and closed. The first response was to protest, curse his name, or insult him for everything he was worth. Shout that no way in Hell were you losing your virginity to Dean just because a demon said so. Much less like this.
"What's the hold-up?" He asked when you didn't move, "I'm serious. Take your damn pants off."
Before you could though, his jeans were undone and his hands yanked at the button on yours. You tried to thrash your legs to stop him, but he was stronger. He grabbed your bare thighs and pinned them to the leather seat.
"You're seriously fighting me on this? You wanna be her living blood bag?" He growled, fingertips digging into the soft meat of your inner thighs.
"...N-no," you managed to huff.
"Then I'm fucking you. Problem solved."
Without waiting for anymore permission, he pulled out his cock and pumped it. Pushing your panties to the side as he slid the length of it through your semi-wet folds.
"Shit…you ain't as against it as you think, sweetheart," Dean chuckled lowly when he felt the slick of your cunt gradually increase, "yeah, that's it—get nice an' wet for me—c'mon, we ain't got all night."
"Dean, I don't—"
"Tough luck, buttercup," he cut off your protest with a glide over your clit, "I don't care."
You huffed despite the way your hips canted to grind against him. Cheeks and neck flushed a visible pink even in the dark backseat of the Impala. Your hands grasped at his forearms; whether to push him away or pull him closer, neither of you were sure at this point.
"Nuh uh," Dean grunted as he grabbed your wrists. His large hand wrapped around both of them and pinned them to your stomach, "I ain't gone' hurt you, but you're losing that virginity sweetheart."
Without another word, he slowly pushed inside of you. He at least had the decency to be gentle and give you a moment to adjust.
"Gotta move, sugar. Quicker it's over, quicker you're safe," he tried to reassure, his plush lips grazed your jaw where he leaned over you.
A muffled whimper escaped you and melted into one of his kisses. Your pussy pulsed around him from the intrusion. Painful because of his size, the girth of him, but not as bad as you feared. He released your wrists and guided your arms to wrap around his neck. His own slid under your back and lifted your ass to adjust the angle of his thrusts.
A moan punched out of your lungs when he hit somewhere deep inside you. The velvety tip of his dick kissing that spongy-spot like a cheat code. It left you feeling split open in a way you didn't know was possible. Each thrust sent a wave of sparked pleasure through your body. Your thighs twitched where they were pinned beneath his hips.
"There you go," he praised with a grunt while his hips rolled into yours, "more you let go, better it feels sweetheart."
Damn him, he was right. You let yourself drift further into the pleasure. You whined shamelessly. You grasped at his back as you arched into him. The sensation of his dick as it slid out and back in was indescribable. You could feel the thick vein on the underside of it. A shiver went down your spine each time he stretched you. The obscene squelch from your pussy as he drove into you filled the inside of the car.
"C'mon sugar—fuck—gotta speed this up," Dean grunted. He gripped your thighs and wrapped them around his waist. His thrusts became desperate, his hands gripped your hips like you'd float away if he didn't.
One of his hands slipped down to rest over your mound. Dean's thumb snuck lower and circled your clit. Your poor swollen and neglected bundle of nerves practically vibrated under his touch. Your hips stuttered against his while broken moans left your lips. Your toes curled behind his back while your heels dug into his ass.
Dean nearly moaned when he felt your pussy flutter around him. The universal sign a woman was close. He fucked you harder, rubbed your clit faster, nipped and sucked on your neck. He groaned and cursed and praised you against your skin. You felt the twitch of his dick inside you. He was close too.
"You're close, sweetheart. So fucking close—you can do it," he panted hoarsely, "cum for me so she can't have you. Cum all over my dick sweetheart, save yourself." He taunted, voice low and dangerous, but God did it send a thrill up your spine.
You whined in response. Your hips jerked and rolled in tune with his thrusts, up against his thumb on your clit.
"...c-close," you stuttered, a desperate grip on his back or nails digging into his shoulders.
Dean shuddered.
"Then fucking cum, baby," he barked.
You didn't need anything else. With that rough command, you came all over his cock and leather seats. You cried out a broken moan that made him groan against your neck. Slender hands squeezing him like you'd melt into a puddle of nothing if you didn't hold on. A creamy white ring formed around the base of his dick as he chased his own release.
"Good girl," Dean crooned hoarsely as he continued to fuck you, "So fuckin' messy, sweetheart," he grunted.
After one last harsh thrust, he came deep inside you. His dick throbbed as his cum painted your insides. Hot, thick, and so much that it dribbled onto the seat beneath you.
He pulled out entirely. So slowly you thought he had to of been teasing. Then he rubbed the tip of his length around your entrance. Dean gathered the cum that leaked out of you and fucked it back into you. All you could do was mewl where he had you pinned. Breathy, overstimulated whines tumbled from your lips.
"Take it," he panted lowly, his voice strained from exertion, "every last drop, sugar."
It could've been minutes or hours later by the time he pulled his jeans back up. He tucked his dick back in his pants with the lack of grace only he could have. Despite the ravenous and desperate way he'd just fucked you, he did care. Of course he did.
"Lemme' help," he gruffed quietly, gently swatting your hands out of the way to grab your jeans and panties himself.
Before he helped them back on, he grabbed some napkins from up front. Dean wiped you, and the seat, clean the best he could.
"Sorry you gotta put these back on," he chuckled sheepishly as he slipped your slightly soiled panties back up your legs. The crotch still damp from when he'd tossed you in the back seat.
"…'S okay," you murmured lazily, "more at the motel," you drawled with a fucked-out sigh.
Dean smirked in self-satisfaction as he carefully guided your jeans back up your legs. Clearly proud of himself for giving you pleasure despite the circumstances. He placed two soft kisses on each thigh before he fastened them at your hips.
"C'mon, let's go find out where she's got Sammy," he grunted as he exited the backseat, holding the door open with an outstretched hand for you.
You took it with a small blush. That precious little reaction earned you a pinch to the ass before he grabbed your hand again. He kissed the back of it once before he hauled you back to the barn. Chaste, but soft and apologetic enough.
Dean slung the large wooden doors open and clapped his hands together victoriously, "alright bitch! You’ve lost your leverage, where's my brother?" Dean yelled, eyes narrowed into slits as he pressed Meg.
She was exactly where you'd left her. Bound to a chair in the middle of the barn. Nearly paralyzed and powerless inside the Devil's Trap. She wasn't looking at him though. Meg was looking at you. The purpling love-bites scattered across your neck, rumpled clothes, your mussed hair and flushed cheeks. She practically roared before turning her eyes to Dean.
"What have you done?!" She growled, but she had to of already known the answer. Her eyes raked over his own rumpled clothes, his porcupine hair from your fingers, the utterly smug smirk on his face.
"I fucked her. Made sure to fill her up too. So her blood’s useless," Dean smiled as he leaned down in front of her, "now where's my brother?"
✄
The car-ride back to the motel was painfully awkward. Sammy was located, Meg was dead, and the tension that still remained was suffocating.
"So what—" Sam started.
"Nothing," you and Dean interjected at the same time.
He looked between the two of you from the passenger seat. An eyebrow arched and his trademark 'I'm not stupid' expression all over his face. You purposely avoided his eyes so you didn't have to acknowledge how obvious it was that you'd been fucked mere hours ago.
Much less by his brother.
"Right...," he drawled, then turned back forward, "nothing. Totally."
✦Read on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦
✦summary: Dean's refusing any help to get over his sex curse, no matter how many women you find for him. If only he'd just tell you why✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, sex pollen, angst, pining, Dean being a dummy (it's okay we love him), big emotions (sex pollen does that), just the nastiest smut (praise kink, soft!dom Dean, finger sucking, fingering, some car sex, dirty talk, oral f!receiving, sex pollen appropriate stamina, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, creampie), love confessions during sex, light fluff at the end✦
✦wc: 10k✦
✦author's note: voted for my the people! this might be the horniest thing i've written ever like i got possessed plz enjoy✦
This room is going to suffocate you.
Outside, there’s a chilling breeze that bites at your ears, and you had to turn the heater off after an hour of Dean whining about it. You’re wearing a few layers and thick, fuzzy socks that slide on the floor. When you look at your fingers, they’re developing a purplish tint under the nails, and you’d think your nose was bleeding if you could feel it at all.
But you’re burning alive. Deep in your stomach with shame, and an arousal you’re not allowed to indulge. It’s wrong, right now, to have flushed cheeks and sweat gathering under your clothing. A tingling heat that’s hidden under the collar of your shirt, and restless fingers as you work, itching to touch something.
Yourself. Just a rub between your thighs for a little pressure of relief to help you focus.
Dean. Lying on the bed, moaning lewdly and humping the sheets like you’re not even in the room.
He’s apologized fifty times. He apologized when you left that old, moldy house and he started staring at you and palming himself in the car. Apologized when you’d been walking inside, and he’d doubled over in pain on the side walk. He’d grabbed your hip for support, and while you’d been trying to figure out if he was okay, his hand had slipped up to your inner thigh. Apologized when you went to get him some ice—he’d said he was warm, you’ d been worrying about a fever—and you had to come back to find him lying in your bed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and groans slipping from his lips.
At least he hadn’t been touching himself. He’s managed not to do that at all, which you’d be impressed by if you weren’t so worried.
Sam says it’s a pretty basic sex curse. Maybe a pollen, from that mold. Nothing you need to worry about finding a magical cure for.
“We’ve seen these before.” Sam had said. “It’s run-of-the-mill. Dean knows what to do.”
Run of the mill.
Simple.
Sam had said it like you’d be clear in an hour. Nothing fancy required.
Dean gets laid, the fever goes down, everyone’s good.
And it might’ve been simple. You might’ve been done an hour ago, if Dean just got it over with and left when he was clear. You would’ve sat in your bed, running the sheets between your fingers while you read. Trying desperately not to think about Dean only a door over, about the sounds creaking through the wall as he railed someone else into oblivion, about how he’d look.
Probably just like this. Wrecked and hungry, his eyes blown out and skin slick with sweat. Every muscle in his body straining, hair stuck to his brow, mouth hanging open as he’d hover over some lucky girl, showing her a heaven even angels didn’t get to experience.
Your heart would’ve silently ached, a wound you’ve been letting fester opening wider and wider. Your hands would’ve tugged nervously at the sheets, trying to gather whatever he’d left over like a twisted little souvenir for your perverse brain.
The brain that won’t stop being in love with him, no matter how much logic you offer to counter it. You’ve spent nights staring at the ceiling, acting like love was a debate. Like if you reasoned with yourself enough, all the blood in your body would simply stop flowing in a song of his name. Your heart would shift into a new rhythm, no longer a war drum trying to call for him. Your eyes would stop looking for tiny bits of evidence he loved you too, in just as much silence as you love him.
He’s about ten years older than you. He opens doors for you, and that can be a secret desire thing. He’s not emotionally available. He talks to you, about his dad and complicated fights with Sammy and his past, and that has to mean something. He’s got anger issues. He’s stubborn, he’s reserved. You have issues too, and you’re more stubborn. He’s fucked up- You’re fucked up, and he’s also sweet and loyal and handsome and the best kind of stupid a man can be, where he’s a dumbass that never pretends to be incompetent. He’d probably be possessive. You’d like to be possessed. There’s no future there. Yet.
You’ve always lost the debate. You stay in love with Dean, because your heart wasn’t even kind enough to give you a crush. A brief and intense high of adoration and lust would’ve been manageable. You would’ve recovered.
Instead, it’s love. Not even love with a half-life, weaning off with just a little time. Deep, long love.
The kind of love that has you looking at him now, and crudely thinking that he’s being a bit of a pussy. It’s not a fair thought. He’s cursed, has a fever of a hundred and two, and his body is probably trying to convince him to do things that he’s not on board with.
But you live like that every day, and you don’t whine about it. You’ve felt like if he didn’t touch you now you’d die, you’ve gone sick with your own perverse thoughts about what you’d let him do to you, you’ve been delirious with adoration until Sam clears his throat, and mutters that you’re staring again. Maybe the mold should’ve crawled into you, or however this works.
You wouldn’t have been such a massive bitch about it.
You would’ve had nasty motel sex with a stranger an hour ago.
You wouldn’t have made Dean sit in a room with you while you pillow humped, forcing him to look for a sex partner to break your back.
You would’ve been home by now.
But Dean wants to be a little fucking bitch.
“You’re being a bitch.” You say it plainly, because maybe it will snap him out of whatever the fuck this is.
Instead he just chuckles, twisting to give you an amused look. “Ouch, sweetheart- Shit-“
The movement looks like it made his dick brush against something, and now he’s back to cowering in the sheets. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, visibly pained, and what’s wrong with you that he’s never looked so hot-
“You’d be a bitch too.” He mutters, groaning as he rolls back onto his stomach. “I feel like I’m dying-“
“You’d stop feeling like that, if you’d just pick someone to fuck.”
“I’m tryin’-“
“Not hard enough.”
“Trust me, I’m plenty hard enough- Fuck-“
You throw one of his pillows at his face, and he makes a strangled noise like you hit him with a bullet.
“You’re gonna attack a dying man-“
“I can do whatever I want, when I’m helping you find a fuck buddy.” You stick your tongue out at his back, then return your attention to his phone. “How about Miranda? She’s thirty-six, she’s got really nice hair, and- Oo-“ You scroll a little further down the page. “She likes boats! Those are like water cars, you guys could bond over that.”
Dean laughs again, shaking his head. “Boats aren’t water cars.”
“They are. Think about it.“
“They don’t have a big engineering overlap, I don’t know shit about boats-“
“Then you can just fuck her stupid, you nerd.”
Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you hover your thumb over the screen, fully ready to subject yourself to the worst torture possible for Dean’s stupid, cursed sake.
“She looks nice.” You mumble, praying he doesn’t hear the exhausted, hopeless pain in your voice. “I think you’d like her.”
Dean grunts. “No. Next name.”
You sigh, and swipe left. Adding Miranda to the long, long pile of rejected applicants.
It’s been like this for two fucking hours. Dean lying in your bed, you cross-legged in his, absolutely no progress on curing the curse. He barely even looks at you anymore. He’s been facing the opposite wall since you sat down, burying his face in your pillow every time he moans, trying to hide the roll of his hips under the sheets and failing miserably.
The tingling pain between your legs is almost unbearable now. You’d call Sam and ask if the pollen was transferable, if you weren’t terrified of the answer being no. There’s no way it’s not just Dean anyway. His thick arms stretching up to grip the pillow, his broad, muscled shoulders and back bare, the fact that sometimes when he humps fast and rough, the sheets ride up and you swear you see the tip of his cock. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong, to be getting off to him like this.
But it’s your own personal hell, to have this responsibility. To have him right there, and not be allowed to touch him.
You’ll deal with your shame later in the shower, where you can wash it off and maybe cry from a few different places over your body.
Later. When he’s not dying, and doing absolutely nothing to help you save him.
“Hannah.” You read out the next profile, pulling your knees to your chest. “She’s got curly hair, really nice brown eyes. Looks like she’s a nail artist. That could be nice.”
Dean snorts. “What, you think I’m gonna have her get me a manicure after?”
“No, I just-“ You take a long breath. You’d rather have a living Dean that doesn’t love you, than a dead Dean, who also doesn’t love you.
Dean starts to twist—he’s going to try and look at you again—and you clear your throat.
“It might be nice to look at. Aesthetically. Or- arousing.”
He mutters your name, but you push on.
“For a handjob. Nice nails, going- Up and down your- Um- Your dick-“
Dean lets out the loudest moan yet, and your jaw snaps shut. That sounded like your name. He was probably just trying to warn you to shut up, but that still sounded like your name-
“Sorry-“
“Stop talking.” He snaps, and you nod.
Without him asking, you swipe left on Hannah. He seems to have forgotten about her, and you have no desire to let her and her perfect nails anywhere near his dick.
It takes a while for Dean to request the next candidate. Long minutes of him just panting and grunting, burying his face in the pillow and thrashing in the sheets like he’s having a nightmare.
You see the head of his cock again. It’s thick looking and red and shining with pre-cum. Angry and hard and Jesus fucking Christ-
“Emma!” You shout to the room. You need this to be done. “She’s a nurse, that can be a kink thing-“
“Stop.”
You sigh, turning down the phone screen. “Dean-“
“No. Don’t want Ella-“
“Emma-“
“Don’t fuckin’ care. We’re not doing more of this- Shit.”
“Are you just swearing, or is that an adjective-“
“Sweetheart.” He’s almost growling, a hand slipping out from the sheets to fist the mattress. “Stop. Talking.”
You close your mouth, bowing your head as shame floods your body. You’re trying to help. You’ve given your whole night just to help the man you’re hopelessly in love with have sex with someone else, and you’re tired. Tired of doing this to yourself, tired of him shooting everyone down like suddenly he’s got the highest sexual standard in the world, tired of acting like it’s not killing you and tired of watching him like this.
He’s in so much pain. You can hear it straining in every word, tensed in every movement. You’re not allowed to touch him, but the last time you made him check his own temperature, it had gone up again. With how he’s looking, how he’s muttering to himself under his breath, you’re willing to bet it’s gone up another handful of degrees.
Dean’s going to die, if he doesn’t deal with this. And if he dies, you’re not going to deal with it.
You don’t want to think about what you’ll become, if he goes. You might be the one that turns into a ghost, haunting this goddamn hotel room and growing up the walls like that mold. A shell of a person, caught in a million what-ifs, her heart ash in the wind with his body.
Dean wants to be done with this.
You’re not done with him.
You swipe right on Emma.
For an hour, you let him keep moping and groaning. You flirt with Emma for him, because you’re the best friend in the world, and pretend you can’t see him trying to move a pillow between his legs to offer extra pressure.
“Dean.” You say softly, and he grunts.
“Baby, I need you not to talk-“
“You can take it out.” You mutter, keeping your focus on Emma’s texts. “If you need that. I’m a big girl, I- I won’t mind.”
That’s a lie through more than just your teeth. If he starts touching himself in front of you, all the poetic fawning about how your love is killing you won’t be dramatic anymore. Your heart will beat right out of your ribs, your head will get so light you’ll float away, your need for him will become so consuming you’ll either fall to your knees and open your mouth for him to use, or simply just explode.
But if it helps him. You’ll do anything to help him, even if it’s searing the most sinful, impossible image into your head for the rest of your life.
Dean with his cock in his hand, head thrown back, beating himself right next to you. Maybe moaning under his breath, thrusting up into his fist, accidentally looking at you as he cums, mouth hanging open and eyes hooded as thick white ropes paint the sheets-
“No.” He grunts, and you blink.
“It’s okay-“
“No. I‘m not doin’ that to you.”
You swallow, heated shame rushing through you. “I- I could leave the room-“
“No, don’t-“ He almost shouts your name, flipping over suddenly.
Looking at you.
His eyes are almost black with lust, his face red and slack, expression desperate. He hisses—the movement likely too much—but still reaches out a shaking hand, like he’s going to try and grab you.
“Don’t go, just- Fuckin’-“ His words trail off, eyes locked on your face, and another moan escapes his lips.
You push up on your knees, fear clenching at your heart. “Dean-“
“’m fine-“
“You’re not fine-“
“I’m- Son of a bitch-“ His eyes widen on yours then slam shut. His hand curls into a taut fist, face pulling in pain, and that’s enough.
“Fine. Don’t masturbate, see if I care.”
He says your name, low and rough, and you shake your head.
“You’re not fine, you fucking idiot. You’re dying.” You push to your feet, grabbing his phone from the bed.
Emma’s very nice. Nice in the kind of way that’s going to make you hate her, and you feel sort of bad. She was doomed to your loathing from the moment she swiped right.
But she’s going to help. She’s going to save Dean, and you’ll offer her grace for that.
Dean’s eyes had opened, when he heard you moving. He’s looking at you like a lost street dog, opening his mouth to say something that only comes out in a panting groan of your name.
Whatever protests he has, you won’t hear them. He’s not allowed to die.
“Get up.” You snap, tossing his clothing onto his face. “Get dressed. I’m starting the car in ten minutes, and if you’re not there, I’m coming back and you’re having sex with me.”
You don’t look over your shoulder to see his reaction. The sounds of torment leaving his chest are bad enough.
It hurts. It cuts deeper than a blade, the idea that he detests the idea of sex with you that much. You’re good at sex. You’ve gotten raving reviews, you’re batting a hundred, flawless reports and a hundred percent customer satisfaction rate, even if you don’t really enjoy most of it yourself. Most people you have sex with don’t manage to make you cum, and when they do it’s a tiny little shudder through your body that you forget about in five minutes.
Dean witDean would be lucky to have sex with you. You’d worship him. You’d get on your knees and let him use you until he was leaking out of every hole. You’d let him fuck himself back into you, you’d let him throw you around, you’d do anything-
It’s probably a good thing your threat works. Dean stumbles out of the motel right at the nine-minute mark, pallid and flushed all at once, hunched in pain and wearing a massive raincoat over his jacket to hide the boner.
You never would’ve forgiven yourself, for taking advantage of him like that. It’s better like this, no matter how much it hurts.
You smile when he gets into the car. “Nice fashion statement-“
“Shut up.” He grumbles, glaring out at the road. “Where’re we goin’.”
“A bar.”
He makes a sour expression. “Why.”
“Because you have a date. With Emma the nurse.”
Dean goes dead quiet. He tenses next to you—your elbows brushing for a split second, before he recoils like your skin is coated in toxins—works his jaw, then shakes his head.
You sigh. ‘Dean-“
“No. I told you, I’m not doin’ that.“
“Yes, you are.”
“No-“
“Yes!” You slam the brakes harder than you mean to, as you approach a stop sign.
You expect Dean to snap about you being careful with his baby. Maybe try to make a joke about how maybe the frustration is rubbing off on you, or argue about how this is his dumb choice to make.
And it is. But he made the wrong choice, and you are not letting him die.
He mutters your name, and it’s the same way he said it earlier. Soft. Almost pleading.
You take a deep breath, and twist to look him in his pretty, glazed and dilated eyes.
“You’re going into that bar. You’re going to flirt with Emma. If she asks if you have a fever, you tell her you work construction or something, and you’d just been at a shift. You run hot. Nothing for her to worry about.” You drum your fingers on the wheel, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You’re going to tell her she’s pretty. You’re going to call a fake uber, and I’m going to drive you to the motel. You’re going to fuck Emma until you’re cured, and then we can go home. Understand?”
Dean’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth, a glint in his eyes like he’s going to argue. You don’t give him the chance.
“No. You’re doing this. If you don’t, you’ll-“ You cut yourself off, pressing your lips in a tight line. You won’t cry. You won’t.
Dean says your name, and he has to stop doing that. It’s too gentle. Too close to something real.
“You’re not allowed to- To go.” You look out at the empty road, praying the night is hiding the glossy tears, pricking at your eyes. “I can’t- I won’t- You’re not allowed to.”
You raise your chin, your breathing too shaky to speak for a moment. The silence hangs in the car, even the sound of Baby’s engine not enough to drown out your thoughts.
“Okay?” You snap, trying to sound stronger than you are.
Dean lets out a low sound, but nods. “Okay.” Then, under his breath. “For you.”
You pretend you don’t hear. There’s too much weight in those words, and you don’t have the time to pick them apart, don’t have the energy to ask him what the fuck that means.
Instead, you just give yourself the easiest out. Dean does love you as a friend. You’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s doing it for you because you’re the one demanding he go have sex.
What a horrible friend you are, making him get laid so he doesn’t die.
You huff a dry, pitiful, laugh to yourself. Your drink swirls in its glass, untouched and mocking. You ordered it when you got here, about thirty minutes ago. Made Dean take a possibly dangerous dose of Advil and Tylenol to make him lucid, then hidden yourself in a booth on the other side of the bar. Where you can see Dean and Emma, but only Dean can see you. He’s supposed to give you a thumbs up, when he’s about to call the ride. Right now, he seems so engrossed in her that you’re worried he’s going to forget.
Emma’s pretty. Just as pretty as her pictures. She lit up, when she spotted Dean, and you’d felt a sickening, loud hatred take root in your chest.
Everyone should be happy to see Dean, but none of them are happy like you’re happy. You know him. He’s the love of your life, and your joy is born of that, not just seeing a pretty man. You love seeing him because you know you’re going to be safe. Because he’s going to smile and the world is going to be alright, you’re going to talk and he’ll listen and look at you like there’s no one else in the world, he’s going to make jokes and you’re going to laugh.
But he’s making Emma laugh right now. She’s got one of those high, insufferable giggles, and you’re being needlessly mean but you hate her. You have a giggle like that. It comes out for Dean all the time, and it has a little snort on the end that you hated until Dean casually mentioned that he liked it, and you’ve felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.
It doesn’t really matter though, whose laugh Dean likes more.
Emma’s the one going home with him. You’re being left here.
You focus on ignoring their laughter and voices from the bar. You can’t drink, but you sulk and focus on the music floating through the bar. Your fingers drum on the table, pull at your sleeves, shred three napkins before gripping the cold of the glass like a lifeline. Your vision is going unfocused with envy. Every second you feel the wound in your heart tearing open, an infection of jealousy taking root, and you might actually be about to throw up-
Dean grunts your name, and your eyes shoot up.
He’s standing outside your both, hands in his pockets and a deep scowl on his face. Emma’s not with him. Or at the bar.
“Where-“
“She left.”
Your mouth falls open. “She left? I- What the fuck happened-“
“I told her to. Wasn’t gonna work out.”
“Dean, you-“ Your voice cracks, every thought in your head getting louder. He’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying. “You promised-“
“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t fuck her? What the hell was wrong with her that somehow doesn’t meet Dean Winchester’s if it’s got a hole standards?”
Dean flinches, and it was a low blow, but right now you don’t care. He’s going to die. Why doesn’t he fucking care that he’s going to die and leave you.
“Come on.” You snap, slamming a few bills on the table and shooting up. “We’re chasing her. You’re apologizing.”
He frowns. “No, I’m not-“
“Then we’re going back on the dating app, and finding someone else.”
“I don’t want someone else.”
You roll your eyes, shoving the bar door open and marching to the car. You have Emma’s number. You’ll do the apology yourself if you have to.
Dean’s stumbling after you into the parking lot, and you can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder every few seconds. Just to be sure he hasn’t hurt himself. He calls your name, voice pained, and you freeze. Turn slowly, your arms crossed over your chest.
“I’m not doin’ this.” He snaps, stalking towards you in uneven steps. “You can bitch and whine about it all you want, sweetheart, I’m not fucking that girl.”
“I’m bitching and whining?” You laugh, the sound crude even to your ears. “I’m not the one who decided the best time to become a fucking celibate was when he got hit with a sex curse. You’re the one acting like a fucking child here-“
“I’m not acting like a child-“
“Then you’re acting like an idiot!” You scream, taking a large step forward.
Dean goes rigid. Takes a long step back, like you’re poisonous. It just fuels the burning, exhausted fire, kindled by every bit of fear, of love, of fury that he’s putting you through this with almost no remorse.
“It’s not like you have to marry her!” You shout, barbed wire tightening around your throat. “It’s just sex! Fuck, you don’t even have to look at her, it’s- I don’t understand why this is so fucking hard for you all of a sudden, it’s not like you’re some virgin fucking pussy-“
He mutters your name, a low warning, and you ignore it.
“I’ve spent all day trying to save you, Dean! I was going to be your- Your fucking sex chauffer, and I haven’t been complaining, but you can’t do me one fucking favor and have sex with a pretty girl?”
You take another step forward, and this time he isn’t fast enough. You jab his chest, and he stumbles back like you shot him, eyes panicked and wide on yours.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You shriek, shoving him again. “Do you want to die? Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you hate me, Dean? Is that what this is?”
He rasps your name, and you shake your head.
“I’ve been trying so- So hard to save you. I- I told you that I can’t- If you-“ Your words are getting choked, and the pain is too heavy to just shake off. “You’re not allowed to go! I told you, I won’t let you, but you- You fucking hate me-“
You try to shove him again, hot tears burning down your face, but this time Dean’s ready. He catches your wrist, and you try to pull back but he’s got more strength left than you thought.
He squeezes his hold on you, stalking forward. A fire lights in your core, at the intensity of his gaze. Unyielding and hot, searing into you as your back hits the Impala. He towers over you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he takes in your open mouth and slack expression. You don’t know how you expected him to react, but it wasn’t this. This makes your knees weak, your heart hitting a dangerous pace at the top of your chest.
You can smell his cologne, smell his. A salt, deep musk that’s just Dean, that might as well be a drug for how it’s making you freeze. Your free hand moves to press flat against his chest, but you don’t push.
He grunts, his muscles rippling like you just threw a rock into water. He seizes up, head bowing, and there’s nowhere for you to hide from him.
Dean’s tongue darts over his lips, and your breath hitches.
“Don’t do that.” He grunts, and you just nod.
Lean a little closer, until the heat of your breath is fanning over your cheeks. Your eyes flutter, and when you risk meeting his gaze he looks almost predatory. The hunger in his eyes sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together, and it’s hot, so hot-
“I don’t hate you.”
You blink at him. You’d forgotten about that. “Dean-“
“I don’t.” He snaps. “Don’t fuckin’- Never think that, alright? I don’t hate you.”
“Then why are you doing this to me?” You whisper desperately. “Why couldn’t you just go have sex with Emma-“
He shakes his head. “I don’t want Emma.”
“Then let me find you someone you want, please-“
“No.”
“Why-“
“Cause I don’t want any of them.” He hisses, your foreheads bumping as he leans further down. “I don’t want some random fuckin’ chick you pull for me, I don’t want to fuck her, don’t wanna touch her, hell, I don’t even want to goddamn look at her.”
You take a shaking breath, a haze overtaking your head. “Dean, you need someone-“
“You think I don’t know that?” He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel it.
His cock, straining through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. You bite down a moan, completely still in his arms, trying to make him understand with just your eyes. It’s not fair for him to do this to you. He doesn’t understand, this is all you’ve ever wanted and he’s just taunting you with it-
“I can feel it, sweetheart.” He mutters, rolling slightly against you, making that fire in your core threaten to sweep you away. “I feel myself dyin’. My muscles are hurting like I ran a mile, I’m sweating through ten damn layers, think the fever is getting me so bad I might be about to go fucking crazy. But I didn’t even notice ‘till you started getting all worried. You know why?”
It takes you a second to realize you’re supposed to answer. You barely shake your head, before he’s squeezing your wrist, leaning down to whisper in your ear.
“’Cause of you.” He breathes, voice soft and dangerous. “I always feel like an animal when I see you. Spent the whole car ride back from that damn house wanting to hump your leg and didn’t think twice. You just do that to me, and you got no fuckin’ idea.”
You gasp slightly, turning your head to look him in the eyes. They’re hooded, almost feral on yours. You’re so dizzy, you’re worried you might be walking through a dream.
“De- Dean-“
“You can keep looking for some random girl for me, if it’s gonna make you feel better. But I won’t fuck ‘em. I can’t.” His lips ghost over yours, and you lean forward.
“Dean-“
“Sex barely even works for me anymore, baby.” He mutters, tongue flicking over his lips. “Nothin’ does. I get kicked out of bed ‘cause I call your name. So just fuckin’-“ He squeezes your wrist again, drawing slowly back. “Stop. If you wanna give me a dying wish, cut it out and let me go in some damn peace.”
You gape at him as he pulls away, his grip going slack on your wrist.
Dying wish.
He still thinks he’s allowed to die.
“What- What if you fuck me?” You say, so quiet you barely even hear yourself.
Dean’s head jerks up, and he says your name with a harsh, unforgiving snap. “No. I’m not askin’ you to do that just because I’m some perv who can’t get it up-“
“You’ve got it up.” You smile at up, pressing your knee up into his crotch.
He groans, doubling back down so you’re caged against the Impala again. “Baby, don’t fuckin’- I’m not bending on this shit, alright. I’m not gonna be some pity fuck-“
“It’s not a pity fuck, I’m saving your life-“
“I told you, no-“
“Do you not want to have sex with me?” You challenge, and Dean gives you a pleading, wrathfully frustrated look.
“Don’t ask stupid questions, course I wanna have- Fuck-“ He groans, eyes fluttering as his brow presses against yours. “Yeah. Yeah I want to. But- I won’t ask you to. So no.”
You swallow. It’s probably the fever making his tongue so loose. He’s so hot it almost burns to be this close, but that might just be Dean.
It’s always just Dean. And he has to know that.
“What if I want to have sex with you?”
Dean grunts, shaking his head. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it-“
“I mean it.” You fist your hand in his shirt, dragging him a little closer. “Do you?”
He stares at you again. Scans over your face like he’s looking for one clue that you’re just indulging him, that there’s a single doubt running through your head.
There isn’t. Your breathing is uneven, but your heart is going too fast for it to be anything else. You’re flushed with an unending, arduous hunger to just have him, however he needs you.
Slowly, testing the waters, Dean slides a hand onto your neck. You raise your chin, holding his gaze. He squeezes slightly, and you lean into him, tugging on his shirt for more.
His thumb moves up, dragging over your lower lip. You part your lips, and his nostrils flare.
Dean pushes his thumb slowly between your lips, and you close them obediently around him. Your eyes flutter as you suck, letting your tongue circle around the thick finger, tilting your head and letting your eyes flutter. He pushes a little deeper and you moan. Your hand flies up to grab his wrist, holding him against you, and Dean groans. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night, shining with something like awe.
You smile, grinding up into his torso and humming with pleasure.
Dean mouth hangs slack.
“Jesus fuckin’-“
He cuts himself off, pulling his thumb out with a pop and grabbing your jaw. You giggle happily for a second, and Dean swallows the sound, crashing his mouth against yours.
You’ve pictured this kiss a million times, a million ways, almost every night since you met him. Somehow, this is better than any slow, fairytale kiss with swelling music and sunlight hitting both your faces like a spotlight.
Dean’s not taking his time. He’s kissing you like you’re the last thing he knows, the only thing he’s ever wanted. Like a man who’s been starving himself, finally allowed a feast and wasting no precious seconds on manners. It’s urgent and forceful, words he can’t say being pushed down your throat with his tongue and spit. You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers digging into his chest through his shirts, your head spinning as you neglect breath just to taste a little bit more whiskey and salt on his tongue. But nothing you throw at him Dean can’t seem to double.
You yank at his shirt, and he pulls your hair back. You try to grind up again, and he grabs your leg, hiking it over his hip. You grab his face, trying to kiss harsher, give more, and Dean slams down like a tidal wave, dominating your mouth with unforgiving need.
A moan escapes your throat, your body going limp in his arms, and he grunts. Ruts up into your core once, making your legs spread in a shameless invitation.
Dean grunts, yanking back like someone pulled him on a leash.
He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb finding its way back to your cheek. He smears a bit of spit over your cheek, and you tilt your head into the touch.
“You’re sure-“
“Yes.”
He nods tightly, takes a heavy breath, and leans away. “Get in the car.”
It’s a short, curt order. You don’t think twice before you obey.
You scramble into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the keys and slamming them into the port like you’re about to enter a car chase. Dean’s barely in the car before the engine is rumbling and you’re reversing out of the spot, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. It’s happening. It’s happening.
“Easy, baby.” He chuckles, the sound raspy and sending more shivers through your body. “You that eager-“
“Yes.” You snap, and Dean hums.
A light, almost taunting hand lands on your thigh. You glance over and find him palming at his crotch, his eyes wholly black and mouth hanging open. It’s an animalistic expression, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and when you murmur his name he barely seems to hear.
His fingers dance up the inside of your leg, and you take an unsteady breath, spreading your legs wider. A deep, rumbling sound leaves Dean’s chest, those infernal fingers curling on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. Little electric shock rush through your body, and that’s just through the jeans.
“Dean.” You whisper, not even managing to make your voice firm. “I- I’m driving-“
“So look at the road.” He growls, knuckles brushing against your groin.
You bite your lower lip, and nod. It’s not worth arguing with him, and if you don’t think you can focus, you’ll just pull over. You told him you were sure. Told yourself that whatever he gave you, you’d be happy.
You just didn’t expect him to be borderline feral. The palming you could deal with. You expected.
This is different.
Dean scoots further, and you’re about to mumble something about a seatbelt when his lips brush the curve of your neck. You inhale sharply, gripping the wheel for dear life. Dean hums, his tongue flicking over a pulse point. His fingers start to crawl up to your abdomen, his mouth getting more insistent on your neck.
He nips at a pulse point before sucking on his, his tongue flat on your skin and a low sound leaving his chest when you lean back to grant him further access. He kisses a sloppy line up your throat as his fingers dance on your stomach, and you’re starting to get a little dizzy.
“De, be- Be careful-“
You cut yourself off with a breathy gasp, as his mouth latches behind your ear and he pulls down your zipper. He bites softly before sucking another bruise, popping the button open and slipping his hand into your pants.
“I- Fuck-” You tip your head back, hopelessly trying to keep your eyes on the road, and this is not a safe way to drive. You really should be shoving him away, but there’s no one on the road.
And with how he’s barely even speaking—just touching—you’re a little worried it might take extra effort to drag him out of the haze of the curse and push him away. He seems to be blinded to anything that isn’t you. His mouth drags back down your jaw as his fingers brush over your clothed pussy, and your whole body shakes.
He hums, leaving open kisses on your cheek and hairline. “Sensitive, sweetheart. Been a long time?”
You flush, and Dean starts to gather the fabric of your panties best he can through your pants. He drags it up, bunching it around your pussy, and another moan slips out from the pressure.
“Answer me-“
“Maybe.” You mumble, forcing yourself not to grind into his hand. “You- You know I don’t do that-“
“Do what?” He presses the fabric deeper between your pussy lips. “Don’t fuck?”
“Dean-“
“How long’s it been.” His words are hot against your neck, demanding and possessive. “Who touched you last, baby, who shoved their fingers in this pussy-“
“I- I don’t remember-“
“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls your panties tighter against your clit. “’Cause they don’t’ fuckin’ matter, sweet girl. No one else is ever gonna touch you like this. I’m gonna make you soak my fingers, my face, my cock, and it’s gonna feel so good in that smart, pretty mouth,” he kisses the corner of your lips, and only the wheel in your hands stops you from turning and claiming his mouth again. “That’s always fucking teasing me, it ain’t gonna remember a single word but my name. You want that, baby? Wanna be my perfect fuckin’ slut?”
Jesus Christ, this is worse than the not speaking. If this is a dream—because you’ve had them like this before—you never want to wake up.
He yanks his hand away, leaving your underwear bunched up in your cunt, and slaps your pussy over the jeans. Your mouth falls open and you lean forward, lightning surging through your whole body.
“Oh my- Dean-“
“I told you, answer-“
“Yes, I- Yes, please-“ Your words fall off into a moan, as Dean shoves his hand back against you, this time dragging the panties away and plunging two fingers deep into your pussy. “Dean-“
“That’s right.” He mutters, crooking them deep against a sensitive spot. “That’s my girl, you’re so fuckin’ wet- This all for me?”
“Mmm- Mhm-“
“Fuck yeah it is.” He starts his attack on your neck again, only speaking between kisses, his fingers scissoring inside your pussy. “So damn tight, know you’re gonna take my cock so good, bet you taste like heaven- Fuck, I wanna taste this pussy, wanted to taste it for years-“
His own words fall into a moan, and for a second you think he’s just out of dirty talk, but he’s still mumbling incoherently against your skin.
Then you risk another look at his body, and the hand that isn’t in your pants has pulled out his cock.
And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Thick and long, but not painful looking. Throbbing and twitching as he jerks himself, the tip leaking and slick with pre-cum. It takes effort to look at the road and not just stare at the rock-hard, veiny marvel of a specimen between his legs.
You don’t know why you’re surprised. Dean’s a specimen himself.
He’s somehow already figured out how to finger you in such a confining position. His wrist has twisted, letting his thumb drag lazy circles around your clit, his fingers giving shallow, rough thrusts that make his fingers taunt your g-spot. Never really fully touching it, but sending shivers through your whole body.
“Oh- Oh-“ You have to take deep breaths to keep your head clear, your whole body winding tight with the arousal he’s pulling out of you, more and more every second. “Dean-“
“Shh.” He grunts, biting right under your jaw, and you squeak. “Just feel it. Sweet fuckin’ pussy, gushing around my fingers-“
You moan, loud and lewd, his deep voice not doing anything to help you keep it together.
It’s a miracle you make it to the motel. It’s a shit parking job—you’re definitely over the lines—but you’re both alive.
You barely shift the gears before Dean’s pouncing on you like an animal. Whatever the ride was, he still seemed to be showing restraint. Now that you’re safe, all bets are off.
A squeal leaves you, as he flips your body. Pressing your back to the window and prowling over your body, slamming his mouth over yours and kissing until you’re slumping against the glass. Your hand flies up to grab the back of his neck, your hips rolling up to where his knee is pressed between your thighs. Your eyes dart down when you pull apart for a single, ragged breath—Dean pulling your lip between his teeth, and kissing your nose and cheek like breathing is really no longer his concern—and you whimper at the sight of him, still erect and hanging out of his pants.
Dean drags your chin back up, searing his lips over yours, and you melt. He’s a good kisser. And you knew that, but it’s not like anything you’ve felt before. It’s like you’re trading souls, like he’s trying to brand you with wandering hands and lips.
When you pull away again, your dizzy from the pleasure and force of him. You whine at the loss as he leans away, but Dean just squeezes your waist and smirks.
You hear a rip, as he claws your pants and underwear down your legs. You don’t get a chance to adjust before he’s shoving your knee up against the bench, dragging the other one over his shoulder as he ducks between your legs.
“Dean- Shit-“ Your breathing gets shallow as his breath fans over your pussy. “We- We’re supposed to be doing things that are- Like blowjobs-“
It’s so hard to argue with him when he’s between your legs. The sight alone is almost enough to tip you into a frenzy. His shining eyes looking up at you, his full lips grazing your inner thigh, leaving teasing kisses everywhere but where you’re aching for him. You run your fingers through his short, soft hair, trying to get his attention. He just makes a low sound like a purr, and presses his mouth over your clit.
You almost fly out of your skin. He’s making out with the sensitive nerve like they’re your mouth, his tongue dragging and pressing, his hands on your thighs kneading with every suck and graze of his teeth. All you can do is cover your mouth and try to stifle your moan.
Dean withdraws, and you make a strangled sound of frustration. He can’t just do that, it’s not fair-
“No doin’ that.” He grunts, dragging your hand from your mouth. “Wanna hear it.”
You nod weakly, but still try one more time to remind him who this is about. “Dean, it- it’s supposed to be stuff that’s good for you-“
“This is good for me.” He mutters, letting go of your thigh over his shoulder to let his fingers drag back over your fluttering pussy. “Look at you.” He mutters with pure awe. “Responsive, wet little pussy. Bet you’d like it when I do this.”
He pushes one finger knuckle-deep inside you, and you yank on his hair with delight.
“Yeah, you do. How about,” he drags it out, then shoves it back in, and your head tips back against the window, eyes screwing shut.
“Dean, Dean, please-“
He groans, adding a second finger and repeating the slamming motion. Once, twice, a third time. His tongue flicks against your clit on that last one, and your eyes roll back in your head.
“Dean-“
Another deep sound, another flick, and you’re seconds from begging like a whore when he snaps.
Dean wraps his mouth back around your clit, resuming his ministrations from before with twice the fervor. His fingers pick up their pace, wet sounds filling the car as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.
The curse seems to have it’s full hold on him. He’s borderline feral. You’ve never had a man who eats pussy like he’s having a five-star meal, like it really is good for him. Sometimes he just pulls his fingers out and drags his tongue down your cunt, angling his head to press his tongue deep inside you and working his jaw until your toes are curling. His nose bumps your clit and his stubble scrapes your thighs, his free hand squeezing your thigh as he devours.
“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You let out a vulgar, lustful sound as he drags you further forward against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through your body. “Dean- God, just like that-“
He drags his mouth back up to your swollen, neglected clit, and those two fingers pump back into your hole. It’s somehow better and worse, and a shriek rips from your mouth as he spanks your pussy, then resumes his rhythm.
“Dean, please- Please, fuck- please-“
You’re already babbling, the tension in your lower abdomen so tight it’s almost painful. Your body is shaking with the stimulation, and Dean’s working you like an instrument. He finds every hyper-needy spot that makes you moan his name and playing it like a professional. You’re kept right on the edge for what feels like a million years, his fingers and mouth switching in and out, begging and begging as he turns you into an empty-headed, drooling wound-up mess.
Then he finally lets you over the edge.
Dean pushes his fingers right against your g-spot, and rubs. Your body seizes up, eyes crossing as his tongue flicks against your clit, and the heat built up in your gut explodes.
You shake as your orgasm rips through your pussy, your spine, every nerve in your body glowing with a deep, sex-addled bliss. Your clit is swollen between Dean’s lip as he drags you through it, your pussy gushing around his fingers and fingers yanking at his hair.
“Fuck, yes- Yes-“ You moan, legs locking around Dean’s head, and he groans against your pussy.
When it pulls another lewd sound from your chest, he does it again, slowly easing his fingers out and starting to clean up the mess between your thighs. He licks and hums, the sensation making your oversensitive body spasm every time he finds one of those spots.
It’s not certain you’re going to be able to walk to the motel room, when he finally pulls away.
But there’s a gleaming light in his eyes, that makes you think it’s really not going to matter.
Dean’s a wreck. His face is flushed, chest heaving, cock still hard but coated in a white stain that tells you he’s not close to working off the curse.
“Oh, you’re gonna be so mad about that when you’re better.” You mumble, seeing the stains on his precious bench, and Dean chuckles.
“I’ll get over it.”
You giggle, and Dean leans over you again, kissing you slow and deep. One orgasm seems to have cleared his head for a seconds, enough that he’s gently rubbing your bare, tender pussy, a soothing touch that’s really only working you up more.
“Love that sound.” He mutters, and you frown against his lips.
“Wha-“
“Your laugh.” He sucks on your upper lip, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Love it so much. Don’t think I’ve told you that before.”
He hasn’t. It somehow makes you flush more than any of the dirty things he’d been hissing in your ear before.
“You’re telling me a lot of new things.” You manage to mumble, and he huffs in amusement.
“Blame it on the curse.”
You giggle again, and his face shines like he won a prize.
“Son of a bitch,” his eyes are already darkening again, voice getting thick with the curse-driven hunger. “I love you, you know that?”
You can only gape at him. He must not have said what you thought he said. “What?”
“You heard me.” He presses his brow against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I love you.”
He rasps your name, and you blink away tears.
“Dean, if it’s just the curse-“
“It’s not. It’s-“
He slides his mouth against yours and this is the romantic kiss you always pictured. Slow and devoted as he takes the time to memorize you, to bask in the glow of your heart as you shine with love beneath him.
“You know it, right?” His voice is gravelly, his body pressing firmer over yours. He’s going back under. He can probably feel it. “That I mean it?”
He’s still asking—almost begging—you to tell him that you know.
“I know.” You mumble. “I- I love you too.”
Dean goes rigid over your body, and you blink up at him, as nervous as a doe in headlights. Just like the kiss, you’ve dreamed of saying it. Pictured it somewhere romantic, your makeup perfect and the breeze running through your hair. Dean falling to his knees after, kissing your hands before sweeping you off your feet.
Instead you’re lying in the car, cum staining your tangled legs, everything in you ruined from being eaten out by the sinful mouth that haunts your dreams. Dean’s hovering over you, tongue darting over those same lips—shining with your arousal, making your thighs rub together under him—and your holding onto his flannel, both your clothing stuck to your skin from sweat.
He doesn’t fall to his knees. He just looks at you like he’s not sure it’s a dream either.
At least he still sweeps you off your feet.
Dean moves like a machine. You’re not even sure what’s happening until you’re being hit by the wind, dragged down the bench by your ankles and wrapped in one of his jackets to preserve your modesty. His dick has been hastily shoved back into his pants—the fly still fucking down—and you’re about to tell him you’d at least like your underwear before he’s picking it up and shoving it into his pocket.
“Dean!” You gasp, and he just grunts, sweeping you fully into his arms.
“Mine.” He mutters under his breath, looking around the parking lot like he’s still trying to orient himself. “I- I gotta, fuck-“
Gently, you reach up and turn his chin in the direction of your motel room. “Over there, De.” You mumble, and he nods tightly.
He’s fully back under. You don’t bother to struggle or try and convince him that you can walk, because you’re not even sure you could. It’s not worth distressing Dean over anyway.
Despite his fever soaring and gaze being fogged by the curse, he manages you gently. When you get into the room you’re tossed on the bed and pinned back down for his mouth to work you open again, but the brusing grip is full of care, his mouth worshipful on your pussy. After that he’s rising over your body, ripping clothing like it’s a personal offense on his sensibilities and descending over you with another feral growl.
Your legs are shoved apart, but he rubs a hand over your calves almost reverently. Staring at your glistening, abused pussy with a look of pride and affection, gaze slowly dragging up your flushed breasts and thoroughly marked neck to meet yours.
You give him a honeyed, coaxing smile. You’re his to take, if he wants it.
He makes a low sound from his chest, and starts to kiss up your body. You gasp when his lips wrap around one of your peaked nipples, sucking gently until your grinding up into him. His hand splays over your stomach, gently guiding you back down, and you whine desperately.
“Patience.” He hums, kissing over your breast before switching to the other nipple. “Gonna take care of you. Fuck- You’re so beautiful, so fuckin’-“
Dean moans to himself, and you whimper his name, yanking on his hair.
But there’s no rushing him. He plays with your tits until he’s had his fill—when they’re swollen and you’re arching into every touch—then works back down to your pussy. Tasting your arousal, soaked and messy and almost shamefully dripping down his hand when he touches you.
He doesn’t seem to mind it at all though.
“Messy girl.” He grunts, twisting one finger inside of you. “Think you’re ready for some cock, aren’t you. Gonna take me, princess? Show me how much you love me?”
You blink at him through tears, on the brink of screaming his he doesn’t let you cum again soon. When you nod it’s like a bobblehead, and you only remember his orders from before at the last second.
“Yes.” You gasp. “Yes, Dean, please-“
Again, he moves.
You’re almost a ragdoll in his arms. A ragdoll that he moves like you’re threaded from gold, tossing you around and gripping your hips so hard you’ll have a handprint in the morning, but kissing over every hickey on your neck and muttering words of low, tender praise every second.
“Good girl.” He mutters as he drags his cock between your pussy lips. “Good fuckin’ girl, already cockdrunk and stupid for me, aren’t you. Love taking you like this, looking at you all pretty and dumb-“
You whine, head lolling to the side. Dean slides two fingers into your mouth and you suck on them like candy, taking anything he’ll offer.
He growls, dick catching on your entrance, and you shiver, looking up at him under fluttering eyes.
Dean drags you up like you weigh nothing, slowly sitting you down on his massive cock, and every thought but his name is driven from your head.
He’s thick. So think you almost don’t think you can take it, but your whine of protest is only met by cooing, filthy praise in your ears and careful circles around your clit. You don’t know how he can still be so far into the curse and able to restrain himself from rutting you like a beast.
Probably because it’s Dean. That feels like explanation enough.
It takes a moment for him to bottom out, and when he does you’re sure you’ve never been this full. He’s hitting places inside of you that you hadn’t known existed, dropping you into a pool of pleasure that makes your breathing stuttered, your nails scratching over his shoulders as you try to keep yourself from floating away.
Dean kisses you, hot and deep. You moan against him and he grabs your hips, starting to roll you up and down on his cock. You can tell he’s experimenting again, trying to figure out where he hits the deepest, working you open until you’re riding his cock smoothly your head falling back as pants of his name leave your mouth.
It’s paradise. Your toes are curling with every twitch of his cock inside you, every rush of heat when he slams extra hard and hits your cervix. It takes him takes him some time to decide how he wants you , and you’d laugh at what he settles on if the air wasn’t being fucked from your lungs.
Dean cums while holding you in his lap, his thrusts getting short and a groan of your name falling from his mouth when he ruts up, his cock pumping hot release inside of you and your own orgasm rolling through your body like an electrical storm. But then you’re being picked up and flipped around so your back is pressed to his chest, his arm locking around your neck and his hand returning to your clit as his fucks up into you. Then you’re moved forward onto the mattress, Dean turning your face so he can hear your moans and keeping your ass into the air as he slams from behind, his balls slapping against your clit and bringing you back up to the edge.
You’re in his lap again, folded under him with your knees to your chest, rolled on top of him so he can play with your tits and watch you ride.
Every time he cums, you’re thrown into a new position and held there until you both fall back over the edge. You’ve never been wrecked like this before, your head empty, pussy drenching his cock as he spills and claims every spot on your body.
“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he growls into your ear from below you, dragging his fingers down your inner thigh, gathering his release on his fingers. “So pretty, bouncing on this cock, my pretty fuckin’ baby-“
“Dean.” You whine, scraping at his chest. “Dean, feels so good, so fucking good-“
“I know.” He coos. “Made for me, getting so fucking stupid on my cock- Open.”
He slaps your cheek lightly, and your lips part. Dean feeds you his cum, other hand rubbing up and down your spine, and you grind down onto him with need.
“Good girl, fuckin’- Christ you’re so good-“ His thrusts get shorter, brutal and uneven. “You’re mine, this sweet pussy is mine, gonna- Gonna fuckin’ worship you, fuck-“
He drills up into you, taking his hand away to bounce you how he likes.
You both cum, Dean calling your name and throwing his head back, watching you under hooded, still hungry eyes.
There’s a second to catch your breath, as he palms your breast. Pinches a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, watching how you arch into his touch.
“You like that?” He grunts, and you hum.
“Feels good.”
“Damn right it does.” He grabs the other one, working them in tandem.
You whine his name, looking at him under pleading lashes.
Dean groans. “Fuck, baby…”
He’s hard again, and you’re being moved into another position.
By the time he finds one he wants to keep, you’re a disaster of a woman. Making sounds that are supposed to be his name, boneless below him and still trying to chase more, even as your body turns into a raw, live nerve.
Dean’s got you under him again, his body pressed over yours, cock plunging in and out of your pussy at a lazy, torturous pace. You’ve been like this for what must be an hour, maybe a day, maybe fifty years. Tears of pleasure are stained on your cheeks, there’s a wet sound with every thrust as his cum leaks out of your stuffed hole, and Dean’s praise is becoming more and more lucid.
“I love you.” He mutters, and you moan, turning your head to try and kiss him.
“Dean…”
“I know.” He mutters. “I know, baby, but you’re doin’ so good. Feeling better, almost done, just gotta-“
He kisses over your face, finally capturing your lips as he starts to rut, pounding into your swollen g-spot over and over.
You barely have the energy to arch up, when you cum. You breathe out his name, pussy clenching as you feel that last bit of his cum squirt into you, and a wet, hot feeling floods your pussy as your vision goes white.
“Love you.” Dean’s still muttering as you float through the haze, his lips pressed over yours. “Loved you forever, never- Never thought-“
His voice cracks, and you know the curse is over. He’s not getting hard again inside of you, not trying to chase more.
Just pressing his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tight, words muffled against your skin.
“Thank you.” He mutters. “Thank you for- For sayin’ it back, even if that wasn’t-“
“It was,” you breathe out. He needs to know. “I love you, Dean. Have for longer.”
He chuckles, squeezing your body, and you smile into the air.
You find the strength to thread your fingers through his hair, and he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your sensitive skin. You shiver, whining softly, and he chuckles again. Both of you too fucked out to move. You’re not sure you’re going to be able to walk in a straight line for a month.
But it was worth it.
Holding Dean here, so peacefully, was more than worth it.
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summary; butcher gets a new member of his team to take down soldier boy– you. but unbeknownst to him, or anyone else, the supe's got a few plans of his own for you. or; after a second defrosting, soldier boy gets a different type of homecoming. 11.8k words.
content; heavy smut/angst. large age difference. DEAD DOVE. use of pet names ("doll"/"kid"). non-con/coercion elements (but not rape). outdated ideologies (bc it's soldier boy, lol). abuse of power. waterboarding. biting/crying/breeding/piss kink. fauxcest + pet play. degradation. unreliable narrators. baby-trapping. unhealthy relatonship. canon divergent to s5. physical violence. no good ending.
any notes? THANK U FOR 1K!! honestly, it means the world to me, and to know that you guys love my stupid horniness? even better. i only started writing on here 24/7 in like? january? which is mad to me, ngl (esp since this account is six years old lol and a saw fan account; iykyk @legallyjacob !!). but again; thank you. accept this foul, dead dove soldier boy piece with an ethel cain title as a gift..
“she’s one of butcher’s guys,” the deep– the fish-fucker, as ben remembers him as– had said. “not one of the others; some cia rookie, but he’s been using her like there’s no tomorrow. probably fucked her as well.”
one of butcher’s guys. it’s laughable; seriously, it gets a small chuckle from him. sure, butcher’s a pain, no more than his own son, but the brit isn’t stupid. heading back to the cia to gather up some broad that probably hasn’t seen any real action in her life is something more than dumb. though, she’s probably better than the lesbo, mallory.
there’s a lot of uses for her that ben can think of.
you’ve heard about this place from annie– the seven tower, the revered meeting room on the 99th floor. but it didn’t seem so revered as you forcefully shoved into it, hands bound behind your back and left to wait for something, someone. nobody’s come for you since you got here just shy of three hours ago. brought here, really, against your will.
you’re busy looking at the new york city skyline when you hear the doors slide open, and you turn. there, in all his egotistical and outdated glory, is none other than soldier boy. the same soldier boy who died a couple years back.
even from a distance, he’s a stark contrast to the other supes. any of them. eyes that seem to pierce you right to the soul, easy enough to cut glass with, all chiseled jawline and picturesque physique that’s definitely there under the supesuit. there’s a certain air, an aura, about him that screams how he’s from a different era. something to be valued. something more of value.
you can feel yourself get all wide-eyed and blank-stared as he clunks down the steps and stalks to the other end of the ‘7’ table.
“thought you were dead,” you comment. your heart feels funny– the type of funny you get when you finally hold hands with the boy you like, or meet your celebrity crush. this is anything but. “everyone says you were– are.”
and soldier boy smirks. there’s a wine bottle in his hand, you notice, like this is some first date or something. “just thought i’d see what the bastard’s got stuck with now,” he explains, eyeing you up and down. you feel inflicted, like you need to shield your body away, but you can’t; not when your hands are bound in front of you, pushing your tits up and together and almost bursting from your shirt entirely. instead, you keep your eyes on the bottle. “y’seem harmless enough.. i’ll undo those cuffs if you behave f’me.”
silence.
“forgot your generation was like that; no fuckin’ manners.”
your mouth straightens into an awkward smile; it’s best not to piss off the world’s most infamous supe.. not if you want to stay alive. so, you will play the game he wants you to, shyly raise your shackled wrists and you begin to walk over to him, hoping that he’ll have some pity for you. let him pour you the wine, trace the rim and sniff it. anything that gives him the illusion that you’re trying– for him.
“oh– um, thank you, by the way.” you trace your finger around the rim. he’s got you seated in one of the chairs at the table– his chair, or so he says– whilst he stands before you, resting against the edge of the ill-designed desk. you keep your eyes on his face, or do the best you can to keep your eyes there, but every now and then your vision falters and you find yourself staring directly at his pelvis. you try to keep your eyes away from.. it, but it’s hard.
he’s hard.
“i don’t usually drink much, but thank you. nobody’s actually done anything for me since i was brought here.”
he scoffs, some tensing of his jaw. there’s something about what you’ve said that clearly irritated him, but he doesn’t say what, and you don’t dare to ask.
“seen your i.d, doll. you’re not the type to run with butcher,” soldier boy grins as he says it, like this is all some amusing joke. “how old are you, really? ‘cause you’re not the type of broad who looks.. however old you say you are. y’should be at home, raisin’ a family. not here.”
your grip on the glass tightens, the strong scent of it almost making your eyes water. should wine smell so chemically altered–
“fuckin’ joke, is what it is.”
you’re sure enough at this point that there’s something you’re missing. however, you’re not sure it’s worth dying over.
“oh,” you smile– that sweet smile that gives just enough warmth to reassure someone– placing the glass on the table. “well, i can assure you that the cia approved–“
“you’re not drinkin’ it.” soldier boy jabs a thumb past his side, gesturing to the glass. it’s still full, almost to the point of overflowing, even though you’ve taken a sip or two. you hate it; how your whole fate is basically being held in this glass. but, then again, you didn’t tell him to stop pouring. you don’t know what normal is. “c’mon– don’t make me put in all this effort for nothin’, doll..”
“i– it’s not– i wouldn’t–” and as you bring the glass to your mouth, that chemical scent hitting you like a slap to the face, you bite the inside of your cheek. this shouldn’t matter; as long as you play the game, do what he asks demands of you, you’ll be fine. you’ll live. but it won’t stop the gnawing ache that wreaks havoc in your stomach, or the voice at the back of your head that tells you that you’re heading into unchartered waters.
because what you’re dealing with, is a supe. a highly dangerous supe. so, you take a sip, and then another. all it is, is you being polite. you saving your own ass. maybe soldier boy isn’t as bad as the others say he is.
and you don’t notice how his eyes are fixed on the sweater you’re wearing, or how his hand creeps further and further towards your chest, fingers itching to rip it off.
soldier boy’s fingers are deep in your hair as he throws you to the floor.
it feels like he’s pulled strands out when you go down, landing with a dull thud as your soft skin meets hard tile. you’re not sure where your clothes are– abandoned in the meeting room, homelander’s room; who knows– somewhere where you didn’t fight. couldn’t.
his boot meets your side, some silent demand for you to turn over, but he flips you over effortlessly before you can muster up your strength. you’re spread out under him, the main dish on an inescapable platter, body already wet and angry. you’re conscious– he smirked wickedly when he said that, dragging you off to wherever you are now.
it’s obvious what it is; drugs. put them in the wine. enough to keep you complacent, aware of anything and everything. it’s like an elevator that just keeps going, that the higher you ascend the dizzier you get. you still have the strength to scream, to fight, but you know that’ll do you no good.
after all, you’re still playing his game.
“got a decent pair of tits on you,” soldier boy hums to himself, standing back from you for a moment to admire his handiwork– harsh hickies on your neck that you’ll be unable to explain. or lie about. some bruising that might as well be tattooed on, considering they’ll be there for weeks, you assume. “and some fur.. don’t get that much these days.”
he’s got you on your knees, pulling out his hard cock from his suit before you can plead for your life. his hold on your hair now is much like earlier– strong, painful– and you sweat you’re almost choking on your breath as he pushes himself in your mouth. he’s big, hitting the back of your throat with ease and making your eyes water.
you try your best to satisfy him, but with the drugs in your system, everything feels numb. he drags your head back and forth, thumb brushing away stray tears like he’s trying to comfort you. like he’s not fucking your mouth so roughly that you gag more than once.
and he pulls away before he cums, cupping both of your cheeks in his hands. “y’good there, doll?” as if this was your idea. he’s simply massive compared to you– in more ways than one– now towering over your body as he squeezes at your sore skin.
“good,” you echo, your voice sounding like you’re a thousand miles away. when his rough hand finds you clit, teasing it, you whimper and your thighs clench around him. “‘m good.”
because what else are you meant to say? you willingly drank the wine; you willingly followed soldier boy to the elevator and to wherever you now are. you were just as feverish as he was, when he started making out with you– his hands groping at you like no other has. gave yourself over to him– the soldier boy– and for what? just to say you fucked the world’s most powerful supe?
it’s not the same way someone who cares– who loves you would touch you. it’s more primal. a reason for him to get off, with the half-assed promise that he might do the same for you.
so. there was consent somewhere along the way. but whether it was implied or explicit is a blurred line that you can no longer see.
“je-sus,” soldier boy draws out the syllables. “fuckin’ wetter than a goddamn geyser. gonna need a boat to get through here, kid.”
you feel yourself frown, wondering if he’s meant to talk like some pornographic supervillain from the ‘80s, but then he’s got your leg around his waist and his cock buried inside of you.
you feel motionless. stuck in suspended animation as he fucks into you, over and over, like he’s not simply chasing an orgasm but seeing how deep, how rough and hard, he can get in you. jerking slightly with each forceful thrust, you’re pretty sure the freneticness of this is making the drug-altered wine wear off quicker than it should. not that you’re complaining; sure, there’s pain, but just for a minute or so, before it morphs into what you can only hope is euphoria and not the satisfaction of your body being ripped in half.
then again, who really remembers pain? one minute it’s there, and the other it’s not. it’s a shadow on the mind, pain, something that you will never see again– except for in flashes and phantom marks. you hope that this will be more than that.
“i haven’t fucked like this in years,” he comments between a grunt, one hand grabbing at your waist. you whine in response, at a loss for words– not exactly the type of thing you congratulate someone on; breaking their coerced abstinence– wrapping your arms around his neck and holding him close. it’s easier not to look at him when you’re like this, not be seen as vulnerable against such an intimidating face. “gotta say, doll– you’re one of the best i’ve fuckin’ had.”
and yet, he doesn’t treat you like you’re the best. you’re sure that the fat head of his cock scrapes against your cervix now, oblivious to how mind-numbingly good it is. or maybe he isn’t oblivious; he knows how you feel, he’s done this to other women, and you’re just another one. just another trophy to go on the wall. so you repeatedly tell yourself how this is a one-time thing. that you will not go crawling back to soldier boy because he says you’re the best and he likes that you don’t shave your cunt.
but obviously you’re not giving him enough, not enough appreciation, as he slams your head back against the floor tiling, making you see stars. his dark laugh echoes in your mind and throughout the vast bathroom.
“y’like fuckin’ a supe, huh?” he grunts in your ear, when you’ve pulled yourself back and wrapped your arms around him once more. the world is still blurry around you– or maybe it’s the tears and the drugs– but something about the way he talks to you makes your heart flutter. the danger of falling in love; tempting fate. “y’always let someone older than your dad fuck you like this?”
there’s a certain degree of de-attachment, you realise, to how he fucks you. as if he can’t get too close (well, emotionally) to you in case something went wrong, if you were to become a ‘something’. and you’re okay with that; this is just some very rough sex with a very rough supe that was initiated under very suspicious circumstances..
..something you should probably be more than concerned about. but that doesn’t matter to you; for every mean thing he does or says, there’s about an inch of heart to it. and, it’s not banal, much like all the other sex you’ve had. he’s actually making you feel something. the biggest threat to the greatest country there is, father of america him-fucking-self. you don’t think he’s as bad as they say he is.
fuck, you even want to call him dad.
soldier boy’s shifting his position now, his cum already leaking out of you as you feel it seep from your cunt and make a sticky, slippery mess beneath you. and you’re so out of it that you didn’t realise he did that; you’re also too focused on his mouth, teasing the skin near your collarbone, as he sinks his teeth in. he’s already bitten you there once, made you watch milk-white teeth turn sanguine under the clinical lights. it made you nauseous. it made you whimper. it made you horny.
and now, when he does it again, he laughs against your chest. his mouth travels down, just above your heart– he could stop there, but he doesn’t. he goes for your tit instead, tongue lapping at the mark when you cry out. you sound like a pained dog, all beaten and broken, even though you’re far from that.
well, your insides are, but the rest of you..
when butcher chose you out of all this other cia agents, he told you that you looked weak, vulnerable. and it wasn’t the first time you’ve heard it, either. you used to roll your eyes, pretend it didn’t affect (when it definitely did). but now, with you all naked and limp, legs spread and head clouded with post-orgasm haze and a possible concussion; all the snide remarks and side glances were undeniably right. you’ve always been having to act as something you’re not, to try harder. and sometimes, it’s easier to not try– like right now, for example.
through slightly blurring vision, you glance at the marks on your body– the bruises, the bites– ones you won’t be able to cover up with makeup. they’re too prominent. for a singular, fucked-up second, you think about asking him to make them worse. maybe ask him to keep you here, lock you down (and up); see how far he can take you. it’s doable, sure, but you’ve still got to report back to butcher and the others. the last thing you need (or want) is them coming after soldier boy for fucking you up. you could settle for this. for now.
it’s when he grabs you roughly by the arm that you come back to your nonexistent senses. he’s in his boxers, pulling you to your shaky legs and guiding you to the edge of the bathtub. he sits you down.
“why are you being..” you pause; for what is this? from what you’ve heard from butcher, he’s not got manners. the type of guy you don’t ask on a second date because he doesn’t thank the waiter. you wonder if he would. “nice to me?”
soldier boy frowns. “hey– sorry that i’ve gotta make sure you’re presentable enough ‘fore i ship you back off to the cocksuckers,” he says with irritance. you notice how he observes you– probably admiring the way his cum slowly seeps from your cunt and down your thighs; your matted hair and marked-up neck– before turning to the faucet and turning it on. “but don’t get comfortable with this– you’re not havin’ special treatment every time you let me fuck you raw.”
every time.
you could ignore this, trust him at his word and pretend it’s some ignorance he has to a woman’s wellbeing, but it’s not. ignoring something is not the same as ignorance. one of them you actually have to work at.
your nose hurts more than it should. you wipe at it gently, staring at your fingers with wide eyes when they come back bloody. you never even realised that you were bleeding– much less that hit you. the start of.. this comes to you now and again, like the everlasting flow of the ocean. bits and pieces that make themself known when the time is right. the beautiful bits and pieces, that is.
“hot or cold?” he asks you, not bothering to look your way. you’re trying to tell if he’s being genuine, but before you can, he’s pressing his hand between your thighs, teasing your wet, aching cunt. it’s easier than it should be, aided by blood and cum, and a guttural sound escapes his throat when you whimper. “feel so fuckin’ good, kid.”
and then, in one quick motion, you’re underwater.
despite the haze of the drug-laced booze in your system, making you feel like you’re walking among the clouds, your body immediately tightens up at the sudden cold. sure, it’s nothing like the cold that your bare, aching body feels against the porcelain, but something more hard and unforgiving. all this time, he could’ve killed you– snapped your neck without care, blew you to pieces with that atomic bomb in his chest– but he didn’t. he was waiting for this; for you to have your guard down long enough that he could fucking waterboard you.
when he finally pulls you from the water, it feels as if you’ve aged a decade. what this is, is betrayal; some other human, a monster, has wished this much evil on you. has put this much evil on you, and all because you had the power to say “yes”. god, your confusion probably turns him on– it does, as you can feel his dick, already hard again, against your wet thigh.
“fuckin’ stupid, y’know that?” soldier boy hisses in your ear, a fistful of your hair in one hand. his cock bumps up against the front of you cunt, and it’s easy enough for him to slip force his way into you once more. you’re too shocked, cold and numb, to say anything, let alone do anything. so, you let him fuck you. the sound of your body hitting the edge of the bathtub sounds like bones being cracked against one another; you think about it being your skull instead, you meeting a much gorier, better fate than whatever comes your way. but it continues like this, him fucking your cunt whilst you whine and claw and drown, until he cums deep in you.
you can’t remember at this point if the laws of consent need you to be vocal about it, but you don’t care. as long as you get to cum– you get to live– you’ll let him have whatever he wants.
and when he seems satisfied, you sink to the floor. you count the tiles that surround you, the dark, royal blue against white sealant, as he washes away the blood from your face and body. he’s just got back to the top of the foodchain; he’s the face of a company, nevertheless the face of america. he can’t afford to have allegations against him of fucking some girl raw and beating her bloody. of course, he’s going to fix it. you.
he pulls you close to him, and for a moment, it feels intimate. he holds you close, and you fit nicely in his grip. you blindly wonder if it could be love. falling in love.
falling; that downward motion, as those blinded by this emotion fall deeper and deeper into the trap that is love. nothing like flying, because it’s so extreme, so unlikely. full of false promises and blank statements that it’s inane to wonder how anyone still believes in this crap. but you do.
though, you may not love the man that holds you, but just the act of it. love. waiting for something abstract to become real. made flesh.
“go back and tell the others, and i’ll fuckin’ rip every one of you apart,” soldier boy’s got your jaw in his hand. one wrong move and he could crush your face entirely. part of you wishes he would. “got it, kid?”
“got it.”
“atta girl,” he smirks at you, before dropping your face and getting up. he leaves you on that bathroom floor, surrounded by your mixed bodily fluids, as he hastily puts his supesuit back on. “see you around.”
your brain echoes his words to you; you’re not havin’ special treatment every time you let me fuck you raw.
and when soldier boy starts to see you– because that’s the term you use; ‘seeing’, like this isn’t an actual relationship, but rather some arrangement– things are different.
as time goes on, you grow more comfortable. or so, he assumes. he’s actually got to guess on that one, because you’re not the talkative type– at least towards him, anyway.
nevertheless, every time you see him, you always– always– react the same. eyes all wide like you’re staring down a gun barrel (which, the first time he saw you again, you were; considering he cornered you in your shitty apartment and pointed it right at your head. it was funny, just for a bit, but then you started crying and, well, it got tiring real fucking fast), but then it morphs into anger. thinly-veiled, like you want him to know how you feel, as if he even gives a flying fuck. he doesn’t, of course, but it’s amusing to watch how your hands tremble, your eyes grow glassy and wet. and all because he’s got you trapped into this relationship with him. all of his own accord.
naturally, soldier boy doesn’t do the whole vought-approved bullshit; he ignores that broad’s– ashley or whatever he fucking name is– ‘advice’ for him, like she’s his court-appointed lawyer. he doesn’t need anyone’s help, much less a woman’s. he knows what he’s doing.
more importantly, he knows what he’s doing with you.
some days, he gets it. to an extent, of course– because if someone started giving him fucked up wine and went to town on his body, he’d kill the fucker. you’re not like that, though. he sees through you; sees how you don’t have the guts to kill him for what he did, for what he does, and what he will do.
so, either every interaction between the pair of you is public– the best way to make sure you stay on that invisible leash that he holds so fucking tight– or in private, because that’s the best place that he can put you in your position. remind you of where you stand.
he really does keep you on a leash.
he also gets you to call him dad when he fucks you. actually, there’s a lot he’s gotten you to do during sex, weird and kinky shit that no other woman he’s fucked ever did. even when he thought about doing to them what he did to you– slip a few pills in your drink, get enough blackmail information on you to keep you within his reach– but he never went through with any of it. it was different back then, and he had a different image to uphold. or maybe he just can’t remember these days, too many benzos and all. but anyway; whether you’re doing it out of actual enjoyment or pure fear, he isn’t sure. he also does not care.
soldier boy just assumes that you’re used to it all. a girl like you, probably been in some bdsm-type shit before.. just not to this extent. and he can almost see the scenes in front of him, when he imagines what ‘extracurriculars’ that you’ve participated in; tears down your cheeks as you hopelessly give yourself over to whoever fucks you raw. sometimes he pretends it’s a girl, deep in your cunt with a strap. sometimes it’s some asshole who doesn’t treat you right, and that just pisses him off. he doesn’t like the fantasy thought of that.
you also probably had short hair, like some fucking lesbo. less to grab at; easy to get away.
but you’re not getting away that easy. not from him.
today, it’s another public scene between the two of you; he’s ‘walked’ into you on the street, some sort of a standstill where he stares you down like an animal eyeing its prey. wondering if it could take it in just one bite. but you’re quicker– with your doe-like eyes, the same you flash him when he’s balls-deep in you, you’re turning away, trying to disappear into the crowd that slowly forms around him and the rest of the seven.
and yet, he’s even quicker. he barges past adoring fans, and he reaches you at the edge of the crowd. it’s amusing, how you tense under his gentle touch– he’d chastised you for that, acting so damn afraid, but not right now– before harshly spinning you around to face him.
“how fuckin’ dumb are you to make a run for it?” there’s more he wants needs to ask; why you didn’t call him, why he is always the one to initiate. but he can do that all later. when he’s got you alone and under him. you’re able to answer him when you’re like that– give him the answers he wants and deserves. “also, what’s a guy got to do to get some damn respect from you?”
“you sick fuck,” you hiss, but your voice is so weak– even in a hushed whisper; you’re cautious of who’s around.. and watching– you’re tripping over your words. his hand moves from your shoulder to your waist. there’s eyes on the pair of them, he can feel it, and it’s not just the fucker he’s forced to call son. “fucking– stop– i’m not alone.”
soldier boy scoffs. “y’think that’s ever stopped me, kid?”
when you go to make a move to get away, he takes hold of your wrist in his free hand, nails digging in.
“done actin’ like a brat?” he lets go of your wrist, toying with a strand of your hair. “got an audience here, doll. think it’s in your best interest for you to be on your best behaviour.”
“fuck you.”
“gladly.”
“fuck. you.”
“christ on a cross– you’ve got a hell of a mouth, haven’t you?” he rolls his eyes, catching the sight of the rest of the seven, who watch him with a mix of disgusted apathy and general admiration. his addition to the team has been a mixed bag, so this sort of public display won’t go down well. but soldier boy’s been in this business a long time; he can sort it out. “i think this is a conversation we should have in private, hm?”
“what– no– i’m not going anywhere with you–”
but no matter how much you curse and fight and protest, it ends in the same way it always does.
alone, with a supe who has nothing but the best intentions.
he doesn’t take you to homelander’s penthouse, like he has before. nor does he take you back to your apartment. to which, you’re sort of glad– his constant complaints of it “smelling like a nun’s pussy” were starting to grate on you.
no. what it is, is a hotel. some sophisticated place in upper new york, the type you could never afford on your salary, one where you already know you’re going to steal all the tiny shampoo bottles from. meanwhile, he just pushes himself through the doorway like he owns the place, his hand on the small of your back.
“place used to be better in its heyday,” you wait, absentminded, on the bed whilst ben– not soldier boy, but ben; you should have to call him, like he’s told you to– stares out the floor-to-ceiling window. you don’t respond, just obey; ready to jump at slightest of things. if anything, you feel more like a witness to a gruesome crime than someone who’s meant to be enjoying themself. “‘course, everywhere today has its rules ‘bout hookers and drugs– where’s the fun in that? bunch of pussies, all of’ em. don’t know how to have fun.”
you stare straight ahead, feeling cold yet somehow warm.
“–fuckin’ listening or what, doll? i said, get rid of the gun.”
after a few, short seconds of hesitancy, made worse by the way your heart feels like it’ll rip from your chest, you place your gun on the bed next to you. it felt heavy in your hands, the way your mode of self-defence should, and now you feel naked. terribly naked.
“atta girl,” ben’s standing over you as he places a chaste kiss to the top of your head, running his rough fingers through the strands. when he reaches the ends, he wraps his fingers around them. however, he doesn’t pull. that’s his only mercy to you. “been thinkin’ a lot about you, y’know?”
but you’ve been here before. heard these words before– typically when you’re crying, most likely begging for him to stop– given him the same monotone response before.
he pulls you up so you’re standing before him. “you better have been thinkin’ ‘bout me, yeah? c’mon, kid, answer me.”
you don’t trust yourself to speak. in fact, not speaking is a power in of itself; even if he is gripping your jaw tight, and your eyes are all glassy and blurry as you stare up at him, but you’ve got power here. a small sliver, nothing like he has, but still. it’s power.
it doesn’t amount to anything.
“you could stop comin’ back to me,” ben says it like a fact– which it is– almost like a demand. and stupidly, you think it is, that he wants you to stop crawling back to him at his every beck and call, but you know better than that. “it’d be so much better if you did that, doll. i could do my damn job, and you? you could go find some cuck to fool around with, or be the whore of all fuckin’ suburbia. ‘least with me, i can make you something. shit– it will always be better with me, won’t it?”
you nod.
“you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
he moves your head up and down, your body frozen with something you can’t quite identify. really, you’ve gotten used to giving yourself over to him, on your hands and knees for him like some dog. ben’s grinning wickedly at you as he does this, pressing his body to yours.
there was that word again– love. you were blind enough to believe that it could become real for you, much less made real by him. then again, it did happen, for a bit. the sort that comes and goes, the same feeling as pain, something to struggle to remember when the emotions pass because you’re feeding on a memory or concept that was never there.
how you’ve looked at him, thinking how you loved him– past tense– and you try to remember those dumb and amazing and bloody moments that passed between the two of you. try to remember if you were ever in love with him in the first place. if he meant anything he ever said or did.
if he loved you.
“i just want to take care of you. that’s all.”
it’s a confession, you think. the illusion that comes with this idea– an arrangement of days of a future to never come– could be necessary. valid. otherwise, this has all been for nothing, except that it’s not for nothing, but rather a sick perversion that he must satiate. a hunger that can only be silenced by details, close-ups, the pain of remembering.
you need the solidity that he’s telling you the truth.
“c’mon– i didn’t use the company’s card for nothin’ now.”
ben pushes you back down on the bed– one hand on your shoulder and the other on his belt– and in those brief, fleeting seconds, you observe the room. how he’s gone all out for you. the crisp, rich sheets on the bed that could never compare to your own, the dark colours on the wall that contrast nicely with the soft ones that are buried in the finer details. the nondescript bottle of wine that sits on the table near the window. you can’t see the brand, not with how your vision already feels hazy.
his fingers curl into your hair, yanking your head harshly back so he can get a better look at you. “look decent for once, doll,” he mutters, his other hand disappearing under the collar of your turtleneck, fishing out the collar he makes you wear. he doesn’t pick up on your noticeable flinch when he carelessly knocks up against the bruising on your neck. “you gotta stop hidin’ this, though. who knows what’ll happen to you if some cocksucker decided to touch what doesn’t belong to him..”
he’s undoing his supesuit with one hand still in your hair, keeping you in place. the soft, clinking sound of metal against metal is grating to you. but it seems to snap you out of your trance, remind you of what’s going on here; he’s bringing your head closer to his cock, pre-cum beading at the tip, and you swear your mouth starts watering from the sight alone.
“gonna be good f’me, kid?” ben asks. there’s a sharp click, and you look up. you’ve been so focused on his cock that you didn’t notice him take your gun and point it right at your fucking head. “don’t make me do somethin’ bad to you.. don’t want to have to hurt you tonight.”
and then, he’s fucking your mouth, with the gun pressed firmly against your head. you suck him like your life depends on it– your technique should probably be off, but given the circumstance, you’d rather do a good job than have your insides splattered all over the room– and considering the grunts of satisfaction and small utterances of praise he gives you suggest that you’re doing fine.
“just needed some encouragement, huh?” his grip on your head tightens, and before you know it, he’s pulling from your mouth entirely. you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror; mascara smudged around your eyes, your mouth glistening with saliva and pre-cum. the mirror does no favours.
it’s probably not enough for him. not even close.
your moving back up on the bed, your chest constricting as he tugs the suit further down. you can’t pull your eyes away from his cock– there’s no denying that he’s a big man, and that means everything is big. the sight of him alone somewhat makes you relax. how thick and heavy he is, the veins that run up and down him as he loosely begins to fist himself. the fat tip leaking again with pre-cum. you hunger.
and yet, there’s a particular emptiness in your mind; fear could take the vacancy, but curiosity gets there first. the curiosity in not knowing what he plans to do to you tonight. you really want him to ravage you.
there’s an urge to run, to try your hand at killing him, and you tense up. but when his hands are on you again, all forms of protest are voided in your mind. he strips you slowly, a precision only reserved for the most intimate encounters– between man and wife. with it, the turtleneck goes first, your bruised neck and torso a mimic of what could be considered a watercolour abstract, and then he peels your bra from you. eventually, you’re bare under him, unable to avoid his hardened gaze.
“could be worse,” ben notes, thumb tracing over your ribs. you try not to shiver at his touch. he pulls back briefly to observe you fully; soft, supple. ready to hurt. “y’could be with someone who doesn’t care.”
“and you do?”
smartly, he doesn’t answer that one.
instead, he parts your thighs, dragging a rough finger through your wet cunt. the eye contact is gone, and you don’t mind that too much– it’s better this way, gives him that detachment he feasts on, the removal of his hand in this act of sin. you avoid looking down at your body and choose to stare at the wall. not because this is shameful, or immodest, but because you don’t want to see it. this. something that should feel like love.
“real fuckin’ wet f’me– god,” he smirks, adding another finger to you. “y’been touchin’ yourself to the thought of me? just can’t get enough, hm?”
you don’t respond. you don’t need want him to know how you really can’t get enough of him.
your breathing picks up as ben pushes three fingers into you, your cunt clenching around him every time he goes that little bit further. it’s bordering on agitating, making you all twitchy and huffy, despite how many times he’s done this to you.
“hey– hey. you need to cut that shit out,” he presses a bit too roughly that time. a warning. “gonna start whimperin’ like some dog over this alone, kid?” he grabs the collar around your neck, forcing you to meet his eye. “c’mon– speak.”
“no– ‘s just–” just what? just ; power imbalance. a hr nightmare that’s way past its in-progress stage. “need you– in me, dad–”
the more feverish you get, the tighter you cunt gets around him. you can see it in his face– how much joy he gets from it. your stomach sours.
he’s going to make himself fit. you’re no stranger to that. but still, as his cock replaces his fingers, the soft burn from the stretch that you should be accustomed to hits you like a freight train. you wince, clutching as his biceps as a way to steady yourself.
“are you.. in?” you bite down on your bottom lip, trying to block out how you writhe under him.
“what? fuck no,” ben grip on your sides is close to bruising. there’s something in his tone, that you pick up on, some slight desperation to be completely in you. “just– y’need to take it, yeah? you can do it.”
and you can– you’ve done it before– but all those other times between you feel like some perverted fantasy compared to now.
but soon enough you’ve got one leg around his waist as he thrusts into you. he’s as close as he possibly could be to you, one hand tangled in your hair to keep you still and the other on your waist. you’re fucked hard into the bed, the vulgar sound of skin against bloodied skin infecting the air.
you hate this. revise that; you should hate this, but you don’t. every time he pounds into you, every time he praises you (though, there’s the vitriolic undertone to his words; he never means it, and yet, you stupidly believe him every-fucking-time), the nausea in your stomach worsens. and your name is never uttered from his lips, never groaned out in orgasm, because it doesn’t matter. you’re reduced to other terms of.. endearment– bitch, slut, whore, dog– and you keep this knowledge like a hidden treasure. it’s what you are, it’s who you are.
but despite the pain, despite the tears that fall from your eyes, despite everything– you cum. you cum everytime. you hold him tight as you do, that unmistakable warmth that escapes you as the feeling of cum seeps from your gaping cunt.
and even then, you’re begging for him to stop to give you more.
naturally, it takes a bit more for him to cum. however, he’s finishing with a few deep and violent thrusts, bumping up against your cervix repeatedly because he’s probably got his sick fantasies of doing a particular something to you, and biting harshly down on your shoulder. he cums deep in you, a slight bulge forming in your lower abdomen from where he was.
a parting gift.
he pulls back from you, sighing, taking in his latest work. you’re still underneath, still aching. something oozes out of you. a heavy, scented mixture of salt and iron fills the air.
“you’ve got pretty sensitive insides, y’know?” ben slaps your thigh, the sound echoing through the room. as usual, he’s forgotten his super strength; it hurts more than you can admit. “could be worse, though– fucked this one broad back in france this one, and fuck; thought she was gonna snap in half.. pussy.”
he’s left you, knees to your chest and your back to the headboard. you’re not even looking at him as he finishes up– the sound of his belt hits hard, like a cold slap to the face– looking through him and to the wall beyond. and even with your energy drained, no fight let in you, there’s the undeniable feeling that you are ready to snap and cry. in the end, there’s only you, and some ruined sheets, and the unforgiving memory of a bathtub.
it’s the, when the pain hits you; how everything comes flooding back. you can’t even pick out the beautiful parts of the past, the ones that haven’t marred and scarred you, glimpses of teeth-marked flesh and bloodstained cunts. flashes of the perverse and the needy. a punch, a sex position, a cage.
and yet, you want everything back, the way it was. but there was never a ‘was’ between the two of you; nowhere to start from, to draw a line under. it’s nice to think you’d have noticed the problems before they were that noticeable. but that’s the issue– you never notice the sky falling until it falls on you.
you’re sobbing now, chest-wracking cries that leave you curled in a ball on the sticky sheets. meanwhile, he watches on. watches you. and there’s no regard for how you feel. what you need or want.
but what do you want? for him to hold you, to keep you. if he wanted to, he could– he would– but he doesn’t. he’s not choosing you to keep around the tower, waiting on hand like some little housewife to suck his dick and praise him.
that’s not the arrangement. that’s not love.
and then, he’s gone. gone from the hotel room without saying another word.
there’s a disgusting, festering desire that’s crawled underneath her skin. it’s a feeling you can’t ever quite shake off. because eventually, every dog must have his day– including him.
“you live in a fuckin’ pigsty, you know that?”
ben stares at you with tired, unamused eyes. they’re still piercing– cutting you straight to the core as he observes you like you’ll suddenly take off. or worse, fight him. still in that damn supesuit, though he’s looking worse for wear; unshaven, eyes all red from copious amounts of weed usage, a split lip. there’s blood on not only his knuckles, but his face. his own blood. funny. you haven’t ever seen him bleed.
and you also haven’t seen him for about six months.
then again, you didn’t even know he was still alive.
“what do you want?”
“what do you think i want? somewhere to crash without goddamn congress searchin’ up my ass.”
it’s surprising how easy it is to fall back into old routines.
you go onto your tiptoes, try to see over his broad shoulder. maybe he’s here to fuck you kill you. “so you’re in trouble.”
ben rubs his face and sighs, leaning against the door as if it’s the only thing to keep him upright. “no– not yet, anyway. not until they work out what they’re fuckin’ charging me with.”
“alright, then.”
you don’t let him in. not right away, anyway; if he’s telling you the truth– which would be fucking rich coming from him– then you also don’t want congress coming for you. you’ve had no hand in whatever has happened, have not borne witness to the depravity. you will not go down for his bullshit.
“you’re not coming in.”
“i– christ on a fuckin’ cross, doll, do i look like some missionary to you? let me in.”
you’ve paused, waiting for the blow. yeah, in the four months of your sexually deviant, whirlwind romance, never once did ben actually hit you, but now? oh, you can feel the wrath that is about to come down. it disgusts you how quickly your mind goes to thinking that you should be getting on your knees for him and sucking him off, right there on your doorstep at four in the morning.
“i saw the news,” you mutter. “as far as i’m aware, this will count as aiding a terrorist.”
you go to close the door, but he’s quicker; he shoves his arm in the doorway, the impact of your forcefulness almost breaking the frame against his suit.
“you’re really gonna do this to me, doll? after everything i did for you?” you can hear him curse under his breath, almost inaudible compared to the way your heart might explode from your chest. “you’re a real bitch, know that? i mean– the chick i had to fuck after the way you up and fucked off.. she ain’t you, that’s for sure.”
and with that, you’re pulling ben in and shutting the door behind the two of you. he slumps onto your sofa like a moody teenager, head in his hands. there’s no conversation.
“you’ll let me smoke in here, right?”
“no.”
the night that homelander died, you felt nothing but a coldness that ran over your body like slick. something that enters your body on its own will, settles in your heart and festers there. that funny feeling that happens when the impossible becomes possible. strange and gnawing, and yet hollow and lonely and with an ache of irritability. you want more of it, but you have to accept that this is it.
the night that homelander died– except, he didn’t die.
you don’t know what he did, what part he played in delivering that sentence, but you do know this; homelander, the world’s most infamous and revered supe, was fucking gone.
not as in ‘dead’ gone. gone gone.
disappeared without a trace.
you’d seen ben from a distance– shaking despite it being summer, utterly hysterical, a stake-out gone wrong. at first, you didn’t think it could be him, until butcher and his motley crew brought the official photos to the cia office the next morning. the close-ups offered more than they should have. you didn’t ask questions; just accepted what had befallen. that this was how it was meant to go.
they say children are meant to outlive their parents, but the rules have never exactly applied to him.
“you were there, weren’t you?”
you say nothing; keeping your back to the door, and watching. waiting.
“just not goin’ to say a thing, huh? fine, suit yourself,” ben huffs, like a petulant child. he succumbs to the silence, but only for a brief second; before you know it, he’s talking again. filling that silence. blotting out the things he’s done because of the sliver of reassurance one gets when they forget. “but why are you bein’ such a fuckin’ cunt–”
“you knew.” your body slumps against the door now, and you can feel yourself slowly sinking downwards. no falling. “you knew how you made me feel, and– and you used it. fucking exploited it. pretended you didn’t, because if you did, then you would’ve had to take some responsibility.”
“but you still came back, didn’t you? god– what is it with you and women these days? back in my day, people were grateful for what they had. worked hard to make it to the top, but your kind? fuckin’ nothing. just complain ‘cause life isn’t givin’ you shit. ‘cause you don’t work for it. meanwhile i’ve worked for what i got. i’ve been through the hard shit,” he’s ranting away, and you let him. you nod absentmindedly as he goes on a weed-induced rage– despite the fact that he is exactly like the people he’s describing. those who cut corners and go to hell and back. it’s kind of pathetic, you think, how people will do anything to not admit their life has no meaning. no purpose. just like he did. “i– it’s not fair.”
you swallow thickly, nails digging into your palms. “you don’t like it when things get hard, do you?”
ben studies you for a minute. a rather long minute. you know how bad you look; in the slow days that have passed, days where you haven’t bothered to move from your bed where you wallow in filth and self-loathing, you’d scratched the skin on your arms and thighs until it was raw. none of it has healed, because as soon as there’s signs of scabbing, you pick at it again. the flesh looks like wet tissue, right now. you remember how he told you not to fuck up your body, or else you’d “look like a junkie, and i don’t fuck junkies”.
there’s a good deal in remembering that. comfort and all.
“right.. where’s your bedroom?”
it doesn’t take long for him to be on top of you.
ben’s got his hand plastered over your mouth, trying to shut up your “pathetic” crying, thrusting into your harder and deeper when the occasional complaint slips from your lips. except, it’s anything but occasional, and rather purposeful. he needs a reason to fuck you like this.
“please, ben–” you gasp, your voice almost drowned out by his groans, the obscene noises produced by your wet, gaping cunt. you know what you’vwe done; used his name. it should be dad. “i’m sorry– please– dad–”
“that’s fuckin’ better,” the thrust that follows is particularly damning, your cunt spasming around him for what feels like the millionth time. there’s a certain pressure that comes from the way his cock bruises your insides, pushing up against your bladder. but he doesn’t stop; just rams into you over and over, and you merely go numb under him, unable to acknowledge how you feel. and forget any thought you could procure. he does not care. “gonna– fuckin’ stop movin’ or else– gonna take good care of you, promise.”
and to keep his promise, he shoves his fingers into your mouth, forcing them as far as you can possibly take them before you start gagging. “see? much better when you’re fuckin’ compliant for me.”
you’re clenching around him, pressing your body into his, though, it’s not from a need to cum. what you need, is to pee. and it’s obvious that ben knows this; how calculated his thrusting is, going as deep as he possibly can, his fat cock making you feel as if you’lle be split in half. you swear that the tip hits hard against your cervix, making you writhe.
“i need,” you pant, shame and want embedded in your tone as you feel the unmistakable warmth that seeps from your cunt. however, you’re unable to acknowledge it; how he still fucks into your tightness– the sheets below you aren’t just sticky, but also wet now, and yet, he shows no signs of stopping– or how your vision blackens and blurs at the edges. you feel disembodied. “stop.”
but he doesn’t. his pounding is relentless, and his desperate depravity to have you full and dripping with his cum basically emanates off him like a sickness. it’s catching in the air, and soon enough, you’ll have it too.
you’re stretched out around him obscenely, crying and trembling underneath him as he cums in you, his face pressed to your collarbone. it takes him just a few, albeit weaker, hits to get you to cum, clenching furiously around him. your chest heaves as he keeps himself in you, making sure you take all of his cum. you know better than to waste it.
“couldn’t help yourself, could you?” ben mutters into your skin, the words burning you. because you peed on him. on accident. and yet, his disappointment is like someone’s peeled back the top layer of your skin and poured boiling water on it. you know that he’s just upset, a moment for him to take out his pent-up anger. you just wish it didn’t have to be on you. “fuck me– ‘least you’re not like that firecracker chick that bastard’s has at his side. had, really. hell, was she more hairless than an old fuck’s bald head. disgusting that no woman seems to appreciate what a real man wants. but you’ll always let a man do what they need to do, won’t you?”
at the time, you hadn’t believed him– that he’d fucked someone else, despite the fact that you were out of his life and he could do what he wanted– but the confirmation, the solidity in knowing the truth makes you feel so small. so, you’re almost glad for this; that he can’t see you cry. and, sure, you’ve cried before during sex, but this is different.
maybe everything has been a construct from some damaged part of your brain; a hallucination of things that never happened. except, they’re not. everything has happened, whether you asked for it or not.
“yes, i will,” you reply. you’re not sure your voice is even yours; the words sound like something off of a script, repeating what must be said in order to be praised. but the praise doesn’t come. instead, you just get a rough hand shoved between your wet thighs, fingers pressing escaped cum firmly back into your cunt.
“y’know what happens to dogs that can’t behave? they get put down. but it’d be a real shame to waste a.. bitch like you. luckily– fuck, i don’t why i’m explainin’ this to you ‘cause you know what’s comin’.”
“i don’t get why you’re so fuckin’ pissed, doll–”
“–hm, maybe it’s because you’re a goddamn nuclear bomb?”
you feel like a caricature of yourself, some half-dressed woman girl who’s stuck in place and repeating the same things over and over. clawing at your throat. you haven’t cried like this in a while, even when you got away from him– followed by those six months of a peaceful, albeit tense, interlude where only memories of him permeated your life– and now, you’re here. immobilised with that cold feeling that’s crawling its way up your spine, into your neck, heart beating, beating, fucking beating in your ears. that deathly taste of trouble on your tongue.
“you’re sick,” you argue back. “you sick fuck, you– you fucking impregnated–”
“–if you don’t get your shit together in the next five fuckin’ seconds, i have no problem sortin’ it for you,” ben silences you before you can say it; the solution crime. “i’m takin’ care of you, just like i promised. so why the fuck are you gettin’ so out of line?”
you hide your tear-stained face in your hands once again, swallowing hard to contain the scream that crawls up your throat.
you’ve long since given up on trying to get away from him– basically ever since he entered forced his way back into your life last month, when he was riding high (and slightly remorseful) on homelander’s demise, and he needed a pet project. his old pet project, specifically, in the form of you.
what this is, right now, is self-preservation. not for you, but for him. something to keep him at the top of the food chain, the top dog, in a post-homelander world. keep the investors’ swimming in money, and the fans’ oblivion to the monster that lurks in the shadows. and it’s not like the newly-reinstated stan edgar will say a word. nobody wants to meet their demise to a walking weapon.
he’s been keeping you here at homelander’s his penthouse. you shouldn’t complain– it’s better than a cage, which is where you were for an agonising amount of time just two weeks ago, and also some time last year; it’s just the memories are fuzzy and drug-laced on the latter– but you will complain. to yourself, that is. it’s been done up, all signs of patriotism gone, and replaced with various earthy tones. it’s nice, makes you think of the outside and freedom earth. what gets you is the green. the colour of envy, greed. fertility.
the new wounds that you’ve scratched into yourself aren’t terrible, just surface level, barely something to be fretted over. but given recent.. developments, it’s a concern. you flinch every time ben comes near you, some futile attempt for you see a doctor, and eventually, you give in. he’s at his best when he’s resorting to extreme methods of making you do things. you can’t live with that anymore, let alone stomach it. it’s better to hand yourself over.
you’ve got a few scars here and there. nothing special, mainly just work gone wrong– back when you were allowed to did work– but they’re all old, fading. there’s a couple that you don’t look at, or think about, but they’re healing. you don’t anything because nothing has happened since. he doesn’t ask because he knows who where they’re from.
and so, you will shove your concerns down. and your disappointments. and your grievances. and everything and anything that isn’t your tits, or your cunt, or you. it’s all his. but everything that’s unappealing to him– that’s too needy, too emotional, too sensitive and too fucking much– that’s your responsibility. it’s how you got here in the first place.
“i know you didn’t want it, but it’s for your own good. so, if keep gettin’ out of line, i won’t scared to show you where you fuckin’ stand with me, doll. and it also won’t just be me; you’ve got a shit-ton of eyes on you now,” ben’s holding your face in both hands, staring darkly down on you. everything feels so far away, and yet it’s not. everything feels like love hate. “now, you’re going to clean yourself up, and then we’re both going to edgar. understand?”
you’re silent.
silence doesn’t mean ‘no’ anymore. then again, did it ever?
ben pushes open the door, barges in his bulky, dominant style. edgar immediately tenses up at his sudden appearance. normally, it’d amuse him– how this old cuck has gotten himself to the top, twice, and yet is still as fucking scared as ever– but it doesn’t. there’s more pressing matters.
the first thing he notices, is how cool it is in the office. he hates in. in fact, he hates a lot of things these days, and a lot of pertains to this building, and this system; this life. the concrete structure and what lays beneath it. a graveyard of the forgotten the weak.
“thought you’d be gracing me with your presence soon enough,” edgar sighs. he stays behind the desk– the only form of protection he has. pathetic. “i’ve already heard about the situation; though, i doubt you’ll be looking for.. help. now, i don’t know what you do in your free time, and i have zero interest in knowing, but know that you are the face of vought again, and you are what brings in the money. do not go fucking everyone over because you couldn’t keep your hands, and bodily fluids, to yourself.”
edgar’s sitting down, and so ben must look down on the man as he belittles him.
“that’s all you’re going to fuckin’ say on it, huh?”
“indeed.”
he sighs deeply, resisting the urge to simply walk over to edgar and slam his face into the desk. but he won’t.
he’s afraid angry. with everything. and he’s come too far to allow people to play with his life, these little mind games and riddles. it’s easier not to trust, he’s learned, that’s for sure.
“she’s alive and well. that’s what fuckin’ matters– all you should be worried about. keep your head out of my ass, and we’ll have no problems. i’ll do what i need to do.”
edgar takes his glasses off and folds them carefully. “very well, then. just remember; you can blame it on the circumstances, the environment, how your father didn’t love you until you became a fraud, but know that you made the choices that led you here. no one else. and yet, nothing good has come of a monstrosity like you. just a fault in our system. it’s what you, and john, and that.. thing are; bad product.”
it’s lethal, this feeling, bordering on a frenzy that screams at him to wipe out the entire fucking world. so utterly consuming and blinding. the bloodlust that consumed his son has infected him, and in turn, he needs to feed it to satiate the beast. whatever sanity he had has slipped entirely, and the monster underneath is on full display. he will kill it.
ben turns to leave, stalking out in the same, loud fashion he arrived in. he can hear edgar mutter something from behind him, but he knows that if he turns back, bad things will happen. there’s an image to protect, the product, and soon enough, that white-hot remorse will infiltrate his body and he will fuck something– you– to cure it.
it’s a miserable place– the vought building, the entire business. the human workers are miserable, and so and the supe ones.
there’s a stench that lurks within it, permeates every atom and infects the most unwilling. he saw it happen with that broad, ashley– she’s gone now; a psychotic break they said, which he’s interpreted as female problems– and whoever else stan edgar ben fired. he also saw it in the bastard himself, homelander. that sickness that drove him to such degrees of insanity, that there were more than a single occasion where he wanted to put the fucker out of his misery. but he couldn’t. the timing wasn’t right– or whatever it was that the brit and his cocksucking crew told him.
or maybe it’s just the world in itself that makes people like this– carnal. maybe there’s some natural goodness in people, but as soon as they cross the line into corruption, it’s a bitch to cross back over. maybe it’s easier to lie down with dogs.
nevertheless, there’s a certain evil in this place. the scent follows you. he feasts on it, because he can’t imagine anything worse than being fucking sane. silence is just what sticks to your skin.
he feels it with you.
you’re more of a fucking problem fault than ever. sometimes, you seem appreciative of what he’s done, and what he’s doing, but other times.. sometimes, he wonders if it’d be kinder to put you out of your misery. however, you can play the role– devoted wife, and even more devoted mother-to-be– pretend to be something you’re not. he’s seen the slight warmth that comes over you when you can be someone else for a few minutes. as if the fantasy and make-believe is better than real life. a normal, adult woman, who was with the most feared revered supe in the world; who went to the tower home to be in the arms of whom you loved, and a bed that you felt safe sleeping in. a name that belonged to you.
but that’s just it; a fantasy. it’s starting to get grating, how many times that ben tells you to put in more effort. it’ll be real, then.
deep down, some part of him that will never see the goddamn light of day, he gets it. because you never escape it, not really. eventually, someone or something rears its ugly head and you have to look it in the eye, see yourself for what you really are. it’s happened to him more than he’s liked; it’s like being dropped from the sky, falling and falling, never knowing when you’ll hit the ground.
tonight, he’ll eat you out. he’s not the type to waste no time fucking into you if he needed, not caring about how many times you cum around him. but he should probably be more careful these days. despite the hunger to leave your cunt swollen and filled with his cum. and, even though you’re not that far along, it’s easier to devour you.
with the ride back up to the penthouse, it gives him time to think. specifically about he’ll spit on your cunt, his saliva collecting in your folds as it slowly drips down. how you’ll squirm over it, before going still as he grips your thighs tightly and laps at you. it’ll be a messy affair; he’s never been one for table manners. his tongue hot against your sensitive cunt, whilst occasionally sucking on your clit. his face will be glistening with your slick.
he will eat you like a full-course meal, literally. nothing will go to waste, as he keeps your legs spread obscenely apart. he’ll eat you out until you’re screaming at him to stop incoherent and begging for more, and even then, he won’t stop. he’s going to give you everything, just like he promised, and this is part of it. and if you’re lucky, he’ll fuck you. a parting gift, one might say.
ben’s always been fond of a parting gift. something he used to do for his brother when he was called up for duty. revise that, actually, and put ‘nothing’; because he never did that.
nothing. he did fucking nothing.
but he does look after you, and that’s not nothing. brings you to live at the penthouse because the shithole you were living in was no place for the child of a fucking hero you. it looks better than it did, the interior more tranquil and classy than before. there’s a certain elegance that wasn’t there before now, something he particularly strives for, because, for once, something is his.
and he wants to keep you. safe and close at hand. to admire; to be admired. adored. and entirely belonging to him.
however, there must also be compromise, especially in love such arrangements– he does let you keep a vase of flowers. white fritillaries, to be specific. they stand out like bruises on skin against the decor that someone chose for him. although, it unsettles him to know your hesitancy to sleep in the bed. one that they now share. man and wife.
the penthouse is strangely empty. what ben should do is join you in bed– he already knows that where you are, stealing sleep that’s not haunted by his presence that looms over you, or him holding you tight because he’s afraid not about to let you get away. night would be the perfect time to escape. such things have happened before.
he hasn’t slept well in years. most nights, it’s dreams of the mundane– board meetings, maybe a surreal vision of you, all spread out for him and naked. though, sometimes, it’s his childhood. blurry and disconnected, mumbled words and forgotten faces. but his father, in all his striking and nauseating glory, is always clear.
his mind likes to fixate on that– anything, really, that involves him– and not let go. that macabre reminder of how he got to where he was. and all because he was a cheat, a fucking disappointment. even if what he did kept him, his world, from ruin, it’s a bad habit that blinds him. the obsession, hardwired into his brain by front lines and hard drugs, that’ll only lead to an undoing.
however, ben’s far past the line of undoing.
everything mushes together, and he must relive the torment by all the worst parts. it’s why you’re here; his girl. his. it’s a given that you belong to him, like you’d had no no name, nor form, nor even a life, before he even laid eyes on you. if that isn’t ownership love, than what is?
but even when it’s all said and done– the blood still fresh on your face and mixing with the cum that leaks from between your thighs– it’s not enough. he’ll still be left with that bitter cold in his stomach, trapped in the darkness as it chokes him once more, even as the water runs over your head and into your lungs. it all blends together. how cruel– his mother always said that the mind was kind.
tonight, ben will wait it out. eventually he will come to his depraved senses, the second nature of his altered soul, and will wake you by eating you out. or he won’t– he’ll leave you asleep, allow you to wake with distortion to sticky thighs. and you will think of it as a nightmare, the ones you’ve gotten used to, until you see the evidence and ultimately, pathetically, lash out at him. even broken bones heal themselves if left alone for long enough.
tonight, he will think of this; how something pains him. as it usually does. the constant pain he feels is there, sharp, and wants it to be inflicted on everyone else. everyone should feel what he does. nobody should escape it. but even in confessing to this– just like he has in every act he’s committed, no matter the depravity– he feels nothing. this has meant nothing.
tonight, he won’t sleep. instead he will think of dissecting taking care of you, and how long he will have to keep his word on that. after it happens, when the baby is born, there will be no use for you. it’d be generous of him to put you down like an animal; that can be categorised with the act of ‘care’. except, he won’t can’t. but at least he’s had a say in it this time– a child. that’s all he could have asked for. could have done.
ben holds the strings to your marionette, and what he bids of you will be done without a question uttered past your lips. though, there’s hardly a distinction between ‘dog’ and ‘boy’ in his mannerisms; the lines between the two blur as only the feral, instinctive pursuit of pleasure drives his insatiable actions.
and as he gazes back at you, he can hear the sound of running water.
—summary: you despise adrian, and adrian adores you. it's as simple as that. until he saves your life.
—pairing: adrian chase x female!reader
—word count: 4.3k
—warnings: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), smitten!adrian, descriptions of the reader having female genitalia, oral sex (female receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, adrian being THE consent king, some porn with some plot, body worship, pussy pronouns, praise kink, sub!adrian, adrian being a slut for the reader as he should be, blood, killing, shooting, mentions of injuries, yk usual peacemaker stuff
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
The first time you saw Adrian Chase, you thought it was a joke. No, not a joke in the sense that it wasn't real, but a joke that fate had pulled on you. The man in the Vigilante suit, who sang hair metal ballads in the car and dropped facts about owls mid-mission, was your new teammate.
Peacemaker trusted him, and you trusted Peacemaker, so naturally you really had no choice but to work with him.
His first reaction? Big, bright eyes flashing through his mask, and a fall to his knees at the sight of you snapping some criminal's neck.
Your first reaction? A sigh and a look that promised doom.
You, who were used to discipline and seriousness, couldn't understand how someone like him could be part of such an important operation. He had literally been one of the people who had saved the world from being dominated by a bunch of alien bugs.
He, for his part, looked at you as if you were the most interesting thing he had ever seen in his life.
He smiled at you in that silly, genuine way that got on your nerves. He talked nonstop about things you didn't care about, his life as a vigilante, his intimate friendship with Peacemaker, his passion for birds.
“Did you know that owls can turn their heads all the way around?” he asked you one day while you were on patrol. “They can turn them like 270 degrees in a circle without moving their shoulders. Can you imagine if I could do that?”
You ignored him and kept looking through your binoculars. “I'm not in the mood to talk about birds, Adrian,” you said, your voice as cold as usual.
He didn't give up and tried to rotate his neck, very awkwardly due to his mask. “I could just rotate my neck like this and—”
“Adrian, please shut up,” you interrupted him, finally turning your head so you could look at him. “We have work to do. Stop being a fucking freak for a minute.”
He fell silent, and for a moment, you felt a little bad. But then you thought about all the times he had pissed you off, and you got over it.
Still, it was strange.
Despite your constant rejections, your constant unkind looks, he always came back. He always smiled at you. He always offered you one of his homemade cookies —which, much to your chagrin, were incredibly good.
He extended that extra special treatment to you and only you.
Adrian treated you as if you were the most important person in the world. And that, in a twisted way, made you feel like you were the freak in the situation. He adored you.
Although, deep down, you found him ridiculously cute. He was damn attractive when he shut his mouth and obeyed you in everything.
You would never accept it, of course.
Chris, on his part, tried way too hard to make you like him. Every time you guys hung out, he would mention how good of a friend Adrian was, how good he was at killing people, as if that would somehow impress you—which it did, of course—and how big his dick was.
He literally just mentioned it like that, without further explanation or any context, as if it were a piece of information you would be interested in knowing.
He took special care to pair you with Adrian for assignments, leave you alone together, send you to buy food for Eagly together. He was a kind of fucked-up Cupid.
“I don't need to know that,” you would say with disgust, trying very hard not to envision Adrian's dick.
And Chris would just nod his head, leaning in close to you as if he were revealing a top secret, “You need to know, dude. Honestly, I don't think Adrian likes sex that much. But his dick is big, I can assure you that.”
You didn't even want to know how he even knew that.
You didn't even like Adrian that way.
At least that's what you thought.
Until now.
You were on a regular night of surveillance; preventing a crime of some criminal gang that you had been tracking.
Everything was going well until the hallways filled with armed men, and a flurry of bullets struck near you.
Before you could react, one of the masked men shot you in the shoulder.
You feel a sharp pain that shoots through your entire arm, and then blood began to flow.
“Shit!” you cry out, retreating.
Adrian, who had insisted —begged— to accompany you that night, turn around when he hears the scream. You can scarcely see how his eyes panic, desperately searching for you through all the chaos.
He moves faster than you had ever seen him move before.
Then, he throws himself on top of you, covering you with his body, and drags you to a safe corner behind a wall of boxes.
“You're bleeding!” he gasps, his voice tinged with panic.
The pain makes you grit your teeth and the way he looks at you knocks you off balance. “I'm fine, it's just a scratch.”
“It's not fucking a scratch!” he snaps, tearing off a piece of his suit to cover the wound. “You got fucking shot, Lynx!”
The use of your vigilante name makes you finally look at him, dragging your gaze away from your bleeding wound. You can see the concern in his eyes through his mask, and he doesn't have to take it off for you to know that his lips are pursed in a pout.
His touch is gentle and careful, which surprises you. The adrenaline prevents you from thinking clearly. You'd never imagine that Adrian would be so... gentle.
While he is bandaging your wound, another man peers down the hallway. Adrian pushes you further back.
“Stay here!” he whispers, and without a second thought, he stands up to confront him.
The shooting intensifies and then you hear the sound of a chainsaw igniting, followed by a flood of screams of pain.
Just a couple of minutes later, Adrian appears in your field of vision, his suit covered in blood.
He looks so fucking hot that you couldn't even suppress the thought, in all the haze of hurt you are feeling.
“We have to get out of here,” Adrian claims, returning to your side. “you need a doctor.”
You shook your head, the pain throbbing in your shoulder. “My car is a couple of blocks away. We can go there, but no doctors.”
He looks at you disapprovingly for a moment before sighing and help you up, supporting your weight against him. Together, you sneak out of the market, leaving the entire criminal gang slaughtered behind and the owner of the store with a horrified look on his face, calling the police.
When you reach your car, you struggle to open the door. Adrian gently pushes you aside and does it for you.
You sit in the passenger seat, feeling the sting in your shoulder with every movement.
“Where are we going?” Adrian asks, starting the engine right after you toss him the keys.
“My house,” you reply. It is the closest and safest option, although the idea of being alone with him makes you uneasy.
Adrian already knew your address, of course; he had been there several times, showing up with his homemade cookies, sometimes with new weapons to show you, and other times with clues about some criminal you were hunting.
The journey is silent, except for the sound of the engine, some Frank Sinatra album playing on the stereo and your ragged breathing. Adrian glances at you from time to time, his eyes displaying full concern once he takes off his mask and throws it on the back seat. You don't dare look at him directly, feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and confusion.
“Frank Sinatra?” he inquires a in a teasing, incredulous tone, without looking at you. This time, it is you the one staring at him, at his side profile, the line of his strong jaw, the curve of his nose, the way his eyelashes barely brush his cheekbones with each blink. Looking at the undercut of his hairstyle makes your stomach turn. He certainly is so cute. “The most ruthless assassin I know listens to Frank Sinatra?”
He looked odd without his glasses, maybe even more gorgeous, which was ridiculously beyond belief that it was possible for him to be.
“I'm not a ruthless assassin,” you mumble, looking away from him and feeling your cheeks flush, suddenly hot all over. You assume it is because your body is starting to healing itself. Or at least that's what you want to believe. “And Sinatra is a classic.”
“He is, I guess.” Adrian snorts softly, looking at you for a couple of seconds before shifting his gaze back to the road ahead. “For old people.”
“What?” you ask, looking at him again, your eyes trailing over the bend of his nose from his side profile, feeling a heat spread up from the lower part of your belly as you picture all the things you could do with that nose. You clear your throat, trying to snap out of your trance and snap back to reality. “I’m not old.”
A smile curls on his lips as he turns his head to look at you again, his eyes gleaming under the subdued lights inside the car. His gaze is soft, and caring, and warm.
But even so, Adrian seems a little flustered and nervous, overwhelmed by your presence right next to him, your scent, your breath, your voice. You.
When you arrive at your house, he helps you walk up the stairs at the entrance, holding you firmly. Once inside, he guides you to the sofa, always holding you close to him and handling you with care, touching only the necessary parts. He does not allow his hand to wander.
“I'll go get the first aid kit,” he says, already moving toward the bathroom.
You lie back on the sofa, feeling tired and in pain. He returns with the first aid kit and kneels down in front of you, carefully opening the supplies.
He removes the makeshift bandage from his suit, his gaze fixed on the wound.
“I'm sorry,” he utters softly, with evident guilt in his voice. “If only I had been quicker...”
“Don't be silly,” you interrupt him, trying to keep yout voice quiet. “It wasn't your fault. And in fact, you prevented any more bullets from hitting me. So...” your voice trails off and you blush lightly, “you saved my life, Adrian.”
He looks you in the eyes, and for the first time, there is not a trace of his usual antics. Only concern and a tenderness that makes you feel vulnerable.
And he doesn't encounter the usual coldness and detachment in your gaze; no, this time he finds softness and closeness.
“And it's already healing. So don't be dramatic,” you add, trying to brush off the real gravity of everything you just said to him.
“Sometimes I forget you have those creepy powers,” he says softly, looking up at you from his spot right in front of your knees. “It’s so fucking cool... and scary as shit. And hot.”
Still, Adrian disinfects the wound with steady but gentle hands, bandaging it again with clean gauze. Every touch is delicate, every movement calculated. His closeness, his scent, his gaze, the soft expression on his face... everything blurs your mind and leaves you dizzy.
You feel vulnerable, but strangely safe by his side.
When he finish, his hands go down to your knees and linger there. The sheer heaviness of his touch and the way he looks at you as he kneels in front of you makes you gulp.
At that moment, you just know that his feelings for you are real. He really likes you. And he had put himself in danger to protect you.
A cold fear ran through you as you thought about what could have happened.
Suddenly, you realize you don't want to live in a world where you couldn't hear his off-key singing or his comments about birds.
“There you go,” he finishes treating your wound with a smile, his fingers caressing your collarbone before he pulls away from you.
Driven by a feeling you've never experienced before and profiting from his closeness, you take his chin in one hand, look him straight in the eyes, and kiss him.
Surprised, he just stands very still for a moment, then closes his eyes and kisses you back with a passion that makes you feel like you had never kissed anyone in your life.
Adrian kisses you as if he had been waiting and dreaming for this moment his whole lifetime.
When you separate from each other, Adrian's breathing is heavy, and yours isn't much better.
His thumbs caress your cheeks and his eyes drifts down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, with a silent question. He don't need to say it out loud really.
Adrian leans up again, close to you, this time deliberately slowly, his lips brush yours, his nose affectionately caressing yours, before deepening the kiss.
His kiss is hungrier now, more desperate. His hands moves from your cheeks to your waist, barely lifting himself up a little so he could be closer to you.
Both of you know it.
It isn't just a kiss; it is a declaration, a release of all the tension that had built up between you through all this time.
“This is only because you saved my life,” you whisper in between kisses, attempting to convince yourself more than him.
Adrian is ecstatic, kissing you as if there were no tomorrow, hungry and desperate, like a lion that had just been released from a cage.
A smile curved his lips, reddened from so many kisses, murmuring against your mouth, “I'll save you every fucking day then, if this is how you'll repay me.”
You try to suppress a smirk, your arms around his neck pulling him up, closer to you. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Shut me up,” he challenges you.
And you shut him up with a kiss, letting yourself be carried away by the thrill of the moment and your instincts, your body acting on its own, controlled by a carnal desire that you had tried so hard to suppress.
Until now.
“Let's go to my room.”
Adrian obeys instantly, picking you up as he stands up and carrying you to your room, without even taking his mouth off yours. It is the perfect excuse to press you against him, his hands running over your thighs and backside, grinding against you with every step he takes.
“Can I touch you everywhere?” he asks, desperate and pleading, detaching himself from you for just a moment, his hands holding you under your thighs, pressing you against him and making you feel the prominent bulge in his crotch.
“I thought you already are,” you reply, panting for air, your hands around his neck, your fingers lacing through his hair.
His voice lowers sheepishly, very uncharacteristically in him, “I'm a gentleman. Consent is very important.”
You offer him a little sincere smile, kissing him again, “Yes, Adrian. You can touch me everywhere.”
He gently lays you down on the bed, positioning himself directly above you, his lips moving down your jawline, pressing a wet trail of kisses across your neck.
“Fuck yeah,” he hisses against your skin, right after placing a love bite near the junction of your neck and shoulder—the one uninjured. “You don’t know how much I’ve dreamed of having you just like this.”
His mouth suck, his teeth nibble, his lips press kisses, claiming your skin as his own.
“You feel much better than any dream.”
“Adrian,” you moan out his name, arching your back as you feel his mouth reach your collarbone.
He pauses for a moment, lifting his head to look at you, allowing you to see his fully dilated pupils. “Can I take this off?”
You nod instantly, biting your lower lip.
His hands settle on the fabric of your suit on your chest, frantically opening it and tearing it apart, always careful not to cause further damage to your wound.
That makes you gasp.
“Adrian!” you disapprovingly shout his name.
But he is mesmerized by your tits, which bounce free once he ripped your suit open, your nipples perking up at the feel of the cool air in the room.
“Motherfucker,” he curses, leaning down further to kiss one of your breasts, making you sigh. “You're not wearing a bra under this suit?”
“No panties either,” you confess with a hiss, closing your eyes when you feel his wet tongue leisurely flick one of your nipples.
“You're such a freak,” he whispers against your skin, mesmerized. “You act like a good girl, but you're so bad, hm? You do bad things like this and still act like little Miss Perfect.”
You bite down on your lower lip, holding back a moan as he sucks on the nipple, his fingers playing with the other, giving both of your tits his undivided attention.
“Adrian...”
“If you keep saying my fucking name like that, I'm gonna cum,” he rasps against the warm skin between your breasts, moistening it with his saliva.
He begins to descend further through your body, kissing your stomach, marking your skin with kisses, bites, and hickies. He is opening your suit as he roams your body, igniting your skin and sending shivers throughout your spine.
Adrian pulls your ruined suit down over your legs so he could remove it completely, taking advantage of the opportunity to kiss your knees and ankles before moving back up.
“Did you know this would happen?” he asks against the skin of your inner thigh, forcing your legs apart when you try to close them, suddenly feeling embarrassed by the way he looks down at you, adoringly. “Or you'd go for someone else?”
You try to smile through all the desire, offering him a crooked, lazy smile, “Don't be jealous.”
He gaze at you with eyes hazy with desire as he pulls himself up and begins to take off his suit with trembling, clumsy fingers.
“I'm not fucking jealous,” he mumbles, watching the way your eyes drift down his body, passing over the width of his shoulders, his pecs, his abs.
“You're staring,” then he remarks the obvious, trying to conceal the way he puff out his chest to look even bigger. With the movement, a silver chain hanging around his neck shimmered under the dim light of the room.
“So are you,” you snap back in a broken whisper, feeling your cheeks flush.
And of course you are cheking him out.
He is fucking ripped.
And so big that even his bulge under the fabric of his white briefs looked massive once he strips off the lower part of his suit.
He is so hard that it looks painful.
So what you had been hearing was real, so fucking real.
“Can I eat you out?” Still, he asks, eager to make you feel good, as he shook his head, causing a couple of curls to fall messily across his forehead. “You're so fucking beautiful, holy shit. I need to taste you or I'll actually have a stroke.”
Adrian return to his position between your legs, his hands delicately caressing your thighs as he waits patiently for your response, your consent.
You look down at him with half-closed eyes, your head clouded by the desire to reach any kind of pleasure.
He is carefully placing your legs on his shoulders, staring in awe at your pussy, dripping wet and so ready for him, when you click your tongue, “Can you stop talking and just get to it, Chase?”
“So mean even when I got you fucking-- dripping for me,” he quietly says, looking up at you once more just before nestling between your legs and leaning close to your cunt, his warm breath and the raspy tone of his voice makes you clench around nothing. And he just gawked, smiling as joyfully as if he were standing at the gates of heaven, wide open for him, “Pussy is so pretty too, look at her— fuck, you're soaking wet for me, baby"
The pet name makes you swoon and fucking fold.
“Adrian—”
Your voice chokes off as you feel his tongue trace your slit, scooping up all the arousal that is leaking out of your hole and savoring it as if it were the most delicious meal he had ever tasted in his entire life.
The sounds of his mouth slurping and licking your pussy flood the room, so filthy and messy that it makes you feel a heat wave from head to toe.
You can't control the way your body yields to him, as if your whole life had been longing just for this moment, as if tailor-made for him.
A righteous and sloppy suck on your clit has you promptly reduced to a trembling, whimpering mess.
One of your hands lands on his head, fingers sinking into his curly locks and pulling them, drawing a hoarse groan from deep within his throat.
The vibration against your cunt has you rolling your eyes back.
“You smell so good,” he hums into your splashing pussy, which is throbbing harder and faster, your heartbeat pulsing right against his lips. He can feel it. “Cum on my tongue, baby. I want to drink everything this pretty pussy has to give me—”
But your hand on his head tugs him back, detaching him from your clenching hole.
He looks up from between your legs with squinted eyes, his lips, drenched with your own arousal, curl into a pout.
He looks so pussy drunk and pathetic for you that you could cum just by watching him looking like that.
“Oh, baby, don’t be mean now—”
You interrupt him, your thumb lazily stroking curls away from his forehead, “I want to cum around your dick, Adrian.”
Your words leave him dumbstruck for a few seconds. And the next second, he's peeling off his briefs as fast as a flash, and the next he's climbing on top of you, nice and slow.
He leans down to kiss you, preventing you from staring in awe at his dick, now held in his own hand, so hard and angry red that it has you drooling, “Holy motherfuck, that has to be the hottest shit I’ve ever heard in my entire fucking life.”
“Put it in, Adrian,” you whine, begging for him, squeezing your eyes closed and arching your back for him, looking for any kind of friction that helps you gett off, “Please, baby—”
The pet name rolls off your tongue so naturally, lace with so much pleasure and warmth that it had an immediate effect on Adrian, who fucking whimpers, kissing your lips sloppily.
Even so, he has the strength to stop and look you in the eyes, all flustered, “I didn't bring any condoms— fuck”
“No? Why?” you ask in a choked, whiny voice.
He looks at you with a face that conveys puzzlement and hopelessness, “Because I’m on patrol. I’m supposed to be fighting, not fucking—”
You interrupt him again, kissing him once more and staring straight into his eyes, “Fuck me raw, Adrian. I don't care. But fuck me now.”
And he can actually feel himself melting against your body, you can sense how he's trembling right under your fingertips, squeezing his shoulders as he presses his forehead against yours.
He closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of your skin, pumping himself as he lines up the plump tip of his cock at your entrance, teasing it along the wet folds.
“I'll be gentle,” he promises, breathing shakily, though his hips tremble as if he might lose control at any second.
“Don't be,” you correct him, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. “Fuck me. Hard.”
The growl he lets out when he hears you has something animalistic, primitive about it. Adrian finally pushes himself inside you with a slow but powerful movement,deeply carving a way into you.
“God, you're so tight...” he cries out, his eyes tightly shut, as if the pleasure is too much to process. He's only halfway inside your squeezing pussy. “So fucking warm— I'm gonna cum, damn it—”
“Don't even think about it,” you cut him off, digging your nails into his shoulders to force him to open his eyes and look at you. “Hold it for me, yeah?”
Your words set him on fire. Adrian begins to move, erratically at first, then with more force, each thrust slamming you against the bed. You you scratch his back, pull his hair, grasping any part of him you can hold on to, as the wet sound and rhythmic thrusts fill the room.
“So pretty...” he hiss in a broken voice, choking on his own whimpers and kissing you between each word, his hungry mouth tracing your neck and jaw, drooling on your skin. “So pretty for me— fuck, sweetheart.”
He's so dizzy with you, overwhelmed that everything is you, everything around him. Adrian is in love, thrusting into you with a force that makes you gasp, moving with raw desperation, as if his whole world depended on making you feel good. Your moans mingle with his panting, with the dull thuds of his skin against yours, with the creaking of the poor bed shaking under you.
Your legs squeeze him closer to you, trapping him inside, and when your nails dig into his back, Adrian almost splits the air in two with his broken moans.
“Can I— Can I cum n-now?” he asks like the good boy he is.
“Do it,” you whisper, already losing yourself on the edge of climax. “Cum for me, baby”
“W-where?”
“Inside,” you whine, frantically gasping for breath, feeling like the world is shrinking and slipping away from you with every thrust Adrian pushes into you, the tip of his cock hitting that spongy spot over and over. “Mhm! --Fill me up”
The rhythm becomes wild and brutal until your orgasm overwhelms you, making you cry out his name against his mouth. Your walls squeeze him tightly and Adrian can't hold back any longer, spilling inside you with an agonizing moan, torn apart by pleasure.
The sounds of your two fluids mixing inside you are so obscene that they make you tremble.
Adrian stays right there, trembling, and still cumming inside you, twitching occasionally, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing as if you had been running for your lives.
“Holy fuck, babe,” he groans, cracking his eyes open to look at you, a goofy, lazy smile curving his lips. “We made a fucking mess.”
Very carefully, he pulls out of you and your pussy squelches, gaping and oozing with your mixed cums.
“Look at that” he coos, lifting himself slightly off you so he can look down, gazing at your abused pussy in awe.
“Adrian—”
Too late, he already has one hand reaching down between your bodies, swiping his index finger through your folds, scooping up the fluids and plunging them back into your cunt, making you pant from the overstimulation.
When he makes sure that not a single drop of his cum is wasted outside of you, he brings his hand back up, holding it to his mouth to savor the remains left on his finger, making eye contact with you as he sucks his index finger.
“Delicious” he delights, leaning down to kiss you, making you savor the mixture of the two of you together through his lips.
“You're so weird,” you whisper against his mouth, kissing him again.
Adrian flops down next to you on the bed, letting out a sigh he had been holding in his lungs.
“And yet my cum is still inside you,” he replies, smiling contentedly. His smile suddenly fades, as if he's come back to reality. “Wait, can you get pregnant from this?”
You snort softly at his worried face, your hand gently brushing his still-flushed cheek.
“People usually get pregnant like this,” he nuzzles close to your caress, looking at you in awe as you talk. “That’s why you have to go to the pharmacy and buy me the Plan B pill.”
“Did you know that swans mate for life?” he asks afterwards, out of fucking nowhere, pressing a soft kiss on your fingers cradling his cheek as he snuggles closer to you. “And that they die of love if their partner dies?”
“What’s your point?” you inquire back, looking at him with curious, gentle eyes.
It's the first time you are showing genuine interest in his bird facts. And he is so happy he could burst with excitement.
“We're like swans, babe,” Adrian replies in an obvious tone, affectionately intertwining his feet with yours. “Well, at least I feel like a swan. If you left me after this, I'd kill myself.”
so this is something inspired by an ask by the lovely @hazynbabyblue, hope you guys enjoy reading as much as i did writing hehe <3 as always comments and reblogs are super appreciated xoxo
adrian chase x reader, stalker!adrian chase x reader
warnings: sadistic, voyeuristic and stalker behavior. rough sex. hints of noncon. SMUT. please read at your discretion since this may have upsetting or triggering topics for some people. Content is obviously 18+, MINORS DNI.
Adrian is restless as he drives back to Evergreen, his knee keeps bobbing up in place, hands on the wheel and eyes on the road, yet his mind is anywhere but.
Thank god the near week-long mission was finally over, it was really distracting him from his priorities.
From his daily patrols as Vigilante, his routine. From you.
His nightly visits since he had first saved you a few weeks ago had grown from sporadic to almost every day.
Because he needed to make sure you were still safe. Duh.
Nothing to do with him not even thinking straight without a daily fix.
Nothing to do with how easy it is for Adrian to climb up high, hide in the pitch black darkness, hidden by the branches of the tree that stands right outside your window.
To watch you undress and put on that oversized t-shirt you always wear after work, watch you dance around the room to a tune he hears in his head 24/7 now.
Adrian’s mouth twists upwards at the memory, even starts humming the song on reflex.
God you just make it so easy for him to watch you lay in bed, to see you slip a hand inside your night shorts, moaning pathetically into the emptiness of the bedroom. The faint obscene sounds reaches his ears every now and then.
Some special nights, he even gets to see you use your toys.
“No fuuuuucking way” He had whispered to himself as he looked on for the first time in utter disbelief.
The wide open curtains, your blissful ignorance.
The way you were using the rubbery material so aggressively to pleasure yourself. It was making Adrian all but choke on his own damn spit.
His hand mindlessly glided down to grope and tug at his groin, subconsciously imitating the rhythm and push of your own hands. The tightness in the lower part of his suit growing unbearable.
Adrian shuddered with every grace of the fabric against his skin, his little shattered cries blending in with the noise of foliage swaying around with the wind.
No one around to hear his debauched whimpers. No one to see the crime fighting Vigilante rubbing one out, out in the open. Like the peeping pervert he actually is.
No one to interrupt the private show that you were unknowingly giving away just for him, almost every day.
“Hey, can you park right up here?” Chris interrupts Adrian’s blatant daydreaming from the passenger seat of the Sebring.
“Wait- Hold on. I thought you said I was taking you to your place?” Adrian asks with a few confused blinks, shifting in place on the drivers seat, incessantly trying to hide how rock hard he is.
Just thinking about you does that to him now.
“What are you? A fucking Uber?” Chris retaliates with unwarranted yet unsurprising aggressiveness. “I just need you to snatch something up for me. My new King Kobra vinyl just arrived”
Adrian’s face goes pale as he starts maneuvering towards the sidewalk, the music store emerging in his line of sight.
He gulps, loudly. Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
This is where you work.
Yeah. He's followed you here a couple times too. Y'know, just making sure you dont get mugged again on the way to work or back. No other reason.
“Why can't you go pick it up?” Adrian protests, voice whiny and petulant. His palms are growing damp with the mere idea of having to walk in there and face you for the first time, up close, no glass window in between and on top of it all, without his Vigilante mask on.
He already knows Peacemaker wont let him scurry away from this.
"What the fuck do you mean why? I almost got my leg fucking blown off yesterday!" Peacemaker argues in his high octane voice, hilariously gesturing to his heavily bandaged limb. “You want me to walk in there like this? I could barely get in this fuckass car-"
“Yeah well, I got shot in the back three times so-" Adrian interrupts with a nasty twist of his head, doesn't appreciate the insult to his car. And clearly hiding something too.
Not that Peacemaker gives a shit about any of that really. He just wants to get home and play his damn record and sleep for the next week or two.
Theres a charged silence as Chris stares at him in incredulity, a glare Adrian pretends is not there as he faces forward in annoyance.
“Alright cut the bullshit okay?- That was days ago and you literally shot up outta the gurney like it was fucking nothing” Chris near yells, because of course he knows about Adrian's regeneration powers. “So stop being a little prick and do this for me”
⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎
Adrian's heart is literally lurching from inside his chest just watching you type out the name of the album into the system.
His hands are clammy at his sides, all the filthy images he's memorized begin flooding his vision uncontrollably, incessantly and blindingly fast.
Because fuck, you're ten times hotter than he remembers and now he can even see the hem of your black underwear peeking out from the top of your jeans.
The same one he's seen you take off a dozen times before.
Adrian's eyes only just manage to snap back up in time before you catch him staring at your midsection, looking as if he were in some kind of trance.
"You're a friend of Chris?" You ask, with what he assumes is a very convincing customer service smile.
He registers your mouth moving but not a single word that comes out of it, he gawks at you for a second before the words begin decoding in his brain.
And then his stomach falls out of his ass for an instant, at the thought of you knowing anything about him at all. Because he's the one who's supposed to be doing the stalk- wait no, protecting.
But then, it immediately clicks, the receipt he just gave you has Christoper Smith's name on it.
"For sure! we're more than that actually. We're best friends, besties! i guess is what most people would call it nowadays-" He word vomits, subconsciously tries to impress you.
At that you giggle, and Adrian swears he might just sink into the wooden floor. He loves that sound.
"Well he does have an unconventional yet amazing taste in music" You offer with a cheeky raise of your brows, as if you're sharing an inside joke with him.
Adrian stares blankly, clearly and quite understandably not putting two and two together.
If anything, theres only a flare of jealousy that starts inside him.
Chris has known you all this time?
How did this escape him? He had been so fucking thorough.
"Same goes for his friends apparently" You clarify, giving him a knowing quirk of your mouth. That alone, makes an idea that only a second ago Adrian would have never even thought possible pop inside his head.
Holy Shit. You are flirting with him.
He huffs out a sheepish laugh, not sure what to say next, because all the blood is rushing to his dick and all his brain is capable of thinking is that he wants you so so freakin' bad.
Wants you two to kiss, to fuck, perhaps even get married.
I mean- He already knows almost everything about you, it only makes sense.
What time you get in and outta bed. Your favorite coffee place. All the songs you play over and over. What kind of food you like. He knows what your favorite candle smells like. He knows about your closest friends, even knows where some of them live.
More importantly, he knows exactly what gets you off, how rough you like it when you fuck your-
"Looks like your boyfriend was out patrolling with Peacemaker last night." An unrecognizable voice comes from behind you.
Adrian is seething at the interruption, his eyes are burning holes into the side of your coworkers face before the sentence manages to snap him out of it.
Boyfriend?
He's pretty sure you dont have a boyfriend, i mean, he would know.
But Peacemaker? Last night? Adrian's thoughts reel with the implications.
Your coworker and friend stands beside you, phone in hand, doesn't spare Adrian a single glance before he turns the screen to show you videos of Vigilante and Peacemaker destroying some private property and overall causing mayhem.
"Can you knock it off! I just think he's cool" You laugh light-heartedly with a push of your friend's shoulder, but theres an embarrassed blush that immediately rises to your cheeks when you meet Adrian's eyes again for half a second.
So they were flirting with me. Adrian thinks, his pulse quickening. As if he needed any more confirmation.
The notion of this, along with the fact that you are basically admitting to having a crush on Vigilante right in front of him, its all making him slightly nauseous. But like, in a very very good way.
"He saved my life y'know?" You try and argue, a deceitful dreamy sigh destroying your facade.
Adrian can't help but reminisce and grin stupidly at the memory.
God did he enjoy knocking that asshole that tried to mug you straight into the fucking pavement.
His stomach flips just recalling the image of you standing next to him in shock, splatters of blood (not yours) soaking your clothes and hair, the shaky sound of your voice as you thanked him for coming to your aid, your body trembling with fear when he approached right after ending the job for good, a maniacal laugh startling you as he introduced himself as the Vigilante.
It was all Adrian needed for a full blown obsession to fester within him.
Turns out, it was all you needed too.
"Yeah and you've wanted to fuck him ever since. Whats new." Your friend snaps back with an infuriating mocking laugh, as if there aren't any customers around.
As if Adrian isn't standing right there, pupils blown wide and mouth fully agape.
All the nightly visits start flooding his mind, images of you moaning out an indistinguishable word as you arched your back like some damn contortionist. Oh shit.
"You want to-" Adrian repeats your friend's words unconsciously, as if that will help digest the damn near gut punch that this new information feels like.
But then theres the synchronized snap of you and your coworker's head at the shock of him even chiming in.
Right.
"I mean-" Adrian corrects himself with a shake of his head, before things can get even weirder, if thats possible. "He is indeed insanely cool! I dont think anyone could blame you for uh-"
"Jesus fucking christ!" You bark with an embarrassed laugh, lifting your arms up in surrender.
"Just go grab this from the stock that arrived this morning will you?" You snap at your coworker as he whistles sarcastically, pushing him to go on his way with the name of the album printed out.
But then, it's just you and him again.
Adrian has to control the god honest smugness that is taking over his features, but still, his shining eyes and slightly upturned mouth carry the same weight of it.
"Sorry about that." You say, sounding a lot more nervous than when he first walked in.
The unnerving glint in his stare is causing your skin to prickle too.
"He's not my boyfriend by the way. I dont even know who he is, honestly it's stupid-" You blabber out, feeling the need to salvage the situation.
But Adrian sulks at those words, twists his mouth in disapproval.
"Not stupid at all actually" He comments, the irony of it all tickling his insides.
He debates on whether he should tell you the truth about his alter ego Vigilante right in broad daylight, with Peacemaker still waiting in his car. But he's too much of a professional to do that.
Besides, he's got much more pressing and urgent matters to act upon now.
"What time do you get off work?" Adrian interrupts before you could reply with something else, it barely sounds like a question, theres not a hint of casual romantic intent or wonder in his voice, only an urgency and impatience that would sound concerning coming from any other guy.
To his unknowing advantage, Adrian's painfully and dangerously your type.
You were even actively anticipating he would ask that question almost as soon as he walked in, when you so clearly and shamelessly saw the outline of what he was hiding inside those jeans of his.
"In a couple hours" You answer, a coy little smile forming on your lips. "Here let me give you my number, i'll text you" you insist, eagerly reaching in to your pockets to find a marker.
Adrian laughs internally as you grab at his wrist and turn it upward to write on his palm.
He already knows exactly what time your shift ends, knows that this is the day you usually stop to buy take out for dinner and down it completely while watching some shitty horror movie.
"I'm Adrian by the way" He comments with a nonchalant shrug even though theres goosebumps erupting all over his body. His eyes are expectant, because he needs you to say it back. Your name.
This is the first time he hears it, loud and clear. The final piece of his ever growing puzzle. And you give it away, so freely, it almost feels like he's cheating.
And you, so ignorant to not think about it twice because god is he cute with those stupid spectacles. I guess this is what they call poor survival instincts.
⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎
There was something rather off, something that maybe you should have pondered for a minute or two before allowing Adrian Chase into your home.
Someone you literally just met.
Something about the way he had started to edge towards a parking spot near your apartment complex mere seconds before you had let him know it was right up ahead.
The worrying thought pops into your head when it's already too late anyways.
It resurfaces for only an instant before Adrians tongue is slipping inside your mouth, moaning like a man who god honest sounds like he's being tortured or stabbed to death. His hands are everywhere it's incredibly distracting, your hair, your neck, your chest, your ass, as if he cant decide what he should attach to first.
Adrian's sounds are high pitched and so incredibly noisy, you can barely focus on the blaring warning sirens going off in your mind because of them.
He drops to his knees on the hallway before you even reach your bedroom, grabbing on to your jeans and pulling at them on the way down as if it were too important of a task to leave for later, aka just a few steps ahead.
Adrian finds what he's looking for, a complete unfiltered close up view of your underwear.
"God,-" He chokes before he attaches his mouth at the skin right above them, licks a painfully long stripe upwards until he reaches your mouth again. "Those are soooo fucking hot-" He says, and sure it's a normal enough comment to make, but it's the way he says it that makes your breath hitch. It's knowing, almost reminiscing. Your skin crawls with something you cant quite distinguish.
Is it arousal or some gut instinct to run away? A nervous laugh is all you can muster in response.
You were doomed from the beginning.
Because you're already sobbing into Adrian's mouth before you even get the chance to tell him you need more time to properly accommodate his length inside you.
Adrian is relentless, harsh, determined.
He fucks like he knows. Knows that you like it when it stings.
Still he laughs in surprise when you involuntarily tighten around him for the first time, quicker than you have ever experienced, quicker than he has ever seen from you thats for sure. "Holy Shit! you're like sooooo easy to break in" He says, with a pitiful whimper of his own.
"Has anyone fucked you like this before? Kinda seems like i'm the first with the way you're basically swallowing up my dick already-Fuuuuck!" He buckles above you, feeling a second wave hit you so hard his own breathing is cut short, his movements requiring ten times more effort with how you're clenching around him, even your arms and legs lock around his frame with a tight grip.
His questionable choice of words are not registering, if anything, they're only making you turn your head to the side, avoiding his eyes and his face, trying to distract yourself from how aroused they truly make you, the sensitivity growing unbearable but simultaneously not enough.
But you still shake your head no. Because it's the truth.
Because this is something that had been kept hidden in fantasies, behind thick curtains and a durable glass of shame.
But Adrian sees you. For longer than you could have possibly imagined.
For longer than you would have ever allowed him to.
"I guess thats why you usually just fuck yourself with your hand or those insanely big toys huh?- How the fuck does that not hurt though?- Like, holy shit! the way you use them-" He comments with a tactless laugh right against your ear, moans at the words like it's the very thing thats driving him to go harder, snappier.
Like he's not dropping the most insane, most revealing, most self-condemning information.
"But I'm better right? Fucking- please tell me I'm better, It would really mess with my self esteem if you were to tell me I'm not doing-" He continues, his voice going thin with the effort it takes to talk.
"How the fuck do you know that?" You ask, head snapping back to meet his eyes, blood rushing to your ears, heat flooding your face, heartbeat so intense it nearly blinds you.
And yet, you dont push him off you. And yet, you're still shaking beneath him.
"Adrian what the fuck are you-" You near sob, in worry? in pleasure?who really knows at this point.
"You should reaaaally think about closing the blinds before doing all that shit, like c'mon- there are some real perverts out there you know?" He admonishes, severing the blame from Adrian to Vigilante for his own amusement.
It all finally clicks.
"How long have you been spying on me?" You ask. Voice breaking, tears flooding your eyes in fear and utter shame.
"I mean- probably as long you've been fucking yourself thinking about Vigilante-" Adrian humiliates you, a scary and impersonal smile rises on his lips, a tight lip one that reaches his eyes but in a way that makes his face all the more deranged to look at.
a/n: if anyone sees this, please send me clark kent thirsts i am in desperate need of them since my friends don’t understand my unhealthy obsession with this man
sigh can we please just imagine for a second how clark would react to you wanting to film a sex tape?
You’d walked up to him with the sweetest smile, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders from behind as he sat at his desk that he set up in your living room. His fingers tapping away on the keys on his computer while your elbows rested on his shoulders and your hands splayed across his chest.
“Hi baby.” You coo softly as you press a soft kiss to his cheek, your hands running up and down his chest as you rested your chin on his shoulder.
You felt him sigh softly as he rested his hand on top of yours, “What is it?” He’d mumble as he turned his head to you.
It’s like he could read your damn mind omg.
You’d bite your lip as you moved to sit in his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck as you propose the idea.
His arms wrapped around your waist as he sighed deeply. “Baby-”
“Pleaseee? We don’t have to post it! I just… Wanna see what it looks like from your point of view..” You pout as you lean in to press soft kisses to the side of his neck. You pull away slightly with a small smile before pressing a kiss to his nose and plead once more.
Which is what brought you to this situation right now.
He's pounding into you, one hand on your hip as another is holding his phone, the camera pointed down to where you both meet.
You suggested on doing doggy but he said, and I quote, "I won't be able to cum if I can't see your face :("
Your legs are wrapped around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back as his cock pistons inside you. Your pussy is squelching from his brutal thrusts, your walls are tightening around his girth as the tip nudges against your cervix.
He's so fucking big it actually angers you.
He groans lowly as he pans the camera up just 'til it's up to your breasts, his large hand palming your tits as he continued fucking his thick cock into you. Your sweat sheened body glimmered in the phone's flash, your tits bouncing softly.
As you reached your climax, you heard Clark whine softly as his thrusts became frantic, your walls tightened as your cunt gushed around him, heavy breaths mixing with small squeals as he continued his brutal pace on your sopping pussy.
He'd be so caught up in trying to reach his climax that he nearly dropped the phone before you reached up and grabbed it from him, covering the camera as you turned it around to face him, his hands on either side of your head as you tilted the lens down to where his cock was clearly destroying you.
His toned abdomen rolled with his thrusts as you felt thick roped of his cum fill you, a white ring surrounding his dick as he kept thrusting into you slowly.
You both moaned as he slowly and softly pulled out of you, grabbing his phone back to get his cum slipping out of you and onto the sheets, scooping it back up and pushing it back in with his middle finger, the camera catching each movement.
"...We should post it." He mumbled as you walked out of the bathroom, his large figure splayed across the bed, grey sweatpants low on his hips and shirtless while he held his phone up to his face before setting it down onto the bed.
You tilted your head at him with a smirk, his arms opening wide as he gestured for you to come to him, walking over to him and straddling his lap while looking down at him.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Just don't want anyone to see your face. Only I can see a pretty thing like that."
You'd narrow your eyes at him as your hands run up and down his abs, nails softly dragging across his skin.
"But you'll let people see my pussy? I thought she was pretty too."
You'd watch with a giggle as he goes quiet, blinking softly before pulling you down to lay against his chest.
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(June 1)
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Save little Yusuf and his family (@ahmednabubake) - Yusuf is in an intensive care unit fighting for his life in Gaza; he needs urgent evacuation alongside his family.
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tldr : My (now former) friend, TS fandom member and artist known as Toma @tomato-arts owes me almost 1K USD and promised to pay me back only to ghost me.
Turns out she lied about why she needed the money I gave her recently, and probably about other things, using her status as my friend and fellow fandom member to get money out of me and run with it. She also tried to scam her commissioners (me included) by making them pay for a commission and never delivering, but was callout out in January for it.
Call out : Toma is a scammer My (now former) friend and artist known as Toma owes me almost 1K USD and promised to pay me back only to ghos
In this google document I detail the timeline and events that led to the current situation while also bringing receipts. Please do NOT harass any of the people mentioned (by name or not) including Toma herself.
The Boys season 4 is here, and while many people know Tomer Capone is a piece of shit IDF squad leader who posts Israeli propaganda on his public accounts to this day, everyone still seems ignorant to the fact that other cast members, and even the showrunner, publicly support Israel.
These are just a few of Eric Kripke's Tweets and likes on Twitter. There are a lot more, and he tries to play the "middle of the road" approach in a few places, but he is still a Zionist. He still supports Israel's right to exist, he still spread around the beheaded babies myth, and he still claims that attacks on Israel are fueled by antisemitism.
I know that disorganized boycotts without a stated goal aren't necessarily helpful, but leave this show behind. It is incredibly political, and it is designed to influence the way you understand U.S. politics and real-world issues. These fuckers don't deserve your patience, and they definitely don't deserve your money.
Summary: In the volatile nature of tornado hunting, you crossed paths with Scott on more than one occasion–each time resulting in a piece of yourself being left behind with the man larger than the storms you chased. [Scott x Fem!Reader; Twisters] [wc: 15.7k]
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, pinv, oral (f receiving), angsty-romance, Scott is… a complicated asshole who reader can totally fix… right? Right!?
Quick Links: Masterlist
You weren’t sure where it ended or began, but you could feel it coming in your bones. Not the whirring of a drone or the rumbles of thunder—the fast, blistering speed of tires rolling toward the funnel that made your heart beat twice as fast as it did before.
It was tornado season after all… it never surprised you.
The skies of Oklahoma rose into a gloomy beige on a Friday afternoon. Heat lingered in the air, heavy and unyielding. It was dense outside of the small gas station that sat alongside the fork in the road.
Everyone could smell it: the anticipation of a storm. They broke earlier every year and this season appeared to be no different at first glance. The radios were filled with the familiar constant chatter, the computer screens you shared with Dexter in the lot were running the same radar’s the morning predicted.
Not everyday was as exciting as the next, however.
“Shit,” Dexter mumbled, running a hand over his eyes in frustration as the storms weren’t breaking that evening. His glasses perched on his fingers before he brought his hand back down to his computer.
It was just rain. In an era of record tornados, tonight would be quiet sans the few sparks of lightning and the thunder that followed.
“Nothin’” he flicked the laptop screen closed before him, knocking you on the shoulder as your own screen took all your attention.
Your eyes were entranced by the Doppler's movements. The back and forth of the projections coming and going in shades of green and yellow but no red. No purples or the darkest blues to send the lot of you running toward danger.
Dexter bumped you again with a focused effort.
“What?” You mumbled, clicking the refresh button on the radar’s program. Nothing changed.
“I think we’re done for the day.”
“It’s like six-thirty, Dex” you shrugged, turning to face him with a squint as the half-set sun was in your line of vision. “Somethin’ might pop up.”
“Omega says not,” he put a finger on his closed computer. “It dissipates before it can get out of bed.”
“Yeah,” you sighed as he did before. “Shit.”
Breathing in deeply, you could still smell it. Those storms were on the horizon and just waiting for the perfect moment to grow but you all have waited around these parts of Oklahoma begging for something that was not going to appear a hundred times.
Today was just one of those days.
You shut your own computer with the thud. Rolling your shoulders, Dexter clapped a hand on your back and chuckled at the prospect of another day without a tornado.
“Tomorrow’s chances are just as good,” he reassured.
“I know,” you nodded. The buzzing of Lily’s drone overhead swished by slowly as it came to land.
“Why don’t you go tell ‘em and I’ll clean up before we move out, hm? Get dinner and relax.”
Dexter didn’t allow the chance for you to argue back and made for the computers immediately. You groaned, standing up from the milk crate Boone scoured from the side of the road for “portable seating.” They were a bitch to your back and after sitting and watching the screen for what felt like hours, your body was screaming for help.
You stretched your arms high above your shoulders to rest them interlocked on your head and closed your eyes.
Maybe it was a sign. No storms, good sleep, and a hot meal from a wayside diner in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. It was comfort, it was home and it was a relief for an instant that the skies were tame. No one would die from nature tonight in the vicinity of your chasing—an adjustment from the last month.
So you envisioned in your closed eyes the peace the evening would bring. How the sheets of the motel’s bed would feel against your legs; the sound of air conditioning fanning and sending you into a deep slumber.
The imagination of an evening molded into scenes under your eyelids.
Like the thunder everyone wished to hear, you could practically feel the rumblings of his fingertips as you imagined them on your skin. A lingering hope of days gone by without seeing him and his team of assholes started to stir in your mind every time it had a second to not think of the weather.
You hated the way it made you feel.
Like a goddamn school girl who couldn’t control a crush but it was more than that. It wasn’t a fatal fantasy you’d imagined every time your paths crossed but one cemented in your memory to hold you off until the next time he caught you in the same place.
And you saw him in your idea of a decent night.
In the distance, Dani and Lily called your name from outside of the RV. You cracked an eye open to see the two of them waving, pointing toward the diner attached to the station.
Your arms fell, turning to Dexter who passed it off.
“Go,” he shook his head, “I’ll join you when I’m done.”
You’d be lying if the sound of food didn’t sound wonderful that very second. The day had been nothing but driving and sitting. Every bit of food was junk besides the apple Boone threw your way at noon. He had been the first one to run into the diner an hour before with Tyler hot on his tail.
They were gluttons for greasy homemade meals.
“Come on!” Dani yelled as she held open the door and you broke off from Dexter to join the two for dinner.
The diner was like any other hole in the wall establishment in middle America. Sparse hangings on the wall, chairs and booths made from cheap leather that had burns and slashes through them, and menus that haven’t been updated for twenty years.
They were the best places. They were what made the small towns in between the big ones staples. No one could pinpoint this town on a map but the second the tea is sipped and the spuds are downed, it’s something you couldn’t forget.
“We’re gonna shack up in Perry tonight,” Dani spoke with her mouth half full. “‘Bout a half hour from here.”
“Tyler alright with that?” Lily asked, glancing out the diner window. “I thought he wanted to stay ahead of them?”
Them.
You sipped on your iced tea casually.
“We will be heading in that direction anyway.”
“Ain’t there a lake down in Perry?” Lily inquired, racking her mind in hopes she could remember. Dani nodded and picked up her own glass.
“Mhm,” she hummed. “And I do plan on jumpin’ in it before we leave tomorrow.”
Lily smiled as she turned her attention to you. She wasn’t oblivious to your absence from the conversation. You were quiet and reserved. Maybe it was that time of the month or you had a bad day—but it was strange and she furrowed her brows, kicking at your foot with hers from under the table.
“Don’t got anything to say?” She asked, causing Dani to look over the glass at you.
“No,” you dismissed. “Just tired, that’s all.”
“I’ve got Advil if you need it,” Lily went to dig in her bag but you stopped her.
“No, no,” you shook your head. “Really. Just feels like a long day is all. Finding nothin' is frustrating and this heat..."
“I get you,” Dani scoffed and put her cup down. “This heat is awful. I think Boone’s music is starting to get to me.”
You laughed knowingly. “It’s better than listening to him scream into the camera for twenty minutes."
The two snickered at the thought. Anything was better than the sound of his screeching. You pushed around the remnants of your meal around your plate when the waitress came back to fill up the glasses, leaving the check. A chorus of 'thank you's' were followed by the bell ringing above the diner's rickety door.
"Oh Lord," Lily muttered and went back to looking out the window. She crossed her arms like a pouting child. Out the window, Boone was yelling inaudible jests at the white shirts making their way into the establishment.
"What?" You asked her, turning over in your seat to see the crew of Storm Par filing in one by one.
In their uniforms of slacks and white shirts, they gave their most polite smiles to the staff that ate out of the palms of their hands. Dani let out a groan of frustration. Rich men, educated men. Men.
"Just the fraternity, Doc," Dani replied as though your eyes couldn't see that. You shot her a judgmental scowl before glancing at the group again.
"I thought I told you not to call me that."
It was the PhD in physics that earned you the affectionate, but infuriating title.
"Eh," Dani popped a piece of ice between her teeth. "You ain't like them though. They're all assholes and you're only an asshole when we can't get the signal to work and you wanna watch Love Island."
You laughed, chucking your napkin across the table which she dodged gracefully.
"Don't act like you're not obsessed with it too," Dani narrowed her eyes in faux offense.
The check at the end of the table blew in the wind generated by a few of Storm Par's team walking past. None of them spared a glance in the direction of the three of you. Out of spite or hatred, you wouldn't know but it was always the same way with most of them. It wasn't unwarranted, however. Your squad from Arkansas were known to give them as much grief as they gave you all.
You reached out to slap the check back down on the table. A glance up toward the retreating Storm Par members told you that their leaders hadn't joined the bunch at the table. You hadn't seen him enter the diner when you looked before.
But you knew the second the bell rang above the door again that it was him and likely Javi beside him. You could feel it in the air just as you did the storms. Everything shifted. The pace of your heart, the rigidness of your back, and you had done all you could in your power to keep it as quiet as possible.
You painted yourself a fake in front of the friends you adored because of Scott. He didn't ask you to, yet there was nothing more solid than agreeing to never speak of what you'd do for a second alone with him.
And you weren't sure what they'd say if they knew you were sleeping with the enemy.
With the check in your hands, you grabbed your bag from the seat and dismissed Lily and Dani's movements to split the check.
"I've got this one," you assured them. "My treat."
Lily protested and continued to shuffle through her bag. "At least lemme get the tip. How much?" Her wallet was filled with receipts and loose change.
"No," you shook your head. "Go on to the truck and I'll pay and we can head out."
Dani crunched the ice loudly. "You sure?"
"Positive," you nodded, giving them both a smile that could have read tense. You didn't mean it to be but it did. "Go on," you tipped your head. “Dex didn’t eat so I’ll order and run out when it’s ready.”
Dani eyed you as Lily put away her wallet. "I don't want to leave you alone with them in here," she knocked her head in the direction of Scott and Javi who settled along the lunch counter beside the register.
Dani watched them carefully whenever it was only the three of you. She trusted the men on your team like brothers but the others, Storm Par or any of the other groups that followed in the same direction, she held at a distance. Not only had they been somewhat competitors in the field, they were jerks and Dani could not help but be repulsed by it.
Scott looked in the direction of the small booth you all sat in, making contact with Dani's harsh stare. His face was blank—as Dani had come to realize was its factory setting. He was stoic, a wooden board of a man who was a head taller than his companion even as they sat. Dani always thought he looked miserable.
In her eyes, he was generically handsome with dimples on the sides of his cheeks. She saw other storm chasers give him eyes but he never entertained it. He was boring, a dud.
Not one person could make that man crack a smile or have an ounce of joy weep from him—but she supposed it was perfect for the work they conducted.
"I can handle myself, Dani–besides, there are other people in here."
She shook her head, souring her face. "You know I don't like 'em."
"Neither do I," you laughed. Liar. "I got this. It’s okay."
Dani trusted your word and exited the diner with Lily while you made your way to the register.
Scott had taken his baseball cap off his head, sliding it into the back pocket of his pants and pushing his sunglasses into his hair. Javi made niceties with the same waitress that had assisted you upon your approach. You saddled up to lean on the counter in the empty space between Scott and the register that broke apart the counter from the other patrons. It wasn't crowded as a restaurant in the middle of a city would be. It was filed with locals that made it feel welcoming.
"I'll be with you in one second, ma'am," the woman who served, in a name-tag labeled 'Kathy', called over to you as she jotted down Javi's order.
You took the bag from your shoulder to place it on the counter in front of you. The base of it brushed Scott's shoulder, nudging him purposefully.
"Sorry," you said quietly as Javi finished up beside him. Scott looked over at you–his stormy blues baring into you and sending you into a spiral of blind faith.
“Not out wrangling tornados tonight?” He questioned in a condescending tone. His brow quirked in a challenge: play along. You could never be civil in public.
“Maybe if you were good at reading radar you’d know that already.”
He scoffed. “Wh—“
“And for you sir?” Kathy, the waitress, cut him off with a tap of her pen. Javi stifled a laugh as Scott faced her with a half-baked expression of annoyance. You turned to thumbing through your bag for your wallet.
“Ah,” Scott stuttered as he looked over the menu. “A coffee—“
“Cream or Sugar?” Kathy drawled. She must have been in her sixties but she was giving Scott the best impression of a flirt at the moment.
“Black, please.”
“Of course, honey.”
Javi turned his head away from Scott to chuckle like a little boy. You smiled to yourself as the contents of your bag were suddenly so very interesting.
“And a… turkey sandwich with fries.”
Kathy gave Scott a cheeky, wide smile with painted red lips. The thinning drugstore paint was wearing thin beyond the lining and her hay bale, yellow as corn hair was doing nothing for her.
“That’ll be right up for you boys, okay?” She gave them a wink and tore the order from her pad. “Don’t forget to order somethin’ sweet before you go—on the house.”
Kathy walked away with a sway of her hips which only worsened Javi’s laughter. The laughs spilled from his mouth without remorse as his friend tried to not turn an ugly shade of red.
“Holy,” Javi dragged out the syllables in exasperation. “You got yourself a cougar, Scott!”
You slipped your wallet to the side of your bag and looked upright waiting for her return.
“I didn’t know Mr. Storm Par had it in him,” you said, which drove Javi even deeper in laughter. Scott sighed heavily, shaking his head in disbelief. “She’ll give a napkin with a lipstick kiss… just watch.”
“Ooh man,” Javi crooned. “I ain’t missin’ that!” He got up from his stool.
“See you out there,” Javi said your name kindly—a rarity in these parts. He surely didn’t know about you and Scott but he treated you decently all the same.
He rushed off to the small hallway labeled ‘bathroom’. Small mercies for a second alone.
“Did you have to say that?” Scott commented the moment Javi was out of an earshot. He turned back to look at you so you turned to look at him with your hip digging into the counter. His legs spread wide as if to accommodate you.
“It was too good not to,” you admitted with a grin. “The old ladies love you.”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, gazing at your face as his eyes darted to take you in. They trailed from your eyes to lips to chin to chest to… everywhere.
“It’s been a minute.”
“Two weeks,” you agreed.
“You been counting?”
“No,” you said quickly. “I just—“
“I was joking,” he clarified with a sly, cunning smirk.
“Ha,” you panned. “You should think about going into another career after this. I hear they’re looking for comedians.”
“Maybe I will,” he suggested. “I can mention the skeleton that tried to get with me in a diner. Though,” he thought on it, “her lipstick might find me in nightmares so probably not.”
You laughed and he smiled—also a rarity in these parts.
“Where are you off to?” He asked.
“Perry for the night. Headin’ in that direction afterwards.”
Scott hummed, tapping one of his hands on the counter as the other rested on his knee. Your eyes moved down his body in the same way he did yours.
“You?” You asked him.
“I think we’ll be makin’ our way there too.”
“Hm,” you thrummed. Kathy caught your vision as she gathered Javi’s glass and Scott’s mug in her hands. “Then I should be expecting you?”
Scott nodded his head. “Motel?”
“Right off the highway. Easy on and off.”
Scott made a noise of agreement. Kathy placed their beverages in front of them with a sweet smile. Scott glanced at the mug but returned his attention to you which she frowned at—you found it amusing. There couldn’t have been many attractive men waltzing through the diner on a weekly basis. Scott was a treat.
“Anything I can get you, hun?”
Scott shook his head. Kathy held out her hand for you to hand over the check. She wasn’t as wordy with you.
You glanced over his shoulder to the table of his crew in the back who were minding their own business. Javi had to return and put the window, your team of misfits were packing up the vehicles.
You took a chance and lifted a hand to his shirt’s collar. Taking the fabric between your fingertips, you putzed as he looked at you with a gleam in his eyes that made your stomach do summersaults.
It’s the kind of look that made your heart sink when he was so rude on the road.
“Text me when you get there, okay?” You asked him. You adjusted his collar before dropping your hand at the sight of Javi leaving the restroom.
Scott caught your eyes change and turned back around in his seat.
Kathy laid the receipt for you to sign on the counter with a bang.
“Sign, please.”
You were quick to sign and exit the space before Javi could even sit down, forgetting Dexter's order. Kathy took the receipt and while stapling it to the order, she tipped her head in the direction of you.
“She’s pretty,” was all Kathy said and left as Javi returned.
“Did she give you her number?” Javi prompted Scott who passed a confused face to his friend.
“What?”
“The waitress,” Javi chuckled. “You get ‘er number or what?”
Scott closed his eyes and swallowed the nerves that built rapidly. He thought Javi was talking about you. He may have been an ace at MIT and a dependable guy on the battlefield, but Scott nearly jumped out of the diner at the thought of Javi or anyone else finding out about his escapades with you.
It was a good secret. A great one, if he let himself think about it too long. But he’d be damned to throw everything away for the sake of a lay in the middle of Oklahoma.
And if he told himself that enough, he’d fathomed he would start believing it.
The motel was what you had dreamed about.
Soft sheets, working air conditioning, and a lovely continental breakfast in the mornings with boxes of cereal and packaged muffins. It wasn’t a five-star resort but they did the job. It was perfectly imperfect for what you were used to on the daily.
It was so much better than the floor of the RV and so unusual for the types of places Dani and Lily often chose.
When you arrived at the motel, Scott was receiving a napkin with a kiss and a number on it that went straight in the trash. Javi kept rolling with laughter and for the time being, it was something he would not live down.
But both of your minds were preoccupied with what would hold true as the sun finally set on that day.
Just like the storms, you weren’t sure where this ended or it began. You had established a routine without realizing it was happening and this game of chances was slowly evolving into a feeling difficult to hold on to.
Maybe it was everything in between the nights that made it more difficult than it needed to be.
You ached for them nonetheless.
The jolt of anticipation hit you about an hour after arriving. Showered and clean, you sat around while the news played lifelessly in the background waiting for your phone to ding but it never did. It sat there mocking you every minute that passed.
Seconds turned into minutes that turned into hours that turned into two.
You half thought about going to bed before a knock sounded at your door. Neglecting to view the visitor through the peephole, you were taken aback by the entrance.
Scott made quick work of pushing you backwards and shutting the door closed with a thud. A backpack landed in the space between the door and chair. His hands were on you immediately, immodestly cupping your face and the back of your head with a force as he kissed you—hard.
You wrapped your arms around his forearms in support of your uneasy feet. A thrill ran down your spine at the feel of his hands on you.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled between frantic kisses that took your breath away. “They,” kiss, “wouldn’t,” kiss, “stop fucking talking.”
You ran your hands down his forearms gently. “It’s okay,” you reassured him. Ignoring your doubts would manifest itself another day.
Scott nodded, his nose knocking yours before leaning back in and kissing you slowly. His mouth captured your lips softly, gently as if there was no worry of time at all. His hands trailed themselves along the sides of your neck, to your shoulders, letting yours fall from his arms in the process.
You tilted your head upwards at an angle to open up to him. His mouth moved unhurried as the sound of your heart rushed to your ears.
He broke the kiss at the feel of your hands inching toward the buckle of his jeans.
“Woah,” he chuckled lowly but didn’t pull away and didn’t tell you no. “I don’t think my old lady would appreciate you havin’ your hands all over me.”
He let you lift the tails of his dress shirt out of his pants. At a quick pace you undid the buttons.
“She was tellin’ me all about this great peach pie,” Scott kept on and on as he peppered kisses on your face. “And then,” he whispered and shrugged off his shirt. “Then she left me this nice farewell note with a kiss on it.”
Your hands stilled on his abdomen. Head pulling away rapidly with glittering amusement in your eyes, you scoffed.
“No shit… really?”
“Oh yes, really,” Scott confirmed. He stepped away from you and stripped himself of the undershirt he had on. He moved over to the bed to work on his shoes.
“Can’t go to that diner again I gather.”
Scott smiled which made his dimples stand out. He looked tired but present, and that was all you could ask for at that moment.
“Not unless I want to be scorned for never callin’ her back.”
“Eh,” you picked up the remote on the bedside table and turned up the sound. “Give it ten years.”
Scott looked over his shoulder at you as a boot dropped on the floor.
“That’s brutal.”
“Well,” you said, dropping onto the duvet. “What can I say?”
You crawled over to him and got on your knees behind him. Scott leaned his head backwards against your chest as you wrapped your arms around him. You could smell the earth in his hair. The darkness of it couldn’t shield the way a day's work remained.
Underneath your fingertips his shoulders eased up. He relaxed in your touch.
“I was counting,” you admitted. The days between.
“Yeah,” he breathed out. “Me too.”
You kept one hand wrapped around his shoulders but moved the other to turn his face to the side. You planted a light kiss on his cheek, resting your forehead on the spot after. You savored the small, delicate moments that were few and far on the road.
Scott patted your arm when the quiet became too much.
“Lay down,” he instructed.
You untangled yourself from him and fell backwards on the bed. Splayed on the mattress with your knees bent, he slipped his socks off and turned around with one leg perched on the bed and the other on the floor. Scott’s hand traced the lines on your bent knees formed by the lighting of the room. He watched you adjust your body for comfort in his observance.
He’d be a fool to say you weren’t igniting a fire in him.
There were nights where he’d find you angry at him, the fuck that followed heated and he’d mark you with bruising kisses to remind you of it. There were some hurried and frantic—usually following a close encounter by either of you but the ones where it was slow… they were rare.
And looked down at you with adoration he couldn’t express. His eyes were telling yet he never said words that reaffirmed he cared for you more than he looked forward to your next meeting or that he thought about you—in the shower or in passing, Scott never clarified.
Scott pushed open your legs to accommodate him. He took in the oversized tourist tee that helped cover the pair of sleep shorts of his next conquest. Without hesitation, he grabbed at the waistband of the shorts and pulled them down your legs quickly.
He ticked at you at the sight of you bare before him.
“Were you expecting someone?” He chastised jokingly. “That’s a little presumptuous.”
“Maybe,” you cooed. He grasped you by the back of your knees and pulled you down the bed before getting on his own.
“There’s always a some guy followin’ us around in these parts. Sometimes I’ll let him in.”
“Oh?” His breath was hot on your thigh. A kiss laid as he maneuvered himself to your center and you tossed your head back to stare at the ceiling.
“Mhm,” you hummed. You bit your lip to fight a smile when his familiar lips kissed at the crux of your leg and groin.
“Handsome with this cute smile no one ever sees.”
You felt your breath stagger as he moved to the most wanton part of you and licked a line through you. His eyes watched you intently; the slow rise and fall of your chest, the way your hands begged for something to grasp on. His nose bumped your clit as he got comfortable with a rhythm. Scott savored the way his tongue gathered your wetness, pushing against your plush walls.
You were trying so hard to be quiet. The walls of hotels were thin—you weren’t an idiot. It was a miracle that the man you fucked wasn’t a talker most of the time.
Scott’s tongue was warm against you. Lapping in a way that made you lose the breath inside. He was slow, soft in his movements that made you want to squirm.
You could feel your heart beating rapidly against your ribcage. Head pressing harshly against the comforter of the bed, your body hooked itself into an arch at his ministrations. A lewd, antagonizing sound of your pleasure being had by a man whose eyes bore deep into the way your body moved at his will sent you spinning.
Scott shifted himself on the bed. His feet propelled him upwards but he never let go, his hands nor mouth. He pushed you upwards on the bed and wrapped an arm around your leg to rest on your lower abdomen.
The change caught the words in your mouth.
Scott, occupied, still watched you unravel like putty. His eyes watched you focus on anything but his face and in an attempt to get your attention, his hand on your stomach moved to fiddle with your shirt that had not made it to the floor.
Your hand was quick to fold over his, squeezing tightly. His fingers flexed back.
“Oh,” you keened. In an effort to stay quiet, your other hands fingers pressed against your lips. The fire within you grew hotter.
Moving his hand from yours, he shifted to spread open your lips and gather the wetness on his tongue. Scott titled his head upwards and sucked on your clit that had you spinning. Your free hand went straight to his head and settled in his brown locks.
“F-fuck,” you stuttered as your toes curled and your hips rutted against his face unabashedly.
Scott’s other hand was long missing from your body as the one focused on you was hard at work with your satisfaction. He palmed at himself in his pants the best he could. The angle wasn’t working and soon, he’d need a reprieve.
The muscles in your body tensed. They began to shake not from a release, but an anticipation of one growing. The more you moved, the more Scott wanted to let go and slip inside of you.
He slowed his tongue to small, sensual flicks reminiscent of him bringing you back from a high you hadn’t yet reached. Pulling back on you, his lips caught with a trail of your slick and his spit. Scott ran his tongue over his lips—taking with him the taste of you.
“Move up,” he instructed, voice hoarse.
You sat up on your elbows and moved upwards on the bed as he stood up. He walked back to the chair beside the door where his belongings had ended up when he first burst through the door.
If you were attempting to be sly, your eyes navigated his body on display. Scott fully undid his belt and chucked his phone on the chair beside it. He shuffled out of his pants and briefs—pausing when the screen on his phone lit up with a text.
You couldn’t read it from the distance between you but he left it unread, turning back to you as your focus narrowed to his dick freely standing.
“My eyes are up here,” he rolled his eyes.
“I’m admiring,” you drawled. You ran a hand up your body and bent it behind your head on the pillows. “Can’t a girl admire? I mean…”
“She can,” he nodded in implying you can.
Scott took himself in his hands, pumping as he approached the bed again. He didn’t need to ask the ways in which to make both of you happy. He could read the room and the days and knew that what you both needed was something simple.
But sometimes, something simple was enough.
He joined you on the bed, tapping on your leg that blocked his goal.
“Come on,” his words were cut and dry and quiet.
You moved your leg back down as you sat up to meet him. Him, on his knees before you with his length in his hand and you, splayed before him wet and wanting. You reached to replace his hand with yours but he shook his head, knocking his chin at your shirt with a disapproving shake.
The worn Ole Miss letters standing stark amidst the nakedness of the room. Doc.
Huffing, you were quick to lose the shirt.
“Better?” You asked him. Reaching back toward to replace his hand, he removed his and let you take him.
“Perfect,” he groaned at the feel of your hand.
He was heavy and warm in your palm; watching with an intensity that only beckoned you to go further—sliding your hand along him delicately and squeezing just enough at the base for him to emit a grunt of satisfaction. Scott’s hands caressed the sides of your thighs as his mind went blank.
“Scott,” you purred. Sitting up on your knees and never letting him go. Your other hand wrapped around his shoulders as you pressed your chest against his. His hands were hot on your hips and ass.
You lazily drew your lips along his jaw to ear.
“I want you to fuck me,” you whispered. His heart was beating so fast. “I want you to fuck me into this mattress and make me think about it for days.”
Scott’s eyes were closed. His breathing unsteady and head pushing into yours. He gripped your body tightly.
“Baby—“ the pet name slipped out before he had a chance to take it back. Too personal? He wasn’t sure. But he couldn’t think straight. With your hand on his dick, all he could think about was how fast he could get inside of you.
“I thought we said—“
“We’ll be quiet,” you reassured him. “I didn’t say hard.”
Oh. You wanted to be fucked softly. At least for the moment you did.
The kind of sex that left a heavy haze in the air. The one that drew everything out of a person and left it there, lingering, as if the pieces of them were nothing more than particles in space.
It was the sex you couldn’t turn back from.
You were too far gone.
You had been for quite some time yet never slipped up. You enjoyed what small, unreliable fling you had no matter how it grew inside of you. Scott wasn’t a man you’d dream about as a teen thinking of your future. He was a certified asshole with an ego as big as the fucking ocean but it slithered past your defenses and ended up knocking at the gate.
But you loved the sinful way it made you feel.
“Do you wanna fuck me?” You cooed. You careened in his touch, pitching upwards as he cupped your ass roughly and relished the feel of your breasts on his chest. Everything about you was so soft. So delicate and warming and familiar.
“You know I do,” he panted. You stroked him still. His eyes could have drooped but he watched you intently.
“Then what are you waiting for?”
You positioned your head in front of his, kissing him gently on the lips before lowering back down onto the bed with your knees parted. You let him go and his cock bobbed.
And he did as you asked.
When Scott fucked you, the heavens blushed from above. He took his dick in his hand, positioning himself to be in front of your pussy that was still shining with the wetness he left. He rubbed the tip up and down, gathering the wetness he could. Each motion threatening to push him in faster than either of you wanted.
This could be hours or forever and you’d never want it to end.
He stopped at your entrance to look in your wanton eyes. They begged him, they wanted him without a word. He guided his cock into you slowly. Your cunt, hot and inviting, welcomed him smoothly. Pressing your head deep into the pillows, you let out weak gasps at his intrusion.
Your head was swirling. You were full of him.
Each touch and each thrust was sending you toward a tether that was breaking string by string. A violin to be played delicately and only the musician who cared enough to learn its tuning could make it sing.
Scott was calculated but not over aware. He listened to your calls—the shallow, meek whimpers at the virility of his drives. He let you get lost; finding the stars in your eyes as he peered down at you until it became too much and Scott needed to feel you again.
Scott leaned down, taking your neck in both of your hands and kissed you deeply. Your hands glued themselves to the sides of his torso. His lips were a pillow in short breaths; tongue sloppy when his hips ground into you faster than before.
His cock was splitting you. Thrust after thrust he gained the momentum of chasing a high. He never let you go; holding onto you whether delicate on your neck or grasping at your body, Scott palmed as you grew in want.
“Come on, come on,” he gritted through his teeth as you clenched around him. You weren’t registering the sounds of the headboard hitting the wall behind you. It was only you, Scott, and the sounds of your pleasure.
He picked up the rapid movements as best he could. It was so easy to lose himself in you. He, the most rigid man in both word and action, came alive at the opportunity to simply let go. Those words were strange—to let go—but he had found it in your meetings.
Scott Miller was many things, yet fucking you unbeknownst to the world was his greatest secret in his cruelty.
He watched you wither or waver, hands shifting to hold his face close to yours. You kept muttering nonsensical deliverances with your hips jutting up to join his. It was growing fierce—your end. The orgasm eating away at your resolve. Scott’s eyes were battering down on your own, nodding his head with eager anticipation of the rush of your finish. Scott knew you to be quick. It was so easy for him to get you off because the methodology of you and him made it that way.
He could read you the alphabet and if you bore into your eyes enough, you’d be wet. He could feed you a fucking pretzel and your mind would illustrate the way you’d let him pound you into tomorrow.
He nodded, chin bumping yours as your mouths declined to collide in a spectacle. Your breaths beat at the rapid nature of your heart; panting for respite in the low light of the hotel’s table lamp and glow of the television.
“That’s it,” Scott coaxed. His silence in the efforts of his body ceasing. “Come on.” His teeth bit at his words.
“F-fuck,” you stuttered out. The wave was approaching. It tingled in your toes and laid heavy in your core. “Shit,” you gasped quietly. “Oh!”
Your mouth fell open and he took the opportunity to kiss you, tugging on your bottom lip as he pulled away and the curl of your toes became too real. You kept squeezing him, emboldening him to come with you.
Scott felt your muscles contract before it was nothing but a shake of your legs. You arched your back into him, allowing him to draw you close as he pounded into your finish to race to his own.
There was nothing in your eyes except the stars you couldn’t see. It was fuzzy, exhilarating as the pulses rushed through you in a couple, disjointed and erratic bursts. You couldn’t help but shake; it was overstimulating as Scott continued to push against your walls.
He loved to feel you shake. He loved to be the one to cause such a rapture within you. To have to uncontrollably trembling in pleasure? What a treat.
You swallowed his grunts, clinging onto his shoulders and cupping his face as he drew his arms under your back and repositioned you. He was close, so close. The beads of sweat on his forehead called him to end—a sure sign of his stamina along the sheen that covered you.
His hips snapped in and out with a fury. The softness of his earlier actions were thrown out the window. He did as he believed, fuck you into a state where you’d remember it for days.
And then his tether broke too.
Scott held your hips against him tightly. He kissed your lips as he finished inside of you before deepening it.
Suddenly you weren’t going to remember the sex.
You were going to recall the way he kissed you after he made sure you both came. How he wouldn’t let you feel anything but his lips, his tongue, his teeth, until he was soft inside of you.
Scott left your lips with a faint, nearly absent smile.
“How’s that for remembering?”
He wasn’t one for validation. He didn’t seek your approval but it slipped out of him with the words he shouldn’t say.
You ran your tongue over your lips to wet them or maybe to collect the remnants of him. “Mm,” you thought. “I might forget what it feels like to be kissed?”
Scott scoffed as you ran your fingers through his hair. He dipped his head again to kiss your shoulder, peppering kisses to your lips as he made a trail. He nuzzled his nose into the side of your face and could tell when your face broke out into a smile. Taking the chance, he tucked his forehead into the crux of your neck and shoulder. You squirmed with laughter but his hands held you steady.
“I’ll be heading to The City for a few days,” he grumbled into your neck. “We got a new truck.”
“The gang ain’t enough anymore? You’re gonna outnumber us.”
Scott shook his head and began to unravel. He lifted up from you, slipping out as the cold met wet in the air. You could not help but draw your brows together at the discomfort—Scott’s thumb rubbed soothing circles on your thigh.
He started off the bed and into the bathroom attached to help clean you up. Tossing your worn shirt back on the bed before shuffling into his briefs and pants again. You sat up in confusion.
“Aren’t you stayin’?” You asked. “I thought we’d have a few hours.”
Maybe it had been dangerous to voice hope.
To voice and acknowledge the misery of missing him when it hurt to do so.
He shook his head again and went to his phone. “I gotta get that truck before she flies in.”
She. “Who?” You questioned with concern. You weren’t exclusive, you weren’t supposed to be jealous.
“Some girl Javi invited out for a few days,” he dismissed. Scott’s eyes were glued to the phone in his hand. “She works for NWS.”
“To help you?”
“Why else?” He sounded disgruntled at the fact. But he ignored your tone too. “Said she was a friend from college.”
“What’s the NWS got to do with your work?”
“She’s just helpin’ us find the tornados, not anything else. We don’t need help in what we do.”
You weren’t oblivious to Storm Par—you’d be a fucking fool not to be. It was something you detested, despised, about him and if you thought about it too long, you felt even the slightest bit guilty of letting your thoughts wander to him when you were set on doing good.
He took from people in pain for what? His own personal gain? The money he raked in on the side of allowing a maniac of a man to fund his projects?
You knew there was a piece of him that strung you along not for sex or the fondness of it, but out of necessity to follow.
His team of storm chasers wouldn’t have the opportunities they did if they didn’t follow Tyler and the crew.
You were just collateral for the course. A “get love quick scheme” in the center of a raging cyclone of fucked up felonies and a YouTube channel of misfits.
Scott let his fingers move briskly over the keyboard of his phone.
“When is she coming?” You feigned to ponder instead.
“Monday.”
“So that means you have to leave now?”
Oh Lord Almighty. You sounded pathetic. Knees pulled up to your chest, holding the pieces of you together as you became forgotten. You felt the events of moments ago begin to unsettle your body. The need of care that hasn’t come making your skin crawl.
You may have done things that made your momma blush but you cowering under the idea that a man is gonna leave you cold after a good roll in the sheets would set her aflame.
“Have to,” he tossed his phone back on the chair and took a new shirt out from his backpack. “For business on Sunday with Riggs before we head out. We agreed to…” he went back to his phone to check the time. “A two o’clock departure time.”
It wasn’t even fucking twelve thirty but hey, he couldn’t be seen, right?
“Bullshit,” you let fall out.
“What?” Scott picked it up. His head snapped to you.
“I said it’s bullshit,” you said a bit louder for him to hear. “I don’t get it, I don’t.”
“What don’t you ‘get’?” He had a lacing of judgment in his voice. It could have been the MIT superiority in him that festered with the ever mounting praise of his colleagues.
“I just don’t know when it will be enough for all of you,” you scoffed. “You pour money down drain for machines and tech and then you stockpile tragedies we can’t even keep up with. And now you’ve got the NWS on your side? The ones who are supposed to care about keeping us safe?”
“It’s freelance,” he pointed out while tucking in his shirt. He did up the belt in a flash. “And these people don’t need what’s left for them after it’s all gone. You know how hard it is for them to rebuild.”
“But those are their homes, Scott. What if it was your home or my home or your parents?”
“I’d figure we’d all end up in different places anyway,” he tucked his phone in his back pocket.
You shook your head at him, looking away to focus on the TV. Muttering an “unbelievable” under your breath, you began to wonder the reasons why he even bothered to show up.
They drove an entire team to Perry to sleep in a run of the mill hotel or perhaps that was second to Scott getting his fill. He just needed one good fuck to send him off and running to his next paycheck.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Scott concluded dispassionately. That stone cold, humorless man replaced whoever burst through the door.
“We both have jobs to do. Just stay in your lane and I’ll be in mine.”
Oh Christ he made you fume.
“You can be a real jackass, you know that?” You narrowed your eyes at him.
“You aren’t tellin’ me anything I ain’t heard before, honey.”
“Oh fuck off!” You shouted a bit too loudly. He slung his cap back on his head. “You’re such a piece of shit.”
“Then why tell me you were gonna be here?” He hummed an ask, approaching the bed with intent. You looked up at him as he settled in the spot next to you with his feet on the floor and arm outstretched to hold onto the headboard.
Scott caged you in. He towered over you to be intimidating.
“Why ask me to sleep with you or stay or kiss you or whatever else just to hate me after it’s all done?”
“I didn’t ask to hate you.”
“You don’t hate me,” he clarified. “You just hate the way you feel about me.”
“You’re selfish,” you settled on.
“You’re entitled,” Scott countered. The Ole Miss logo on your shirt burned.
“You don’t care about anyone except yourself.”
And that pained you.
“You care about everyone else far too much,” he pulled his head toward you. His eyes flicked between your lips and eyes and you wanted to punch him and kiss it away.
All you wanted was to have a good night. To be worshiped in a quiet space and he gave you that, even if brief. But he also tore it away. He always took it away.
“Sometimes I don’t know why we even try.”
He was taken aback by it. You both were two people on very different ends of a string that snapped you together. It wasn’t perfect but it worked for the most part.
“Then why do we?” He shouldn’t have said it yet he did.
“You can’t even bear to stay,” you whispered. For a second, you thought you saw clarity in those cloudy eyes. “You can’t even fucking hold me after what we did… or-” the words fell deaf on your lips.
“I have to leave. I can’t stay.”
“You don’t get it do you?”
Scott breathed in deeply, declining the sentiment with a toss of his head.
“I gotta go,” he said quietly instead. He took your chin in his hand, knocking it gently to the side.
“I don’t know how you do it,” was all you could muster.
And then he left without another word.
In Boone’s mind, it did not matter if the sky was at its darkest, a joint never waited to be smoked when necessary.
He had woken about an hour before as Storm Par’s slamming of car doors rustled him from slumber. The RV wasn’t the most perfect place to reside while traversing wild weather but he loved it all the same. He rolled off the bunk without notice of Dexter who would have surely scolded him for partaking at such a late hour.
So, he snuck into the truck and lit up in the quiet solitude of night without interruption.
It wasn’t until an hour later when the drowsy feel of his tingles began to wear into sleep that he began to see things he’d question.
Boone rubbed the tired from his eyes the same time a door opened up to his right. He ducked into the front seat as though what he was doing was far from normal and spied the invasion of the public space.
Down to the right, Scott exited the room with a scowl on his face Boone could see in the dark. A backpack slung over his shoulder, he looked frustrated compared to the blasé he was used to. Scott walked past Boone without noticing and hopped into one of Storm Par’s trucks.
Boone remained ducked as he thought back to the room. Scott settled in the passenger seat before reclining it back to sleep. He disappeared from Boone’s view and the latter looked to the motel rooms again.
Even in his foggy memory, he recalled Lily sticking a crumpled piece of paper in the cup holder for Tyler to use. It had the address of the motel and the room numbers reserved. He scouted the cup holders until his fingers grasped the paper’s corner.
“34221 Sli-“ he rumbled off as he read the note. His eyes traveled down to the rooms.
Lily room nine.
Tyler room thirteen.
Dani room twenty-one.
And then his eyes widened in curiosity at your name finely written and a twenty-two carved next to it. Those same numbers were lightly illuminated by the light above the door.
“No shit,” Boone chuckled in disbelief.
The next few days were nothing but a blur.
The sky was like that too. Cloudy and gray. It seemed to reflect whatever was left inside of you to stir and gather into something larger as your memories of Scott overplayed in your mind with poor restraint.
God, how you wished it would just rain and swallow you whole.
It was absurd—feigning such disappointment over a man who was not your significant other but did everything in solitude to appear that way. He loved on you and left you cold with nothing to warm the thoughts of what it would be like when you saw him again.
And when you did, it was disappointing.
The brown haired woman they had brought on to help with was far too good to be mixed in with a crowd of degenerate Ivy pricks but she stayed with them longer than she should have. In their paths, it felt like they crossed yours even more than before.
You were stuck trying to avoid Scott’s entire being when his truck passed or when they stopped at the same station or motel or place as you and yours.
It started to eat at you, the avoidance.
On an early Tuesday morning, you felt the winds begin to change again. Tyler blew a tire the night before and broke his jack trying to fix it. The lot of you ended up in the parking lot of a rundown gas station as the sun began to rise when the white trucks came barreling down the road and straight into the parking lot.
Dani booed them from the stairs of the RV.
“Can’t your just leave us the hell alone?” Lily complained. It had been four days straight of interactions with them and it had caused nothing but trouble. You tried your best to stay normal but Boone kept sitting by you as if he wanted to hold your hand.
It peeved you to think he knew something was wrong.
“They just love us too much,” Dani joked as she waved at the group exiting their trucks. Kate, their newest addition, smiled in the distance.
“Ain’t that the truth,” Boone acknowledged from beside you.
“Hey Storm Par!” Dani shouted. “Go find your own fucking tornados!”
Beside their trucks, Javi scoffed and shook his head.
“What?” Kate inquired, her eyes curious as they had been the last week. “They’re just jokin’ I’m sure.”
“Nah,” Javi replied. “They don’t like us the same as we don’t like them. I thought you’d pick up on that now.”
“Well sure,” Kate laughed at the ridiculousness of it. “But there’s more to this than that.”
There’s more to chasing than a fight.
“Yeah well, tell that to them.”
“They’re just shitheads,” Scott piped up on his approach. “Think they’re better than the rest of us because they’ve got a camera in their face.”
“They’ve been fine to me,” Kate defended. She watched as the so-called tornado wranglers bounced up from their seats and headed in her direction. The man with the bandana tried to coax you to join but you refused physically. Hands outstretched and pushing the man away. It was a weak attempt, she noticed.
“It’s just all of you that rub them the wrong way.”
“Well it’s a two-way street.”
You go your way, and I’ll go mine.
Kate observed the carefree way in which everyone interacted with one another. The two other girls tugged on your arms to bring you to your feet against your will. She felt Scott shift on his feet beside her but didn’t dwell on it.
“They still got that reporter with ‘em,” she noted. “Must be an interesting bunch to write a story about.”
“When you put together people from seven different walks of life, you’re bound to get something good,” Javi agreed with her.
Scott shifted again and Kate looked up at him. He wore his sunglasses, therefore it was hard to see his eyes. But his face was set and jaw tight. His hands were dug into his pockets but the distaste rolled off of him in waves. She looked back into the direction of all of you.
Boone was running circles around the three girls as their arms were wrapped around each other. Friends. It reminded Kate too much of the ones she lost.
“Alright everyone,” Scott called out. “Five minutes and then we’re back on the road.”
The inside of the station was no different than any other. Five rows of food with a wall of freezers in the back, a broken counter with a tower of cigs and vapes waiting to be sold. Kate was reading the back of a SunChips bag when you all came in. The bell above the door sounding with a jingle, Dani and Lily’s laughter filled the space compared to the nonexistent chatter of Storm Par’s presence.
You held the door open for Tyler who gave a wink and a thanks that didn’t phase you as it would her. He was handsome, charming, if a little obnoxious. He smiled at Kate and a part of her felt like running, the other falling.
You didn’t have the same spunk the others did. After they left your vicinity the smile on your face dropped and the shoulders you wore were heavy. You passed Kate, giving her a small hello, before walking down the aisle. She peaked her head to the side of the stand.
“Find anything good?” Kate called out kindly. Her light Oklahoma twang cutting through.
You glanced at her. “If you count fruit flavored Doritos good, then maybe we have different tastes.”
She chuckled and took it as a sign to approach you.
You didn’t know much about Kate other than what Boone had dug up and what Scott had mentioned before she arrived. She was smart as a whip, a talented chaser, and one who made mistakes too.
“I don’t think those would be good in any situation.”
“We can agree there,” you mumbled. You picked up a small bag of Veggie Straws.
“So where are y’all chasing today?” Kate inquired.
“Why?” You countered. “So you can follow us around?”
“No,” she shook her head, feeling as though she offended you. “No… we can find our own. I was just wonderin’ if y’all wanted to go to this bar tonight.”
You furrowed your brows. Under the static lighting of the gas station mart, you were falling into confusion.
“Y’all as in… us?”
“Yeah,” she laughed. Kate was intrigued by what you did. The way you all risked so much for entertainment or maybe, for some of you, there was still an inch of science to be discovered.
The day after you all converged and she had a panic attack at the sight of the tornado, Kate spent the morning watching the videos posted from your channel. She was amazed by the thrill of what feelings Tyler and Boone could ooze out of the screen.
But she took a liking to the science you broke down for the average viewer. The way you taught amidst the chaos of wrangling tornadoes or shooting fireworks up the funnel.
“I thought we could all use a break,” she shrugged. “Javi and I have known each other for a long time and we used to stop there for line dancing on Thursdays.”
Well it just so happened to be a Thursday.
“And these fellas are more wound up than a goddamn toy,” she said under her breath. “I think a pitcher of beer and some good ol’ fashion Oklahoma hospitality would do us well.”
“Oh,” you replied softly. “Um, well… Ty makes a lot of those decisions so maybe you could ask him?”
Her eyes went bright. “Sure! I mean, I just thought I’d ask. They all talk about you a lot… I think they’re all a little jealous.”
The thought of what Scott or any of the other Storm Par guys said about you and your friends bristled you. Scott’s face met you in dreams to remind you that he was never too far away and whatever strife you had with him and his work was always going to get in the way.
“Do they?” You commented. You could hear Javi in the aisle over talking to Scott about equipment.
“Mhm.”
“How charming,” you moved down the aisle to the other products but Kate didn’t follow. She looked in your direction but behind you.
Javi and Scott were now at the end of the aisle beside you, the former shuffling behind you with a small ‘excuse me’ while the other stood there for a brief moment. You looked over your shoulder at him and his glasses were now gone, meeting your gaze for seconds too long.
“I was just inviting them to come with us,” Kate informed Javi who turned, eyeing you as your attention was distracted.
“Well I hope they can dance,” Javi said with a glee he always had.
Kate said your name which brought your attention back. You could feel Scott lingering, his stance imposing on the small aisle of snacks. You could always feel him around—a curse from caring about everyone too much. He wasn’t a small man or one who could hide in the shadows; he towered over the short shelves. He was as gigantic as a comic book hero even if he was far from one.
The invitation caught Tyler’s attention when the conversation became too loud to go unnoticed. He appeared out of thin air at the other end of the aisle by the door.
Like an old western standoff, you were caught in the center.
You wanted the bags of chips to swallow you whole. It was bad enough that you were stuck between the world you loved and the man who made it more complicated. It was bad enough that Tyler would certainly say yes to Kate’s proposal because he had been sneaking glances at her for a week.
He had shit-eating grin on his face as he walked closer to the group of you. His curious eyes monitoring the way Scott’s body was a little too close to yours.
A part of him believed they were cornering you for something about storms. He wouldn’t put it past them for their sordid work in the hellish treatment of victims but hey, who was he to assume? You clutched the bag in your hands hard enough it could pop.
“We all good over here?” Tyler questioned Scott specifically. It was the only other guy he could size up to and play out a macho-man persona. “I don’t think I need to tell y’all that my team is my team, off limits to your work.”
Scott laughed, truly laughed at Tyler. Javi and Kate’s heads whipped around to Scott who rested an arm bent on the shelves beside him. It was far too close to you and it gave you flashbacks to his nasty exit. Tyler focused on Scott in a labored calculation. He might have been the one they all liked the least.
“Did I say somethin’ funny?”
“Yeah,” Scott replied. His voice flat as always. “You did.”
Tyler looked around at Kate, Javi, and yourself who frowned.
“Care to explain what?”
Scott held back an amused smile as his eyes creased at the edges. You looked up at him with a warning. To your surprise, Scott looked back.
“No,” he responded curtly while looking at you. Off limits.
Kate sensed it. She did. There was something there—the air heavy like a storm.
“We’re gonna go to a dance bar in Enid tonight. I was just askin’ if all y’all would like to join us,” Kate pitched in to Tyler who slowly removed his gaze from Scott to her. His eyes let up softly.
“Dance bar? I don’t take any of these fellas for the dancing kind.”
“Don’t you know we’re all from here?” Javi asked him and Tyler didn’t. You did but Tyler didn’t know much about any of them except their high degrees of achievement and late-stage superior fraternity behavior.
“So you’re tellin’ me that Mr. Stick-up-his-ass here can two step like it’s his birthday?”
“Oh you ain’t never seen Scott dance,” Javi laughed loudly and gathered the rest of the wranglers to the aisle. “We can dance you into next week!”
“Alright.” Tyler nodded his head. One night wouldn’t hurt. “I’m good with it as long as it’s fine with Doc.”
Shit. They all gazed at you with bated breath. You could feel their beady eyes piercing; Scott's blistering eyes on the side of your head prompting you to try.
The last time you attempted to have a good evening it left you reeling. That was six days ago and you still replayed Scott’s words through your mind. Over and over and over and over again.
You’re entitled.
Stay in your lane.
You cared about everyone else too much.
Yet your lanes always converged. And you had the right to be entitled as the name suggested. Doc. You were overly qualified to be there and whatever flew your way, you deserved it.
And fuck, if you didn’t care about everyone else, you’d be a shell of a human. So hollow that your world would collapse. By the laws of physics, you’d stay in motion. You’d keep going even if he pulled you backwards a million times.
You looked at Tyler, tossing your bag of chips in his direction.
“I’d love to go dancin’.”
Boone screeched a happy whistle and yelled to save him a dance. Scott seethed at those words as if he had a claim otherwise. It was an agreement to keep it quiet for the sake of your jobs, your sanity. But he was covetous in his belongings and for whatever belief he had, you were his in all but name.
His actions made it difficult to fully manifest into reality. When you keep a locked door locked, you don’t deserve to enjoy it for free. It ate away at him differently than the anxiety of hurt ate at you.
He wanted to freely give himself to you–to be the man you'd see on dark nights in the solace of a bedroom or wherever you could find respite.
It was tough to be the person you thought you were. It was much easier to be a coward.
The dance bar was packed full of locals and tourists alike. You couldn’t place the pull Enid had on people who weren’t from there but it was alive the moment you walked through the door.
Boone whistled at the sight of everything.
“I gotta hand it to ‘em. They sure can pick a place.”
“Have you never been dancin’ before?” You questioned, linking your arm in the space offered by him. He gave a cheeky smile and tipped his cowboy hat with a free finger.
“Oh, don’t underestimate me, Doc. Just cause you ain’t seen these moves don’t mean I ain’t got them.”
“Maybe I’ve been blessed. If it’s the same way you hold a camera, I can’t imagine your feet.”
“Uh huh,” he egged you on. “Keep it comin’. I have a whole night to prove you wrong.”
You scrunched your nose at him. At the moment, a series of rapid clicks sounded behind you. You and Boone peaked behind you at Ben, the reporter, snapping a photo.
“Sorry,” he apologized bashfully. “I haven’t been able to capture much of you.” He spoke to you, not Boone. “I want to feature more than just the storms.”
“Well you’re gonna get a whole lot more than storms tonight, Ben!” Boone cheered as Dani joined him on his other side.
You got the sudden sense of deja vu to your college days. Those undergraduate nights where your friends would drag you to the bar and everything was far too loud and over exciting. It was beer and booze and feet that fumbled. There was nothing over exhilarating about going out on a weekday but now, past those prime days, you felt a simmer of that feeling come alive inside of you.
Against your better judgment, the idea that Scott and you were crossing paths in a public setting beyond your professions was exciting. It sent thrills down you when it shouldn’t.
He had done nothing to remedy what he said—nor you for that matter. You kept your distance by sitting in the truck while stopping or sleeping in the RV with Dexter and Boone instead of a motel. Every time in the last week that your lines had met, you kept them parallel.
Tonight would be the hardest to not intersect.
“Can I buy you all a round?” Ben offered kindly. His mannerisms were foreign in the West. “For an exciting week, I suppose.”
“Who are we to say no, Ben?” Tyler slung an arm around his shoulder. Dexter and Lily flanked him at his sides.
Your group settled at a table in the back of the bar by the darts and pool table. Dexter challenged Dani to a rematch of a game they had settled a couple of weeks ago, and the rest of you nursed or chugged the beer that Ben had bought. You were the former. Sticking your attention on the foam at the top as it slowly made its way down the glass to become nonexistent.
“So,” Boone cleared his throat beside you as Dani, Tyler, and Ben looked over the photos the journalist had taken thus far.
“Is there a reason your attitude has been shit lately?”
You peered into the glass. Fingers tapping the sides of it.
“I was editing the last video and if anyone wanted a tornado to actually kill them, viewers might be convinced it’d be you.”
“Oh come on,” you scoffed. “I am sure my bad day didn’t ruin the video.”
“I didn’t say ruin, only tainted it. But what’s goin’ on?” He pointed and probed at your temple invasively. “The wheels are turning. I can hear them.”
“It’s nothin’, Boone. Just… girl stuff.”
“My favorite!” He bellowed like a King. Dani transitioned from her conversation to yours.
“What’s your favorite?”
“Girl stuff,” he mimicked. “Just askin’ about little miss sad is all.”
Dani nodded, taking a sip of her beer.
“Is it about your tinder date?”
“My what?” You showed deep confusion. “What date?”
“Last week,” she said casually. “I could hear your headboard against my wall. Jesus,” Dani laughed. “I didn’t know you had it in you Doc.”
Ben and Tyler’s conversation ended and they eavesdropped from the end of the table. At the other end of the bar, Storm Par, in casual clothing, entered.
You blanched at her words. You didn’t even realize.
“Oh-ho!” She pounded a fist on the table. “It was a tinder guy! Ha!”
Boone went suspiciously quiet beside you as she kept on.
“I didn’t want to say anything then but it makes sense. You’ve been on edge ever since. Maybe you should call him—“
“No,” you shook your head at her. Your hands left the glass and settled in your lap.
“He wasn’t good? Oh—“
“No!” You defended too fast and awkwardly. Boone glanced at Tyler who became far too interested in his co-pilot’s silence.
Dani lowered her voice with concern. “Was it too, you know, rough? Did he hurt you?”
“Oh my God!” You exclaimed at the invasion of privacy. “Can you not?”
“Sorry!” She held up her hands. “I didn’t hear anything else if that’s what you’re worried about. I don’t want to know your kinks.”
“Oh fuck me,” you wailed. “Dani, can you please stop?”
“Ok, ok!” She backed off and sat in her seat. “I’m just trying to help!”
“I know,” you breathed in. Tyler took a large sip of his beer before putting it back on down the table.
“We know him?” He questioned, eying Boone move uncomfortably in his seat. You looked at him and gaped for a millisecond before shaking your head.
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
Boone glanced at Tyler again and he knew you lied. He didn’t think it was Boone—that would be a nonstarter because you weren’t his type. It wasn’t Dexter because he was married and Ben was not interested in women.
He knew you didn’t swing for Dani or Lily so it was someone else. Dani already deduced it was a man so any other woman was out of the question.
“Well maybe you just need to find someone else to take your mind off of it?” Dani suggested.
“Yeah. Maybe.” You bit at the inside of your cheek.
“A lot of fuss over a one night stand,” Tyler put an arm over the back on Ben’s seat. “Must’ve been somethin’ if you’re down and out about it.”
You downed the beer before you in a flash.
“Must’ve,” Dani agreed with a hum.
“Anyone want another?” You asked, shifting out of your seat. The heels of your boots clacked onto the floor with a bounce.
Everyone shook their heads no and let you leave the table.
The music was pumping through the speakers loudly and the bar was full. You spotted Kate with a couple of the Storm Par guys doing a shot—all of them looking like regular Joe’s in their tees and flannels. Not far from the edge of the bar Scott and Javi waited for pitchers to be filled.
It was rare you saw him out of his “uniform.” Clad in a dark blue tee and his own flannel, the only thing that separated him from the rest was the way he looked. When he tried, Scott was movie-star handsome. The kind of person that’d be having girls write their numbers on his hand at the end of the night.
His presence was unfair to the other men around—except for Tyler on the occasion. It was a shame he was an asshole.
Instead of going toward Scott and Javi as you might have a week ago, you took an empty spot beside Kate who cheerfully greeted you. She waved down the bartender, asking for another shot and to refill your glass.
Tyler watched you walk away. He couldn’t see the decision making in your eyes or hear the thoughts in your mind, yet he had his own to make assumptions.
“Boone,” he called to his friend who sat quietly. Tyler watched you stand next to Kate and Ben’s gaze followed.
“Yeah?”
“Why you bein’ so quiet?”
“I’m n-not,” he tripped over his words. “I’m not.”
“You sure we don’t know him?”
Tyler clocked each of the Storm Par men. None of them looked immediately taken by you standing there, itching to get their hands on you, but then he let himself wander to the end of the bar.
And he locked in.
“I don’t know him,” Boone choked a laugh. “How would I know? She’d tell Dani before me.”
“I didn’t say she told you.”
“Well I’m just implying.”
Tyler turned to Ben who was trying to copy Tyler’s movements.
“Ben,” Tyler tipped his head toward you. “Tell me what you see.”
Ben cleared his throat like he was being interrogated. “Well they just got a second round of shots and the bartender said it’s on the house. She must recognize us.”
“Ok,” Tyler pointed. “And down there? What can we conclude, Mr. London.”
“Oh, well… it seems not everyone is out for a good time.” It was Scott’s frown that told him that.
“You sure?” Tyler watched as Dani blanked. Her eyes suddenly went wide and worrisome at the thought.
“No!” She objected. “No fucking way. Not on my watch, Tyler. Nope!”
“What?” Ben asked frantically. “What’s wrong?”
“Tyler thinks it’s one of them,” Dani pointed to Javi and Scott.
“It is one of them,” as though there were options. “It’s the fucking stick in the mud.”
Dani scowled and physically rejected the idea. Ben watched what Tyler did as Scott, the taller of the two men and the one facing your direction at the bar, couldn’t keep his eyes off you as you laughed at whatever Kate said.
You started to leave and he averted his gaze until your back was to him. You didn’t even look at him when you passed him and Javi.
“Shit,” Dani muttered as you got closer. Boone closed his eyes with a sigh before nodding at the rest of the table.
“It is him,” he admitted and Dani slapped a hand on her face. “I saw him.”
“You saw them?”
“No, him. Leaving her motel room last week.”
“Oh Lord,” Dani nearly wailed. “She’s been sad over him?”
“He is quite attractive,” Ben defended. Dani slapped his arm harshly.
“Dammit don’t say that!”
Tyler sat in contemplation. He had been your friend for years now and knew when things got rough, it could be difficult to overcome them. Everyone had gone through countless breakups and one night stands and situationships that didn’t work out and after a bit, you’d be ok.
Yet he knew it was different somehow.
Even though he despised Storm Par and had nothing but horrible interactions with Scott, there must have been something there for you to cling on to.
And anger had a distant cousin: jealousy.
When you came back to the table, everyone was quiet and observing.
“What?” You questioned each of them.
“Nothin’” Dani said quickly.
“Oh really?”
“Do you wanna dance?” Tyler asked you abruptly. You could see on his face that there was another thought lingering below the surface.
“Right now?”
“Yeah,” he hopped off his stool and motioned toward the group of people dancing to the rhythm of the music. Most were couples, a few scatterings of friend groups around.
Tyler held out his hand to you.
“Don’t tell me a PhD can’t dance, Doc.”
You rolled your eyes, taking his hand in yours. It wasn’t Scott’s, but it would do for now.
“Of course I can, hillbilly. I just do it a bit more sophisticated than you.”
Dani and Boone howled in laughter as you let Tyler take you to the dance floor, spinning you around twice before settling to the score. You danced sweetly with one another as the others looked on from their seats.
Tyler Owens always looked proud to be in the company of his friends. Each plucked from their own little obscure corner of the world: a YouTube daredevil, an amateur late-age scientist, an ex-pr firm reject, a tech fair winner, and you—the science bros internet girlfriend who was a professor of physics.
He adored each of you in a special way that made everyday worth living.
It hurt him that you couldn’t be honest about an action so natural. If Scott had been a one time thing or a many time thing, he would learn to accept it if it meant you would be happy.
He’d want the same in return should a situation arise.
“You know,” he cleared his throat as the song sped up in tempo but came back down. “We don’t really keep secrets from each other here.”
You sighed, looking away from Tyler. Everyone was at peace on the floor before the real dancing began and you tried not to peak at the table as Storm Par settled at the table beside your friends.
“I’m not keeping secrets. I’m not revealing information.”
“Ah!” Tyler chuckled. “Ok, fine… but if I said that even if you didn’t tell us and kept whatever you have with whoever it is going, that we would all be ok with it, that wouldn’t matter?”
“It doesn’t matter,” you said frankly. “I think—“
“That he’s staring at us right now.”
Tyler met your eyes with purity. There was no cruelty or hatred in them for you to think he was being a jerk about it.
You opened your mouth to speak but he denied you the chance.
“There’s a lot of things I could say about it, Doc. A lot. You could’ve picked a nicer dude, not a leech to our operations, someone who cares about people…” he trailed off when he saw your demeanor fall far from his jokes.
“Boone saw him,” he clarified. “He put the pieces together but didn’t want to say anything. Not his place, I guess.”
“No,” you said in soft resignation.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“How long?”
“Not long after we met them,” you confessed. About a year ago. Tyler whistled, his hand inched a bit lower on your back but it was still respectful, you didn’t mind.
“And something he did, said, isn’t sitting right?”
“Yeah… it’s not.”
“Do you want my advice?”
You stayed silent as he continued on. He let the music play out as you swayed. Javi and Kate joined on the floor and their giggles were noticeable from the short distance between you.
“Guys like him… they’re complicated. And I get it if you don’t want to hear it but I’ve been around guys like him my whole life. They can be selfish and unnerving and stupid. It’s like they’re trying to prove to the world that they’re fit to be in it.”
You couldn’t disagree.
“When they find a place that accepts them, they’ll rise to the top of it and not know what it’s like to be at the bottom anymore. They forget about people like us.”
“I think I changed my mind—“ you started to pull away but he tugged you back.
“I’m not telling you to let him go. He just hasn’t been put in a place of uncertainty in a long, long time.”
“He said I was entitled.”
“He’s a prick and I will beat his ass if you want me to.”
You smiled. “No. It’s ok.”
“I will do it, don’t underestimate me,” he smirked. “And by the way he watches you, that uncertainty is you.”
“What do you mean by it?”
“I think you might scare him a little, Doc.”
You did.
Scott’s heart rate rose significantly from the time he entered the bar, saw you, and had to watch you dance with Tyler. Those same words that replayed in your mind the last week surfaced as soon as he sat in the truck and the door was shut.
He was an ass. It was a part of him that he couldn’t escape from no matter how hard he tried. His memories delicately held onto the hours you shared where he felt he could be someone else.
Tyler kept glancing in the direction in which Scott sat as though to rub salt in the wound.
“Can we try not to frown today?” Kate saddled up in the seat beside him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile.”
“Normal people don’t walk around grinning.”
“No,” she kicked her feet. “But they do allow themselves to have fun.”
“I am.”
She blew raspberries as Javi poured the beer into their glasses. “You are a tough nut.”
“Never not one,” Javi agreed. “Just loosen up, man. The world is bigger than what we do.”
Scott breathed in a frustrated sigh. “I’m fine,” he pressed.
“Not since I’ve met you,” Kate suggested. She looked out into the sea of people. “Maybe we can just all take it easy tonight. Drink some beer, dance, and then find you someone to take home.”
Scott’s voice was muffled by the beer he drank but he shook off her suggestion. He didn’t even really know this girl who appeared to be a phenom of weather patterns. All she had done this week was disrupt their workings and fall on his irritation scale.
“I like the sound of that!” Javi encouraged. “When’s the last time you been laid, huh? 2015?”
Scott didn’t entertain it. He looked out onto the dance floor and saw you swaying with Tyler—a mix of concern and thankfulness levied on your face.
“Ok, ok… blink once if before or twice if after,” Javi continued at Kate’s amusement. “I’m serious, man. We’re gonna hook you up, alright? Kate’s got a six sense for pickin’ the right ones.”
Javi took his turn but the song changed to a favorite of Kate’s and his eyes lit up at the same time hers did. Call it a sign from the heavens, but Scott had been saved from the humiliation of his friend.
Kate dragged Javi to the floor not far from you and Tyler and it gave him protection to keep looking.
Tyler spun you close to Javi and Kate.
“We all have to face our fears,” Tyler told you. “If we don’t, they’re gonna prevent us from what we need in our lives.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that a book deal might be in your future? Words of Wisdom by everyone’s favorite tornado wrangler.” You emphasized with the sparkle of your fingers.
“That ain’t a half bad idea.”
“I’m full of great ideas.”
“Then start thinkin’ of one to remedy this. I love ya, I do. But if you let his shell break you, it will be a hell of a lot harder to handle the road.”
“Thank you, Tyler,” you said earnestly. “I wasn’t sure what any of you would say about it.”
“Well,” he racked his brain for the thought. “You remember that girl Dani was seein’ from Kansas? She might not have been the most perfect but she was perfect for Dani when she needed her. And maybe that’s Scott for you.”
The sound ended abruptly and the speakers let out a deafening tone. A bartender came onto the surround sound to kick off the line dancing that only Tyler could hype up more. Kate and Javi found themselves beside you both and everyone that could fit on the wooden floor ascended.
Tyler clapped his hands together as he stationed himself near the first line. You weren’t too confident in yourself even if you had been doing this since you could walk, so you settled in the spot behind him. Kate was jovial to stand next to Tyler. Her eyes twinkled and you thought back on his words.
Perfect for what was needed.
“OoO, my man!” Javi clapped Scott’s back in surprise as he joined on the floor.
Dani, Boone, and Lily ran to stand next to you, so Javi and Scott took the positions behind you. Dexter cheered everyone on from the table with Ben. The latter took his camera out with his finger on the shutter.
“Don’t step on our shoes now, you hear me?” Lily screeched over her shoulder to Javi and Scott. Feeling emboldened by the two glasses of beer he downed in a record time, Scott ran a hand through his hair.
“Don’t worry about it!” He shouted back.
“Ok Mr. MIT, come to show us how it’s done!” Lily drawled. She tugged on your arm—having missed the conversation prior. Dani’s smile dropped off her face fast.
“I say we place a bet!” She yelled over the music that was getting so loud. Your ears rung as the lights began to spin in different colors. Javi heard the bet and drew closer to Lily.
She pulled your arm with her, sticking you beside Scott. He put his hands on his hips and his elbow knocked your other arm.
“Twenty that he’ll fall on his face,” she suggested.
Javi looked at Scott and contemplated the idea. Scott was distracted by you standing there. He just stared, like a fish out of water in a town not far from one he visited as a kid.
You made him feel like a fish out of water.
“Deal!” You heard Javi agree and before Lily could shake his hand in a deal, you piped up.
“I bet with Javi!” She peeped at you surprised. “Forty says he can!”
Scott never had someone put trust in him like that. It was a damn good thing his mother taught him more than just math and science.
“Ok!” She yelled back, shaking both Javi and your hand.
Before you turned to take your spot as the music started, you took Scott in.
“Don’t disappoint me!” You shouted.
After the last few days, he couldn’t will himself to.
He shook his head, letting a smile grow to his eyes. Dani had never seen it before.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, baby!”
And Scott danced his fucking ass off.
You weren’t sure where it ended or began, but you could feel it coming in your bones.
Not the sounds of laughter in a confined space or the blaring of music—the rapid, unpredictable nature of dedication a person could not admit. It was a funnel cloud below the truck; a spiraling tire on the side of the road blasting its radius toward you.
The cool air at night hit your body like a bucket of water. The squealing of the door to the bar rattled at the force you used to push but it didn’t slam closed as you expected.
Two minutes ago, you were breathing heavily on the dance floor. The stomping rhythm of boots on wood turning your mind blank with every kick and turn. You had found the peace within the steps and let it drive you to a foundation.
Scott had gladly proved them all wrong—enjoying the surprised excitement that emitted from both his and your own team at the way he was able to, standing above six feet, move the way he did. He caught your smile more than once, a resurgence of hope filled him.
At the break of the song, you hung onto Lily’s arm, pointing to the door.
“I need some air,” you nearly heaved.
So you went for the door and he debated on whether to follow but in the business you took up, there was always the possibility of never having another moment.
And if he didn’t strike his fear now, he’d never do it.
“Hey,” he called out to you as the music started up again but you were too far gone. Already halfway to the door by the time he had made a decision. He tried calling out to you again, except his track was cut off by a sweaty Boone.
“Ex-“
“Don’t fucking hurt her,” Boone panted. His eyes pleaded for his friend, for you. “Don’t do it. Please.”
“I’m not—“
“You say you’re not but I’m sure you’ve said it before. But think about it, dude…” Boone got up in Scott’s personal space. “If a tornado hit this building right now and you were the only one left, would you be ok with how this ends?”
Scott saw the earnest plea in Boone’s call. He placed a hard, firm hand on Boone’s shoulder.
“I appreciate it, man.”
It was the first time Scott was decent to him.
Scott left him standing there near the entrance as he caught the door before it slammed closed. Outside, you stood in a cool down position in the orange-yellow glow of the parking lot.
His heart was beating out of his chest. It hadn’t felt that way in a week.
He wasn’t sure if you knew he had followed you. You didn’t turn around and didn’t acknowledge him as the silence overtook. Crickets strung their chords and cars whirled by on the road.
Scott leaned against the brick building under the neon lights with a knee bent.
“Do I scare you?”
You broke the silence after minutes had passed. You kept your back to him but he looked up, folding his arms across his broad chest.
If you turned around, you feared you wouldn’t be able to keep it together.
“Don’t lie to me,” you tried not to sound like a beggar. “Do I scare you?”
“Yeah,” he stated frankly. “Yeah you do.”
“Why?”
You could hear him breathe out. You imagined him looking around for an answer.
“There’s a million reasons why.”
“You can’t name one?” You took the chance to glance at him. His face was half illuminated by a moody blue glow of the neon sign.
“I can name plenty,” he reassured. “I just don’t know what’s too personal to say.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“Fine,” his fingers tapped on his bicep. “You scare me because this game we play doesn’t always feel like a game to me.”
The sex. The getting together in the middle of the night to whisper sweet nothings and cherish a deep connection to feel like it’s nothing the next day.
“You scare me because you’re smart and know what you’re doing when we’re just getting our heads straight.”
Your head tilted to the side at his honesty.
“You scare me because I feel something that maybe I shouldn’t. Because by some stupid chance I can’t have you, someone else will and I can’t imagine seeing them with you.”
Your chest tightened.
“I’m selfish to think that way,” he nodded. “You’re right about that.”
“I was talking about your work,” you confessed. “I think what you do is selfish.”
He didn’t say anything to that because he knew it was also true. Everything he sold to people was a fat lie to make money for a man who already had enough.
“You care about people too much,” he repeated. “And I don’t have enough people to put the care that I have into them.”
“You’re an asshole,” you told him and he nodded again.
“I’d have to agree.”
“You made me feel like shit.”
“I can’t take it back.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “For what I said and didn’t do. I was an asshole and you didn’t deserve it.”
His moody blues were turning the sky sad. A raindrop hit the ground between you.
“I don’t think I deserve your forgiveness,” he continued. “I’ve never been nice to your friends, or you, when we’re on the road. I dislike the way Tyler danced with you—made me want to knock his fucking teeth out but I figured you’d hate me more if I did.”
“He did that on purpose, you know.”
He shook his head, looking off into the grassland beyond the bar. You felt like you were being laid onto an altar for a choice. One that seemed easy but was hard, and one that was hard but the devil claimed it was easy.
“Figures,” he mumbled. “But I deserved it.”
“We’d have to agree there too.”
He looked up at you again. Arms still crossed, he undid them and extended a hand to you as an offering. Scott was not shocked by the hesitation in your steps.
“I think you have a lot of work to do, Scott.”
“I do.”
“And I don’t want to think this is all grandstanding to get into my bed.”
“It’s not.”
“I’m not one to give second chances,” you told him and he dropped his hand in his lap. “But I don’t think what we were doing constitutes as a first chance either.”
You walked toward him at your own volition. The gravel harsh under your heels, you settled with your toes at his. And you fiddled with the edges of the opening to his flannel no different than the collar in the diner.
“This is the only chance I’ll give you.”
Another raindrop fell.
“I don’t intend on wasting it.” Scott’s eyes flicked between your lips and eyes.
In the laws of physics, there is one to triumph above the rest.
The gravitational law states that if a particle exists, it will attract others to them unwillingly—it is simply the natural state of existence.
The pull is magnetic; impossible to pass by the will of your mind, body, or soul. It tugged at the heartstrings roughly. A bridge that connected people from everywhere to be in one singular place at the right time.
Scott’s gravitational pull was too powerful to withstand. It pulled every bit of you into him without remorse—it was blue, red, and the colors of the world within to bloom into spectacles you’d only see when your eyes were closed.
Scott’s hands found purchase on your waist, drawing you into his pull. One of your hands remained on his chest. His erratic heart beat no differently than your own and the other hand grasped his forearm.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered in the night. “I’m sorry.”
You rested your forehead on his. “I know.”
The strength of his pull was strong. Yet it was not strong enough for you to pull your head back.
“Don’t prove I’m right,” you wanted him. He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.
“Can I be selfish one more time?” He inquired with a gleam in his eyes. Scott ran his tongue over his lips expectantly.
“Oh,” you feigned innocence. “Well, I don’t know if that would—“
He cut you off as he brought his lips to yours, kissing you sweetly. His lips were warm and smelt of a faint cheap beer. Another raindrop fell and this time it hit your face. You ignored it.
You gripped onto his shirt with a fist as he deepened the kiss. Taking one of his hands from you, he cupped the side of your neck to position you as he pleased.
It started to rain in Enid.
In the rain, the laws of physics didn’t defy themselves. The rain soaked into your clothes and into his dark locks to drip onto his face more so than yours. The blue of the neon sign growing hot instead of cold.
You broke away from him, tracing the lines of his face.
“Don’t prove I’m right,” you repeated.
And he didn’t.
A/N: thanks for reading! As always comments, reblog, and likes are always appreciated. I love hearing from all of you and your reactions motivate us greatly! Also ignore the spelling mistakes… I didn’t have time to edit.
