Heeeey everyone! Figured I’d do a mass post that I have changed my username from @deansbbyx to @jensensswthrt it’s pretty much my username for most of my fandom spaces/social media! I’m tagging all of my fave authors/writers so when it comes to tagging me in future fics this is me now! Hehe! @prettyinpeaches @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @godmadeaterribleerror @wvffles @teamackles96 @chevroletdean @bruisedfig @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @honeyyxxbee @bluemerakis @kaleldobrev @deanbrainrotwritings @pieandflannel @jollyhunter @deansposessive
I may be forgetting some writers if you have my older user on your tag list pls add my new one!
Ok so. I may have been sitting with this for too long
Dean…
You know he's fucking got extra sperm… that man is built like a fucking god.. I just can't shake the feeling that if he was hell-bent in getting you pregnant (both consenting ofc) then he would. And he would pump so much into you..
requests open!!
pairing : dean winchester x reader
summary : dean has the craving to impregnate you , even if he tires you out round after round.
warnings : mdni , 18+ , est. relationship , pregnancy/breeding kink , p in v , smut , dirty talk , mommy kink (?? u decide).
615 words
ily for this , wish he was the breedable one sometimes 🫦
in the shared space that was dean’s bedroom, it felt even smaller and more cramped than usual due to the strong arms that were planted on each side of your head, caging you in. your legs were wrapped tight around his waist, heels digging into his lower back as his hips pistoned into your own, your hair getting tangled between his fingers with each deep thrust.
you two had been at it for an hour or so, ever since he got back from a hunt with sam. he came straight to the bedroom where he knew you were and bent you over the edge of the bed, ripping your pants down alongside your damp panties. as of lately, every night ended with you being fucked stupid and stuffed full of his seed that dripped out of your tired entrance. but obviously, he shoved it back inside of you, never letting a single drop go to waste.
he’d been hellbent on having sex raw, even going as far as to throw away all condoms he kept in his bedside drawer, and insisted on not pulling out. besides the few times you gave him a blowjob and he’d paint your face white, his cum was shooting deep inside of you and making home. sometimes he’d even shove a plug in the tight hole of your cunt just so nothing was spilling.
"fuck, sweetheart.. gonna pump you full ‘til your round with my kid." he spoke during grunts, the headboard still creaking despite the pillow behind it to stop it from slamming against the wall, his body leaning over yours to hit a deeper angle. his hands slid down from beside your head to grab your calves, lifting your legs so they were slung over his shoulders, the tip of his cock assaulting your cervix as his hips quickened the pace somehow.
your moans were drowned out by his lips suddenly crashing against yours, tongues swirling and teeth clattering against eachothers. "so tight, all for me." his mouth left yours only to drag down your chest, tongue flicking at your perk nipples before he wrapped his lips around one, his hand kneading the other one to give his favorite girls the attention they deserved. "can’t wait for these to get swole, dripping with milk." his hips stuttered at the delicious sob you let out at his words, your hands clutching the sheets.
"you’d like that, huh? you’d like me to make you a mommy?" his pace began slipping and becoming sloppy as he felt his balls tighten and that feeling flutter in his stomach. "gonna cum, baby, gonna fill you to the brim." when your walls tightened around his cock and you reached your own climax, legs twitching around his neck and back arching off the bed, he gave a final deep thrust before emptying his load inside of you, his mouth detaching from your breast as his head tilted back.
it took a few moments until the ropes stopped and his cock began softening inside of you, his forehead resting on your collarbone with heavy pants coming from his lips. but, of course, since he had his mind set on giving you his baby, two rounds was obviously not enough (you’d already had a round prior), and his hips slowly started up again and he was hardening inside of you.
"did so good for me, sweetheart. i know you’re tired, but please. one more, i promise."
he definitely broke his promise that night, as it took a few more hours until sam could finally take off his headphones and not be met with the sounds of his favorite people planning to make him an uncle.
ben catches you humping your soldier boy pillow….. !
mdni. 18+
the apartment was quiet, ben had just gotten back from a late training session with the team, his muscles still humming with residual adrenaline. he’d expected to find you reading or scrolling through your phone, maybe already asleep. what he found instead made him freeze in the doorway.
the dim lamplight painted your body in warm shadows. you were sprawled across the bed face-down, your hips grinding into the pillow beneath you—his pillow. the one with his face printed on it, a promotional stunt vought had pushed out last year that he'd thought was ridiculous but you'd kept anyway.
your fingers were gripping the edges of the pillowcase, knuckles white as you rolled your hips in slow deliberate circles. a soft breathy moan escaped your lips, muffled against the fabric.
he didn't move. didn’t speak. just leaned his shoulder against the doorframe and watched.
your shorts were bunched around your thighs, the damp fabric of your pink underwear clearly visible as you pressed yourself against the pillow again and again. your legs were spread just enough to give him a perfect view of the way your ass clenched with each thrust.
"mmmf…. ben.. “ you whispered into the pillow, your voice strained. "god, yes..."
his cock twitched behind his jeans. he reached down palming himself through the denim, not bothering to be quiet about it.
the sound of his zipper made you freeze.
every muscle in your body locked up as you turned your head eyes wide, face flushed. your lips were parted with a string of saliva connecting your mouth to the pillowcase.
"dont stop caus’ me, honey.”
his voice was rough, a command that left no room for argument. he pulled his cock out already half-hard and wrapped his hand around the shaft. the sight of him towering in the doorway stroking himself while staring at you like prey—sent a jolt of electricity through your core.
"b-ben… i-“
"i said don't stop." he stepped into the room, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor. "you were into it a second ago. dont get shy on me now."
he sat down in the armchair by the window, the leather creaking under his weight. his hand moved along his length slow and deliberate as his eyes locked onto yours.
"go on.” he growled. "show me what you were doin’.”
your body moved before your brain could catch up driven by a mix of embarrassment and arousal. you lowered yourself back onto the pillow, the material still warm and damp from before. the pressure against your clit sent a shudder through your thighs.
"yeaaah... just like that." his voice was a low rumble barely audible over the sound of your own ragged breathing. "grind that pretty cunt against my face."
every movement pressed your clit against the printed fabric, the friction making your hole clench around nothing.
his hand moved in time with you, the wet sounds of his palm sliding along his shaft filled the room mixing with your soft moans and the faint creak of the bedsprings.
a low approving growl rumbled from his chest. "that's it.. baby. keep goin’ dont you dare cum until I tell you to."
the command made your thighs tremble. you pressed your face into the pillow, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne that still lingered on the fabric and continued your rhythm imaging bens cock snug in your guts. the pressure was building coiling tight in your belly but you held back, waiting for his permission.
ben stood up, his boots clicking against the floor as he crossed the room. the bed dipped under his weight as he knelt behind you close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body.
"look at you..” he clicked his tongue. "humpin’ a pillow like a bitch in heat. and it's my face you're rubbing that wet pussy against."
his hand came down on your ass cheek, a sharp stinging slap that made you cry out. the pain bloomed into pleasure and you thrust harder against the pillow.
you could see his hard cock in your peripheral vision—the slick glistening length of him, the way his muscles bunched with each stroke. the sight was enough to push you closer to the edge.
"mmf- can i cum daddy? please! feels so good on my pussy…”
"fuckin’ drench that pillow.” he laughed.
the command shattered you. your orgasm ripped through your body, a tidal wave of heat and pleasure that made your vision go white. you whimpered his name- a broken desperate sound as your hips bucked wildly against the pillow, riding out the waves of ecstasy. slick sputtered from your heat, dripping down your thighs and leaving a stain on the cotton.
behind you ben groaned. his hand moved faster until you felt it—hot thick ropes of cum splattering across your lower back and the curve of your ass. he cursed a string of filthy words as he painted your skin with his release.
he leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your ear with that million dollar smirk.
"next time..” he murmured, his voice rough and satisfied, "you use the real thing."
lowdown ☆ soldier boy spends the ride home pretending he’s not jealous. he lasts approximately three minutes after the van doors open.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 4821 ride style ☆ smut !!
danger on the trail ☆ explicit sex, rough wall sex, blowjob, possessive behavior, hand over mouth, bruised knuckles, jealousy, soldier boy being demanding, unsafe levels of tension in a crowded safehouse
liv's log ☆ took us +55k words but we're finally going at it!!
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
the safehouse is loud before the van doors finish closing.
not the sharp, ugly kind of noise that follows somebody stumbling in with blood down their face or butcher dragging a new disaster over the threshold and calling it useful. this is different. relieved. restless. too many voices moving at once because the mission actually went well and nobody quite trusts that yet.
frenchie is talking before his shoes touch the floor, holding the black electroshock device up between two fingers with the pride of a man returning from war. “she performed beautifully,” he announces.
“you electrocuted the deep?”
hughie appears from the hallway so quickly he almost walks into annie. his hair’s messy, sweater sleeves pulled low over his wrists, eyes moving between frenchie, the duffel, you, and the very obvious red mark starting to rise across your knuckles.
“oui, petite hughie,” frenchie says.
“saw it with my own bloody eyes,” butcher confirms, entirely too pleased with himself for a man who spent the whole mission sitting inside the van at a safe distance. “fish boy’s probably still explainin’ himself to a seal.”
hughie blinks. “a seal?”
you barely have time to answer before annie catches your wrist carefully, turning your hand toward the kitchen light. “did you punch deep?”
“sadly, no,” you grin brightly. “some vought guy that was reaching for a radio. i’m saving kevin for a later time.”
annie gives you a look that says she’s too aware of your commitment to being difficult and is choosing not to rise to it. “sit down.”
“it’s fine.”
“sit.”
you sit at the edge of the couch because there’s no point pretending you’re going to win against annie when she uses that voice. the adrenaline is still buzzing beneath your skin, bright and uncomfortable, making your limbs feel lighter than they should. your knuckles throb when you flex them just enough to make the memory satisfying.
hips first. shoulder follows. fist last. clean hit. the vought employee went down hard enough that the clipboard flew out of his hand. you keep seeing it in quick, stupid flashes: the startled look on his face, frenchie’s grip closing around your arm, the two of you running while papers scattered across the dock and the deep twitched dramatically behind you.
no blood. nobody dead. nobody hurt enough that your brain has to crawl back into that warehouse and stay there for the night.
good mission.
annie disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a bag of ice wrapped inside a dish towel. you take it from her before she can press it against your hand herself. “i can manage.”
“clearly.”
hughie drops into the armchair opposite you, eyes wide with the kind of curiosity that makes him look almost boyish and innocent. “wait. go back. there was a seal?”
kimiko perches against the armrest beside him. frenchie settles near the table with the duffel, already dragging the stolen drive free while mm opens his laptop. butcher hovers behind them, cigarette tucked behind one ear, attention divided between whatever information they stole and the story he already heard through the comms but apparently intends to enjoy twice.
“the deep was giving relationship advice,” you say.
hughie’s face tightens. “to the seal?”
“yes.”
“about another seal?”
the question makes you tilt your head. “uh, i think so.”
“did it seem helpful?”
you look at frenchie. frenchie considers the question with grave seriousness. “the seal appeared emotionally resistant.”
“he brought fish to her cove after she asked for space,” you explain. “it was a boundary issue.”
annie’s mouth drops open slightly. “you’re kidding.”
“i wish i was.”
hughie stares at you for one silent second. then laughs. the sound catches you off guard badly enough that your own mouth moves before you can stop it. a small laugh slips out, then another when frenchie starts reenacting the deep’s expression with insulting accuracy, eyebrows pinched together in solemn marine concern.
the ice pack sweats against your knuckles. your shoulders loosen by a fraction.
you don’t look toward the hallway when heavier footsteps approach. soldier boy has been quiet since the van. you feel the shift in the room before you see him. the blunt weight of his attention.
frenchie is halfway through describing the snitch’s moustache in full detail when soldier boy appears near the living room entrance. he looks at you, jaw is tight enough to show beneath the rough shadow along it. his shoulders haven’t come down from the docks. something in his face still carries the same irritation he wore in the van, meaner now that there are walls around it and fewer immediate reasons to pretend it is only professional concern.
hughie follows your gaze and stops talking. annie looks over her shoulder. butcher, unfortunately, notices everything.
soldier boy grunts out a “need you.” that is it. not your name. not could i talk to you. not a glance toward the others suggesting privacy might be socially beneficial before announcing whatever this is. just need you, flat and direct, like he has already decided the rest.
you blink once. “right now?”
his eyes narrow slightly. “now.”
for one second, the room is so still you can hear the faint hum of mm’s laptop from the table. hughie looks down at his hands. frenchie turns toward the drive with sudden, passionate interest. mm doesn’t look up at all, which somehow makes his refusal to get involved more obvious. butcher’s mouth starts to curve around something deeply unhelpful.
annie takes the ice pack back from you slowly. “i’ll put this in the freezer.”
your face warms. “thank you.”
“mhm.”
soldier boy turns away before you stand. of course he does. apparently, the possibility that you might not follow has never occurred to him.
you catch butcher watching when you get up. his eyebrows lift by the smallest amount, cigarette still tucked behind his ear, expression rich with the private satisfaction of a man discovering a new form of leverage he absolutely doesn’t deserve.
you point at him as you pass. “don’t.”
“didn’t say anythin’, love.”
“your face did.”
“handsome face, that.”
“nightmare face.” he grins.
soldier boy is already halfway down the hall. he doesn’t take you to your bedroom. that would feel too familiar. too obvious after the nights he has spent there taking up your bed, complaining about your mattress, making himself at home in a place neither of you has been brave enough to call shared.
instead, he pushes open the door to the empty room near the back of the safehouse. plain walls. narrow bed. a chair shoved into one corner. a window with the blinds drawn against the afternoon light.
he steps inside. you follow. the door closes behind you with a quiet click.
you turn toward him. “well?”
soldier boy leans back against the door for half a second, eyes moving over you once. not the quick assessment from the van, searching for damage beneath the places another man touched. this is slower. your jacket. your shirt. the jeans sitting snug across your hips. your wrist where the deep grabbed you. your mouth.
“blue tide summer?” he says.
you stare at him. of all the ways this conversation could start, you should’ve known he’d choose the one most likely to make you consider violence. “are you serious?”
“dark blue wristband,” he continues, voice rough with disbelief. “little trident logo.”
you fold your arms. “you were listening very closely for someone who spent the entire mission pretending he didn’t care.”
“hard not to hear you giggling like an idiot through the comms.”
“i was distracting him.”
“you were having the time of your life.”
you laugh once, sharp and incredulous. “oh my god.”
“thirteen years ago and you still remember which fuckin’ color bracelet you wore.”
“i was fourteen.”
“fourteen-year-old you had shit taste.”
“fourteen-year-old me had limited options.”
“guy talks to seals.”
“he was helping a friend through a difficult breakup.”
soldier boy pushes away from the door. the movement is slow enough that you have time to register it. not enough time to decide what to do with your pulse when he crosses the room and stops in front of you. close but not touching. not yet.
“you think this is funny?” he asks.
you tilt your chin up. “a little.”
his mouth pulls to one side, but there is no real amusement in it. the frustration has followed him home intact, restless under his skin, searching for somewhere to go. “he had his hands all over you.”
“he touched my back.”
“grabbed your wrist.”
“for two seconds.”
“two too many.”
your chest tightens at the echo from the van. you shouldn’t enjoy this. the whole thing is absurd. the deep is not a threat to whatever strange, half-built thing exists between you and soldier boy. he’s barely a threat to himself near open water and an emotionally complicated seal.
but soldier boy looks furious anyway. not because he thinks you wanted the deep. because he hated watching someone else touch what he’s started thinking of as his before either of you have agreed to anything sensible.
you narrow your eyes. “you’re jealous.”
his stare turns flat. “of fish sticks?”
“you nearly climbed out of the van.” you breathe out through your nose, fighting a smile because smiling would only encourage him and apparently encouragement is no longer necessary. “you hated hearing me laugh with him.”
his jaw shifts. there it is. small. ugly. honest enough to be dangerous.
you wait.
he looks at your mouth when he answers. “i hated hearing him breathe near you.”
the room changes—no lightning strike, no sudden soft music—just a quiet loss of oxygen, your body reacting before your mind has the dignity to object.
soldier boy steps closer. the back of your shoulders meets the wall. the space between you disappears and leaves you with the blunt heat of his body crowded against yours. one hand’s braced beside your head, the other catches your waist. rough. familiar. possessive enough to make your stomach pull tight.
you breathe in. “you dragged me in here to complain?” his eyes stay on yours. “or are you planning to make a point?”
that does it. his mouth comes down on yours hard enough to knock the next breath out of you. you kiss him back immediately.
your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer even though closer has become largely theoretical. his hand tightens around your waist, dragging you flush against him. his mouth moves against yours with the same rough certainty it did the night before, except there’s nothing restrained about it now. no last-second thought. no mission waiting in the morning. no line he intends to respect simply because one of you might regret stepping over it too quickly.
the kiss turns filthy almost immediately. tongue, teeth, the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin when his mouth slips from yours and catches at the corner of your jaw. you tilt your head instinctively, giving him room, and his breath leaves him in a low sound that makes heat drag down your spine.
“fuck,” you whisper.
“getting there.”
you almost laugh. it dies when he bites lightly beneath your ear and your fingers tighten in his shirt. your bruised knuckles complain immediately.
his hand catches your wrist, dragging it away from his shoulder before you can put more weight against it. “quit using that hand.”
“i punched a man.”
“yeah.” his gaze drops briefly to your knuckles. something satisfied passes through his face. “saw.”
“and?”
his mouth finds yours again before he answers properly. “clean hit.”
the praise lands somewhere deep and embarrassingly tender beneath the heat. you don’t get time to examine it. soldier boy hooks your uninjured arm around his shoulders instead, positioning you the way he wants you, then catches both your hips and lifts.
you gasp against his mouth.
your back presses into the wall. your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, jeans pulling tight between your bodies while he settles you against him like your weight is nothing. his mouth drags down your throat. your head tips back against the plaster hard enough to make the blinds rattle faintly beside you.
“someone’s going to hear,” you whisper, though your body has apparently decided this isn’t a meaningful concern.
“then be quiet.”
his hand slides beneath the edge of your shirt. hot palm. rough fingers. skin against skin. the contact makes your whole body jolt. soldier boy’s mouth curves against your neck when he feels it, smugness finally slipping through the anger. he drags his hand upward slowly, learning the line of your waist and the soft warmth of your stomach with the same shameless entitlement he brings to everything else. his thumb presses into your side. his fingers spread wider.
“still laughing?” he asks near your ear.
“still jealous?”
his hand tightens. “careful.”
you know better than to ask. you do it anyway. “or what?”
his eyes lift to yours. green gone darker in the thin light coming through the blinds. his mouth is swollen slightly from kissing you. hair messy from your fingers. expression rough enough to make your pulse jump.
“you really need everything explained to you?” he asks.
you pull him down by the back of his neck and kiss him again instead. he makes a low, approving sound and drives his hips against you. the friction punches a moan out of your mouth before you can swallow it. soldier boy’s hand leaves your stomach and closes over your mouth. the movement is quick. firm enough to stop the sound dead against his palm while his eyes stay fixed on yours. your breath catches through your nose.
“you gonna be good for me, doll?” he murmurs, voice low and filthy near your ear.
your entire body goes hot. you glare at him.
his mouth twitches. “if only you were always this obedient.”
you bite lightly at the heel of his hand.
“brat,” he says, almost fond and not remotely soft.
his palm slips away just long enough for his mouth to take yours again, swallowing the smaller sound you make when he rolls his hips between your thighs. there’s no patience left in either of you. not after the night before. not after the dock. not after an entire van ride spent refusing to look at each other for too long because butcher was sitting close enough to weaponize eye contact.
your fingers drag beneath his shirt. muscle and warm skin, solid under your palms. his body feels unfairly built, every inch of him hard where you’re soft, heat collecting quickly beneath your touch. you push the fabric higher. he breaks the kiss only long enough to drag the shirt over his head and throw it somewhere near the bed.
then he’s back—mouth at your throat. hands at your waist. broad chest pressing into you while your fingers find his shoulders and cling there, careful of your bruised knuckles this time.
his hand moves to the button of your jeans. the button comes loose. your zipper follows. “lift,” he says against your mouth.
you do. he gets your jeans and underwear down far enough to make the entire situation feel suddenly, brutally real, fabric caught awkwardly around one ankle until you kick the rest away and nearly lose your boot with it. soldier boy laughs once under his breath, rough and mean. “smooth.”
“shut up.”
“you always this graceful?”
“you’re welcome to leave.”
“not a chance in hell.”
his hand slides between your thighs. your breath catches so sharply it almost becomes a sound. he looks at your face when his fingers find you wet already, his expression shifting into something dark and deeply satisfied.
“think fish sticks could do this to you?”
his thumb circles slowly, once, and the shape of whatever insult you meant to throw at him disappears before it reaches your mouth. “fuck,” you breathe.
“yeah,” he says, eyes fixed on your face. “thought so.”
you grip his shoulder with your good hand when his fingers press into you, the stretch immediate and sharp enough to make your legs tense around his hips. he works you open with none of the delicate patience another man might use to prove something about himself. soldier boy is rougher than that. direct. watching every change in your expression while his thumb keeps dragging over you until your breathing turns unreliable and your head tips back against the wall again.
“quiet,” he reminds you.
you bite down on your lower lip. he watches you do it and swears beneath his breath.
somewhere beyond the closed door, a cabinet shuts in the kitchen. footsteps move faintly through the hallway, then fade again. the safehouse remains full of people. mm and frenchie are probably already pulling apart the stolen drive. butcher is almost certainly standing near the table with a look on his face that makes future humiliation inevitable.
soldier boy’s fingers curl inside you. you forget all of them.
your hand catches at his wrist. “ben.”
his eyes snap to yours. the name does something to him every time. you know that now. it moves beneath his expression like a bruise pressed too hard, pain and want twisted too closely together to separate. his mouth finds yours again. slower for half a second. then harder.
he pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you breathe out something embarrassingly close to a whine.
“impatient,” he mutters.
“stop teasing.”
his eyes narrow. you have enough time to regret saying it before he sets you down just long enough to undo his belt. the metal buckle clicks loudly in the small room. your mouth goes dry.
you kick your jeans the rest of the way free while he shoves his trousers and underwear low enough to free himself. the sight of him should be unfair at minimum. thick, hard, already leaking at the tip.
you stare.
his hand closes around his cock. one slow stroke. eyes on your face. “problem?”
“unfortunately, i’m only human.”
his mouth twitches. his hands return to you. hips. thighs. lifting you back against the wall. your legs lock around his waist. his cock presses against you. both of you stop breathing properly. soldier boy looks at your face. not softly. not asking something he can’t say. just giving you the second you need.
you tighten your legs around him and pull him closer. “do it,” you whisper.
he pushes into you.
the stretch knocks every thought out of your head at once. your mouth opens around a sound that doesn’t make it far because his hand closes over it again immediately, palm warm and broad across your lips while his other arm braces hard beneath your thighs to hold you in place.
“quiet,” he says through clenched teeth, voice rougher now.
you breathe hard against his hand.
he gives you a second. barely enough for your body to adjust around him, but enough for the ache to turn into something hotter, fuller, impossible to ignore. then he draws back and thrusts into you again, deeper this time, the force driving your shoulders harder against the wall.
your fingers dig into him.
his forehead nearly drops toward yours. breath mixing hot against your face while his hips move with an unforgiving rhythm that makes your legs tighten around him and your body jolt against the wall with every thrust.
the room narrows down to pressure and heat and the rough drag of his cock inside you. the muted sounds trapped behind his hand. his breath turning harsher every time your body clenches around him. his eyes fixed on yours as if looking away would cost him something.
“fuck,” he mutters. “that’s it.”
you make another sound against his palm.
his gaze sharpens. “you like the whole goddamn house hearing you?”
you shake your head quickly.
“could’ve fooled me.”
his hand leaves your mouth only long enough to kiss you, hard and messy, catching every broken breath before it becomes too loud. you kiss him back with whatever coordination remains, nails dragging down his shoulder, body moving with his.
his hand slips between you again. your entire body tenses when his thumb finds you. “oh, ben—”
his palm covers your mouth again. “what did i say?”
you stare at him, furious and breathless and so close to losing every remaining scrap of control that it feels humiliating. soldier boy looks entirely too pleased by that.
“there she is,” he murmurs. “mouthy until it matters.”
you bite his palm again. harder this time.
his hips snap forward with enough force to make your eyes roll shut. “fuckin’ brat.” the words hit low.
so does the next thrust. and the next. each one rougher than the last as his control frays, his hand firm over your mouth, his other arm holding you against the wall like he could keep you there forever if he decided the rest of the world could wait.
the pressure builds too quickly. your body already overstimulated from his fingers, from last night, from the whole horrible day of wanting and waiting and listening to him pretend jealousy is just another form of irritation.
your thighs shake around his waist. he feels it. “look at me.”
you open your eyes.
his breathing is wrecked now. face tense. hair falling forward. jaw tight with the effort of staying quiet himself while his thumb circles harder and his cock keeps dragging deep enough to make every thought fracture apart.
“come on,” he says, voice low. “give it to me.”
your body breaks around him.
the orgasm hits hard enough to make your back arch off the wall, every muscle drawing tight at once while the sound tears against his palm and dies there. your vision blurs. your fingers clutch at his shoulders. heat rolls through you in sharp waves, knees pulling tighter around his hips while he keeps moving through it, rough and relentless, dragging the pleasure out until it tips almost painfully sensitive.
“ben,” you cry against his hand.
his forehead drops near yours for half a second. his breathing comes apart completely now, every inhale rough and uneven, his chest moving hard beneath your palms as he tries and fails to keep quiet.
you catch his wrist and pull his hand away from your mouth. “put me down.”
his eyes open properly. dark. unfocused at the edges. still hungry enough to make the words catch briefly in your throat. “what?”
“down.”
he stares at you for one second longer, like his brain has stopped cooperating with the rest of him. then his hands shift beneath your thighs and he lowers you carefully enough to be insulting after everything else. your feet meet the floor. your knees nearly fail you.
his hand catches your waist immediately. “easy,” he mutters.
you look up at him. his chest is still rising too fast. his mouth is swollen. there’s a flush climbing along his neck, disappearing beneath the line of his jaw, and the sight of it makes something hot curl low in your stomach all over again.
you keep your eyes on his as you sink to your knees.
the floor is hard under you but you don’t care. your legs are still shaking from the orgasm he dragged out of you, thighs slick, heartbeat loud in your ears.
soldier boy stares down at you. his cock is right there, thick and flushed dark, still wet from being inside you. it twitches when your breath ghosts over it.
“fuck, doll,” he mutters, voice wrecked.
you wrap your hand around the base first, giving one slow stroke just to watch his abs clench. then you lean in and lick a broad stripe up the underside, tongue pressing flat against the vein that runs along his length. he hisses through his teeth, one hand flying to the wall for balance.
you take your time at first. swirling your tongue around the head, tasting yourself on him, sucking lightly at the sensitive spot just under the tip until his hips jerk forward. a fat drop of spit slides down your chin already.
you look up at him through your lashes as you open your mouth wider and slide him inside. he’s thick enough that your jaw aches after only a few inches, but you push further anyway, cheeks hollowing.
“shit—that’s it,” he groans, low and rough. his free hand finally lands in your hair, resting heavy there. like he needs the contact.
you bob your head, taking him deeper each time, saliva coating him, dripping messily down your chin and onto your shirt. the wet sounds are obscene in the small room. you relax your throat and take him further, until your nose brushes the dark hair at his base and your eyes start to water.
you choke. a small, wet sound that makes his grip tighten in your hair.
you pull back, spit wet on your lips, and stroke him with your hand while you catch half a breath. your mouth feels swollen already. your chin is damp. his cock shines with spit under your fist, and soldier boy stares at the sight like it might kill him.
“still jealous?” you tease.
his eyes snap to yours. a mistake. a wonderful one.
his hand on your hair pulls your mouth back to him. “open.”
your pulse kicks as you obey.
he slides back across your tongue, and this time, he doesn’t let you tease. his hand guides you down, firm and filthy, until your lips stretch around him and your throat starts to resist. you gag, soft and wet, nails dragging down the hard muscle of his thigh as your eyes sting.
“there you go,” he breathes.
your hand grips the base of him, working what your mouth can’t take, spit slipping over your fingers. he holds you there for a second too long, just enough to make the room blur at the edges, then lets you pull back with a messy inhale.
a string of saliva breaks from your lower lip to the head of his cock. his control takes visible damage. “look at you,” he says, voice thick. “all that attitude, and now you’re drooling on my cock.”
you dive back down, faster now. messy. greedy. your head moves in a steady rhythm while your tongue works the underside. soldier boy’s breathing gets louder, rougher. his hand shifts in your hair, fingers tightening, starting to guide you.
“yeah… just like that. good fucking girl.”
the praise hits low in your stomach. you moan around him and his control slips another notch. his hips start moving, shallow thrusts at first, then deeper. he fucks your mouth with growing urgency, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat over and over.
you choke again, throat convulsing around him, tears slipping down your cheeks. spit drips freely now, soaking your chin, running down your neck. you don’t care. you dig your nails into his thigh harder and take everything he gives you.
“fuck—i’m close,” he pants. his voice is completely shot. chest heaving. abs tight. “gonna come in that pretty mouth if you keep—shit—”
you look up at him and hum, eyes watering but steady.
that does it.
his hand fists tight in your hair, holding you in place as his hips stutter. he comes with a broken groan, thick and hot across your tongue. pulse after pulse, salty and warm, filling your mouth until you have to swallow around him. he keeps thrusting through it, shallow and desperate, panting your name under his breath.
when he finally stills, you keep him in your mouth a second longer, sucking gently, milking the last drops. only then do you pull off slowly, gasping, lips shiny and swollen, chin a complete mess.
soldier boy stares down at you, chest still rising and falling hard. his thumb brushes your bottom lip, smearing the spit and cum there. something soft flickers across his face for half a second—too raw, too honest—before he tucks it away again.
you stay on your knees a moment longer, looking up at him. he hauls you up by the elbows, kissing you deep and filthy even though his taste is still in your mouth. his arms wrap around you like he’s not sure he’ll let go anytime soon.
the safehouse is still noisy outside the door. voices, laughter, the faint clack of keyboards. none of it feels real right now.
you press your face into his bare chest, listening to his heart slowly calm down, and try not to think about how much you like being held by him after he’s fallen apart. how dangerous that is.
he doesn’t say anything else. just holds you tighter, nose buried in your hair, like maybe he’s thinking the same thing and doesn’t know what to do with it either.
Summary: Dean jerks off while you pretend to sleep.
Content warning: Reader gives Dean a massage, explicit language, male masturbation, handjobs, spitting, cum eating, she calls him good boy one time
wc: 1.8k
“That feels- fuck- that feels amazing.”
Dean bows his head, leaning back into your hands, as they knead the knotted muscles of his shoulders. The lotion you’d smeared across the expanse of his upper back and arms makes his skin look dewy. Your hands glide along the contours of his body, looking so small in comparison to his figure.
He lifts his head, letting it fall back to rest against your shoulder as your fingers dig into the lean, striated muscle of his pectorals. His eyes are closed.
“You really are an angel, sweetness.” He drawls slowly. “Y’too good to me.”
“Shh,” You coo softly, hands now caressing the slope of his neck. “Just relax,”
“‘F’I relax any more, I’m gonna pass out.”
You pretty much feel the same way. It’d been an action packed few days, allowing minimal time for rest, and now you’re both heavily fatigued. Your body feels much older than it is. After showering and brushing your teeth, giving some attention to your needy man is the last thing on your to-do list before knocking out for a good ten hours. You can hardly keep your eyelids open, but every one of Dean’s appreciative moans convinces you to continue.
“That’s okay,” You assure him gently, purposefully grazing your lips against the shell of his ear. His spine straightens at the touch of your lips, shuddering slightly. “We’ll finish here. Then we can sleep,” You press a firmer kiss just behind his ear, smiling to yourself as he stiffens at the contact, groaning deeply as your fingers continue to massage his flesh.
Truthfully, you’re tired, but the game you’re playing with him is entertaining enough to turn what was supposed to be a quick five minute massage into a twenty minute one. Since the moment you’d laid your hands on his bare skin, he’d been growing harder and harder, and now, you were having fun pretending to be oblivious to the very noticeable bulge in his sweatpants.
“Don’t wanna sleep.” He argues, the slightest bit of petulance creeping into his tone. He turns to face you, regarding you with bleary, sleepy green eyes. “Want you.”
You peck his very pretty, pouty lips, finishing your massage with a little squeeze around his waist. Standing to go wash the residual lotion from your hands, Dean turns to watch you.
“No happy ending?” He jokes halfheartedly, but his eyes glimmer as he looks at you from under his lashes, exposing that underneath the guise of humor, he really is asking.
“M’sorry, handsome,” You murmur apologetically. “I’m dead on my feet.”
“‘Least let me return the favor,” He suggests, as you’re sliding underneath the sheets, wearing only one of his shirts and your panties.
“Tomorrow,” Your cheek is already on your pillow.
He slides under the blankets behind you, molding his chest to the shape of your back, fitting snugly, like an old weathered baseball glove. Eyes closed, you sigh at the comfort of his body against you. He slings a thick, heavy arm around your hips, guiding your ass back to press securely against his crotch. You bite back a smile at his less than covert attempts to entice you, shifting his hips so that the undeniable outline of his engorged cock is nestled right against your core.
You stay still, committed to the act that you’re unaffected by any of his antics, but you’re growing hot underneath the covers. You’d already been turned on by just rubbing his body, were wet the instant you noticed his boner, and now, as he subtly creates friction between your bodies, you suddenly aren’t so tired.
“Baby,” He complains in your ear, hands sliding from your hips, to your waist, then teasing just below your breasts. “Y’gotta gimme something here. Feels like I’ve been waitin’ to get you alone for weeks-”
“-It’s only been a few days.” You say without turning to look at him.
“Exactly-”
“I think you’ll live if I make you wait until tomorrow,” You say.
You only haven’t ended his misery because you want to see how far you can push him, and it turns you on when he begs. Plus, his sweet, desperate disposition is something private, saved only for you, in moments when you’re alone. In the quiet moments with you, he’s a very different man than he pretends to be with everyone else.
“Cruel woman,” He sighs. You get the sense that he might be giving up, as his arm returns around your hips.
“Thought you said I was an angel," You tease
"That was when you were being nice to me."
You huff. "I'll be nicer after I sleep.'
You relax against him, and even though you’re doggedly tired, his erection is still probing you between your thighs, stoking heat in your lower belly that’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Still, you keep yourself still in his arms, and squeeze your eyes tightly shut any time he shifts against you. He moves occasionally, readjusting his grip on you, repositioning his body, but stays quiet.
“Baby?” Dean whispers gently, several minutes later. Or maybe it’s been an hour. “Baby, you awake?
You’d been dozing, but at the sound of his voice, you rouse. You don’t answer because you’re intrigued by the diffidence in his tone.
Dean’s arm tightens around you, using his grip on you to once again create friction between your bodies. His breathing strikingly deepens, and every so often, he groans weakly. If the movement of him sliding against you wasn’t enough to have you pulsing between your legs, his noises would do the job. He sounds almost ashamed. It’s clear he’s trying to be quiet, but he’s doing a poor job of concealing his arousal.
You feel him wedge a hand between his groin and your ass, rubbing himself through his pants. You want to look, but part of you believes he would stop if he realized you were awake. You wonder if the front of his sweats are wet yet, if he’s gritting his teeth or if he’s open mouth panting. Heat radiates from his chest, and you feel the instant he breaks out in a sweat from his ministrations.
Very carefully, as to not wake you, he lifts his arm off your body and rolls onto his back. You fight to keep your own breathing even, to keep yourself from squeezing your thighs together, as you hear him start to jerk off.
It begins quietly, with the soft, barely audible evidence of him letting saliva fall from his mouth onto his palm. Then he wraps a hand around himself, and you hear the spread of moisture as he begins pumping his fist up and down. The sound of his hand beating his cock is largely overpowered by his breathing and the moans he’s failing to swallow, until he seems to lose control of himself and really starts pumping himself hard and fast.
You picture him, holding his stiff member in one hand, playing with his balls with the other. Picture him rubbing at the head of his cock until he can’t take it, mimicking the way you always torture him with special attention to his most sensitive spots.
“Just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” You scold in a quiet voice, turning towards him.
Dean startles with a grunt, his hand flying away from his cock, as if it wasn’t obvious what he’d been doing with it resting against his lower belly. He looks away from you, then back, bowing his head shamefully.
“D-didn’t-” He clears his throat. “Didn’t mean to wake you, princess.”
You roll onto your side beside him, placing a hand on the bit of his thigh exposed from where his sweats had been hastily pushed down.
When you don’t say anything, he keeps stammering. “I’m sorry-”
“Shh,” You whisper gently, grazing his thigh with the points of your nails. You suppress a smirk at the way the muscle of his leg jumps at your teasing touch, his cock bobbing untouched. “Keep going, big boy.”
He hesitates, so you wrap one of your smaller hands around the base of his cock. He immediately gasps, his head lolling back against the headboard. He begins panting again as he watches you bring your lips just above the head of him. You let a substantial string of saliva slip from your lips, onto his aching tip, smiling as he moans above you.
His jaw falls open when you start twisting your fist around him, spreading the lubricant generously from tip to base, so that he’s nice and wet.
“Keep going, baby,” You encourage, lifting yourself enough to take his face in your hands. You peck his lips, ending the kiss with a little sharp bite to his bottom lip that has him groaning and chasing after your lips when you pull back.
“Keep going-” He repeats, as if dazed.
“Yeah,” You say with a smile, caressing his jaw. “You wanna cum, don’t you?”
“Yeah-” He agrees, letting you take his hand. You bring his hand back between his legs, and you greedily watch as he grips himself, and then starts moving.
“How bad do y’wanna come, Dean?” You whisper sensually, maintaining eye contact with him in the dark. His breath fans across your lips, his eyelids heavy from the degree of his lust.
“Bad- so fuckin’ bad-” He rasps and it sounds like a plea.
“I bet,” You purr, letting your hands roam across his neck and shoulders. “Been such a good boy, waiting so well. I know you tried, baby.”
He grits his teeth, hand moving in a blur as he jerks himself, chest heaving. “I did- Tried to ignore it. For you-”
“It’s okay, baby. Know you need it real bad.”
He nods, expression broken as he keeps going.
“Can’t even handle my hands on you without getting hard,” You muse lovingly. “S’a little bit pathetic, right?”
“Fuck-” He groans, voice strangled. “I know-”
"And jerking off while your girlfriend is right next to you...is that pathetic, baby?"
"Yes-" He chokes out.
“You sound close,” You whisper. “Are you close, baby? Gonna make yourself cum? Wishing you were inside me instead?”
“Wanna make you feel good,” He mumbles. “God-M’so close.”
“Cum for me, Dean,” You beg, sliding back down level with his lap. “Wanna see how much cum you have for me,”
He begins shuddering, groaning from deep in his chest. He tells you he’s coming and it sounds like he’s panicked. You manage to get your plump lips around the head of him, your tongue immediately flooded with the heady taste of him. You suck at him for barely a second before he begins spurting into your mouth, the jets of his cum steadily hitting the back of your throat. He’s gripping your hair harshly, and you might register the pain of it, if you weren’t concentrating on swallowing burst after burst of his spend.
You swallow it all, then lick his cockhead clean until he’s jumping at the simple touch of your hot tongue. You lick your lips clean next and then nestle yourself back under his arm, while he's still sweaty and panting.
“That should hold you off until the morning, right?” You ask playfully.
“Yeah, I’d say so.”
You both make yourselves comfortable in the bed and fall asleep within five minutes flat.
pairing soldier boy x sweet leaf!reader
fandom the boys
word count 922
warnings mdni / 18+, suggestive, drug use (weed), age gap (late-20s reader / late-30s ben), shotgunning weed, kissing, ben has a filthy mouth but what else is new
notes yes i gave soldier boy a ‘67 chevy impala because what other car would he work on in the driveway and honestly i’m not vin diesel i don’t know shit about cars
once the sun disappeared and day turned into night, it was time for you to unwind before bed. any other night you’d be in the living room curled up on the couch, joint in hand as you settled on a random movie of tv show. it was nice outside, not too hot and not too cold, as you took it upon yourself to lay out on one of the lounge chairs in your backyard. you held the blunt between your lips as you raised the lighter, the flame igniting the opposite end as you inhaled the smoke into your lungs. a small smile crossing your face as you settle back against the lounge chair, bringing the blunt to your lips again.
you’re so distracted by the way the stars dance in the night sky you don’t even notice that your neighbor had snuck his way into your backyard, nose following the scent of cannabis like a cartoon character smelling pie on a windowsill. it’s when he clears his throat that you finally notice him off to the side, smirk prominent on his face as his eyes rake over every inch of your body, taking in your laid out, elevated state on the lounge chair.
“can i help you?” you ask in a semi-sultry voice, mainly affected by the high in your voice as you blink up at the man. it’s your turn to take him in when you finally turn your head to face him; he’s tall and bulky with a face so devilishly handsome that he could get you in trouble with the right (or wrong) look, biceps bulging as his arms were crossed and resting against his chest, that smirk on his face setting your skin on fire.
“you can help me at any time, any day, any way you want sweetheart.” the neighbor-stranger teases you as he walks towards you, taking a seat on the lounge chair next to you as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “right now you can pass me whatever it is you’ve got between those pretty little fingers of yours. i could smell that shit all the way from my backyard.”
you roll your eyes at his advances before passing the blunt in his direction, your eyes lingering on the way his fingers handled the blunt before bringing it to his lips, his eyes closing as he inhaled the smoke into his lungs. “so you’re the one i always see working on that impala in the driveway.”
you watched the cherry on the opposite end fade as he exhaled the smoke, looking down and nodding at the blunt in approval. “a woman who knows good weed and good cars. should’ve knocked on your door months ago.”
“then i’d have way less weed in my stash.” you tease him as he passes the blunt back in your direction, his large frame settling back against your lounge chair. “i don’t even know your name and you’re already trying to be my smoking buddy.”
“ben.” the faint grin is prominent on his face as the high settles into his body yet he can’t take his eyes off of you; the way your eyes close as you inhale the blunt, the way the straps of your tank top rest on your shoulders and how the hem rests right at your belly button, the way your shorts rest on your hips but from his angle he can tell they’re fairly short.
“ben.” you repeat before taking another drag of the blunt, passing it back in his direction. he loves the way his name sounds on your lips. “ben who lives next door with the ‘67 chevy impala in the driveway and the staring problem.”
“staring problem?” he raises an eyebrow as his eyes trail back up to meet yours, bringing the blunt to his lips.
“all you’ve done since you’ve been here is smoke my weed and stare at me.” you sit up and turn your body to face him, settling on the edge of the lounge chair. “interesting way of flirting.”
a laugh comes deep from ben’s gut as he shakes his head, pausing before taking another drag of the blunt. “bold of you to think i’m flirting with you, babygirl.”
“it’s hard to tell between the sneaking into my backyard, the pet names, the staring.” you shrug as you watch him, reaching for the blunt in his hands. “doing a shit job so far.”
“you think you can do better?” ben questions you with an arrogant look on his face that makes you roll your eyes at him, bringing the blunt back to your lips as you take a longer drag. you hold the smoke in your lungs as you stand and step over to ben, swinging your leg over his body as you settle onto his lap. his hands instinctively move to rest on your hips as your arms slip around his neck, mouth hovering over his as you exhale the smoke into his now parted mouth. his grip on your hips tightens and you swear you can feel his cock twitch under you.
“you tell me.” you sit back and take another drag of the blunt and exhaling before holding it up to ben’s lips, taking your bottom lip between your teeth as you watched him tilt his head to secure it in his mouth.
“you keep it up and i’m stuffing my cock so far up your tight little cunt that the other neighbors’ll have no choice but to file noise complaints.”
lowdown ☆ you leave the door unlocked. soldier boy takes that exactly as seriously as he wants to.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2925 ride style ☆ bedroom tense
danger on the trail ☆ intense kissing, suggestive touching, soldier boy being possessive/crude
liv's log ☆ please, do not bring an angry mob to my door 🙂↕️ i don't know how to stop the slow burn
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
the knife stays by the sink. your door stays unlocked. for tonight, that is as brave as you get.
you tell yourself that means nothing once you’re in bed, because denial has been carrying half this safehouse on its back for weeks and you see no reason to stop contributing now. the little metal lock sits untouched in the door, too loud for an inanimate object. you look at it once, then twice, then make yourself look away.
you are not waiting.
you’re in bed because you’re tired. because training left your arms heavy and your legs sore. because the safehouse has finally quieted down. even the tv in the living room is off for once, which feels unnatural enough that the silence seems suspicious.
so, bed. phone in hand. blanket pulled to your waist. clean shirt. damp hair from the shower drying against your pillow—normal. except your screen has been dark for three minutes and you’re still holding the phone like you’re busy with it.
you tap it awake. no notifications. no messages. no convenient distraction from the fact that your entire body keeps listening for footsteps in the hallway like a pathetic little surveillance system with feelings.
you hate this. you hate that you know the difference between everyone’s steps now. butcher’s uneven stomp. mm’s solid, practical tread. hughie’s lighter, hesitant shuffle. annie’s careful quiet. frenchie’s restless, almost musical movements when he’s thinking too fast. kimiko’s near-silence.
and his. soldier boy doesn’t creep. he doesn’t know how. he moves like the world is supposed to clear a path because most of the time, it does. even when he tries to be quiet, there’s weight to him. wood gives him away. old floorboards complain. air shifts.
so when the hallway finally answers, your stomach drops and lifts at the same time.
you keep your eyes on your phone.
one step. then another. a pause outside your door.
you scroll down a page you have not read.
the door opens without a knock.
soldier boy fills the doorway in an old shirt and sleep shorts, face set into that bored, irritated expression he wears whenever he is doing something very intentional and pretending it’s just happening to him. his eyes move over the room once. quick. bed, you, window, chair. then back to you.
you lift your brows. “ever heard of knocking?”
“door was open.”
“unlocked isn’t open.”
“ah, it’s close enough,” he waves you off.
you stare at him over the top of your phone. “that legal argument work often?”
“worked tonight.”
he steps inside and shuts the door behind him with his heel—final enough that your pulse makes a stupid decision about it. you don’t move. he crosses the room like he’s done it a hundred times, which, by now, he almost has. still, there’s a difference tonight. something in the way he doesn’t hover, doesn’t sit on the edge, doesn’t arrange himself like he’s staying because you might fall apart.
he just lifts the blanket and gets in. fully. under the covers.
your mouth opens. “excuse me?”
“what?”
“make yourself at home, why don’t you?”
he settles onto his back with a rough exhale, taking up an offensive amount of mattress, one arm behind his head, the other already stealing warmth from your side of the bed because apparently conquest begins at the blanket line. “been fucking my back and neck on this tiny-ass bed for a week,” he says. “you’re welcome.”
you blink at him. “for what?”
“my sacrifice.”
“your sacrifice is stealing half my bed?”
“and not smothering you for snoring.”
“i don’t snore.”
he turns his head just enough to look at you. “you also don’t drool, right?”
your eyes narrow. “you said we weren’t making that weird.”
“didn’t say i’d forget.”
“that’s cruel.”
you huff, but it almost becomes a laugh, small and reluctant at the back of your throat. his eyes catch it immediately. the room changes by a fraction, not softer exactly, but closer. his gaze drops to your phone.
“you using that?”
“yes.”
the screen is dark in your hand again. he looks at it. then at you.
you hold his stare with great dignity before his hand moves. he takes the phone from your fingers with the casual entitlement of a man who does not believe small objects deserve to stand between him and what he wants. you make a sound of protest, but it’s weak and both of you know it. he glances at the black screen, scoffs, and tosses it onto the bedside table.
“hey!”
“you weren’t using it.”
“i was pretending to.”
“badly.”
“you came in here for attention?” you ask, and immediately regret giving the sentence a voice because it feels too close to the middle of the room.
soldier boy’s mouth curves. “you offering?”
you should say no. it’s the obvious answer. safe, clean, sensible. one syllable that would put the phone back in your hand, put him back on his side of the bed, put tonight into a shape you can survive tomorrow.
instead, you look at him for half a second too long.
that’s all he needs.
he rolls toward you, not fast, not careful either, the mattress dipping under his weight as his hand comes to your waist over the blanket and drags you closer by a few inches, the movement, blunt and sure, like the unlocked door had already answered enough for both of you.
your breath catches. “entitled.”
“accurate.”
you laugh then. quietly. unwillingly. it slips out of you before you can make it sharper, and he watches it happen like he’s been waiting for that sound all night. his hand tightens at your waist, fingers pressing through the blanket.
“that better be appreciation,” he says.
“for your sacrifice?”
“damn right.”
“thank you for ruining your ancient spine in my bed.”
“there you go.”
“beautiful moment.”
“shut up.”
“you first.”
he kisses you before you can win.
the first kiss is slower than it has any right to be. his mouth meets yours with heat held back behind his teeth, almost testing, though soldier boy would rather walk into traffic than call it that. his hand stays at your waist, not soft, not gentle, but keeping you close. your fingers curl in the blanket between you because for one second, your body doesn’t know where to put all the wanting.
he pulls back just enough to look at you. his breath brushes your mouth. you should say something. probably something mean. you don’t.
so he kisses you again.
this time, you move closer before he pulls you, knee sliding under the blanket, shoulder turning toward him. his hand comes out from under the covers and grips your waist properly, fabric bunching under his palm as he drags you into the space against him. your own hand catches the front of his shirt, not with panic this time, not to stop a blast, not to ground him through fear. just because you want him there.
that thought is dangerous. you kiss him harder to avoid it.
soldier boy makes a low sound against your mouth, rough enough to send heat straight through your stomach, and then his hand slides under your shirt.
his palm finds bare skin—warm, broad, rough against your stomach, fingers spreading over the place he’s been touching all week in training with excuses stacked higher than the manuals on mm’s table.
your whole body reacts and he feels it. of course the bastard feels it. his mouth pauses at the corner of yours, and you can feel the smugness before he even speaks. “that all it takes?”
“don’t flatter yourself.”
his hand presses once against your stomach, enough to make your breath hitch. “too late.”
“asshole.”
“there she is.”
you bite his lower lip for that. not hard enough to hurt, enough to make him pull in a breath through his nose and grip your waist tighter. his eyes darken when he draws back a fraction. “careful.”
“or what?”
his answer is his mouth on yours again, the restraint thinning out fast. the third kiss opens with tongue, and your body gives up the pretense of being reasonable. your fingers slide up into his shirt, catching at his side, his ribs, the warm hard line of him beneath cotton. he shifts closer, thigh pressing against yours under the covers, while his hand under your shirt moves from your stomach to your side, then back again like he’s memorizing what makes you forget to breathe.
and god, you do forget.
for a while, there is no knife by the sink. no blood under your nails. no freezer manuals. no warehouse. no ugly little fear waiting in every corner of the safehouse. there’s just his mouth and his hand, the heat of him under the blankets, the scrape of his stubble when he changes the angle of the kiss, the way he takes every small sound from you like he has earned it and intends to collect.
you moan into his mouth when his thumb drags higher under your shirt, skimming the lower edge of your ribs.
his hand stops. “quiet,” he murmurs, voice low enough to scrape. “or you trying to wake the whole damn house?”
your face heats. “maybe you’re just bad at keeping me quiet.”
his eyes lift to yours. wrong answer. or exactly the right one. “that right?”
you swallow. “maybe.”
he moves over you in one smooth, heavy shift, and the mattress dips beneath your back before your brain has time to organize a defense. suddenly, he’s above you, one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand still under your shirt, palm flat over your stomach. too much in the best and worst possible way.
your breath goes thin. he looks down at you with that unbearable focus, hair falling slightly forward, mouth swollen from yours, eyes dark and alive with a kind of satisfaction that makes you want to shove him and pull him back at the same time.
“you gonna keep that mouth under control for once,” he says, “or do you want marvin kicking this door down and butcher making jokes until i kill him?”
you should laugh. you almost do. instead, your hand slides up his chest and hooks around the back of his neck, pulling him down the last inch.
“then do something useful with yours.”
his expression flashes.
the fourth kiss turns the room into something else entirely. his weight settles more firmly between your bent knees, not pushing too far, not crossing the line you both know is there, but making the existence of it very, very difficult to respect. the blanket tangles around his hips and your legs. your shirt rides higher under his hand. your back arches before you can stop it, and he uses the movement, palm sliding to your spine, dragging you closer while his mouth works yours open with rough, greedy patience.
his hand moves like he has been denied for too long. stomach, ribs, waist. a squeeze at your side that makes you gasp. a drag of his thumb just under the band of your shirt. his fingers pressing into your skin when your hips shift beneath him without permission. every touch says mine with the arrogance of a man who has no right to say it.
your fingers push into his hair. he groans at that, low and sharp, and the sound nearly ruins you. his mouth leaves yours, dragging along your jaw, not gentle, not sweet, teeth catching once near the edge of your throat before he pulls back just enough to breathe.
“fuck,” he mutters, and it sounds angry.
you blink up at him, chest rising too fast. “what?”
“nothing.”
“that didn’t sound like nothing.”
“sounds like you’re talking again.”
“maybe you’re slacking.”
his eyes narrow. “brat.”
his mouth crashes back onto yours, and this time you really do make a sound too loud to be safe. he catches it with the kiss, hand coming up from under your shirt to cover your mouth for half a second when he breaks away, eyes glittering with wicked amusement.
“what’d i just say?”
you breathe against his palm, eyes locked on his, and because you have learned nothing about survival, you lick the heel of his hand.
his expression goes still.
then his palm drops, and he kisses you again with enough force to push your head back into the pillow. your hands grab at him, his shirt, his shoulder, his arm, anywhere you can reach. he lets you pull, lets you scratch a little through the fabric, lets your knee hook around his side under the covers. he takes the contact like it is owed and gives back more, mouth rough, breath hot, body heavy above yours.
somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny practical voice tries to remind you there is a mission coming. vought. homelander. chamber parts. the knife.
soldier boy’s hand slides down to your thigh and pries it higher against his hip.
the practical voice dies immediately.
you break the kiss with a shaky inhale, head turning against the pillow. “jesus.”
“not even close.”
his mouth finds the side of your neck again, and this time you don’t stop the sound fast enough. it leaves you soft and broken, and he freezes for half a second, then exhales through his nose against your skin like he’s barely holding the leash on himself.
“you keep doing that,” he says, rough, “we’re gonna have a problem.”
your fingers tighten in his hair. “sounds like your problem.”
he lifts his head. there is no humor in his face now. there’s heat, yes, and arrogance, and that old entitlement he wears like it was issued with his shield and suit, but beneath it is something more focused. more dangerous because it’s not careless.
he looks at your mouth, your flushed face, the place your shirt is rucked up beneath his hand, then back to your eyes.
“tomorrow,” he says.
it takes you a second to understand. “what?”
“tomorrow matters.”
you almost laugh, except you’re breathing too hard and he’s still half over you. “are you giving me a mission briefing right now?”
“i’m saying not tonight.”
your body, traitor that it is, reacts with immediate offense. “excuse me?”
that gets the corner of his mouth to move. “heard me.”
“you start this and then pull strategy?”
“you need sleep.”
“oh, fuck off.”
“and i need you sharp.”
that shuts you up. not because it’s soft—it is. not because he says it kindly—he doesn’t. his voice is still rough, still edged with want, still low enough that it feels like another hand on you. but it lands with the same ugly tenderness all his almost-care does: badly dressed, uninvited, impossible to ignore.
you stare at him. he stares back, breathing hard through his nose like restraint is personally insulting him.
“you’re annoying,” you say, because anything else would expose too much.
“yeah.”
“and bossy.”
“mhm.”
“and in my bed.”
“yup.”
“under my covers.”
“got comfortable.”
you huff, trying not to smile and failing enough that his eyes drop to your mouth again. the heat is still there. not gone. absolutely not gone. it sits between you, waiting for one of you to be stupid enough to touch it again.
soldier boy shifts his weight off you slowly, and somehow the absence is worse. he rolls onto his side beside you, but his hand stays under your shirt, palm settling warm against your stomach like he’s decided that part remains his for the night.
you should move it. probably. you don’t. you turn onto your side too, facing him. the room feels wrecked though nothing is out of place except your shirt, your breathing, and possibly your entire common sense.
“so what,” you murmur, “you’re being responsible now?”
“don’t insult me.”
“sorry. tactical.”
“better.”
you snort, then yawn before you can stop it. his brows lift.
“don’t,” you warn.
“wasn’t gonna.”
“liar.”
“yeah.” his thumb moves once against your skin, absentmindedly. too intimate to survive if either of you names it.
you look toward the door. still closed. still unlocked. the safehouse remains quiet beyond it. nobody barges in. nobody ruins it. butcher doesn’t appear in a doorway with terrible emotional timing.
your eyes drift back to soldier boy. his face is close enough in the low light that you can see the faint shadow under his eye, the stubborn set of his jaw.
“you’re staying?” you ask.
his gaze flicks to yours. “you kicking me out?”
“i asked first.”
“i’m staying.”
your chest does something unbearably small. you ignore it with the strength of a woman who has ignored worse things and been wrong about all of them. “fine.”
“generous.”
“don’t drool on my pillow.”
his mouth twitches. “that’s your job.”
you shove his chest with one hand. he doesn’t move. not even slightly. instead, he catches your wrist anyway and tugs you closer, not enough to start again, but enough that your forehead brushes his collarbone. his hand returns to your stomach after, warm and heavy beneath your shirt, grounding in a way you refuse to unpack tonight.
but for now, his body is warm beside yours, his breathing slower than yours until yours starts copying it. you close your eyes and feel his thumb shift once, barely there, against your skin.
you still don’t touch the knife.
your sheath is still empty.
tomorrow is still coming.
but for the first time all week, you stop feeling it in your hand.
SOLDIER BOY — PLAYBOY BUNNY [NSFW + SEASON 5 SPOILERS]
Soldier Boy x fem!reader
summary: the hunt for V1 led you to Mr. Marathon's house. you thought this would go smoothly, until the weirdo admits that he used to jerk off to your old Playboy shoots—and Ben isn't happy to learn he is the only man in this whole country to not know about those.
wc: 2,681
tags: V1 supe!reader, smut, a lil jealousy, playboy bunny suit, making out, dry humping, implied size difference, fingering, p in v, orgasm control/denial if you squint, dacryphilia, one mention that reader has a bush, rough sex, doggy style, creampie
a/n: so... this took the whole month to write. this was pitched to me by one of you in my comments (don't hesitate to reach out to me if you want to be tagged btw) and i just loved it so much. so sorry for the lack of content lately, life is rough lol
available on ao3
You haven't been to Los Angeles in... forever. Yet the California sun is still as hot as you remember.
"Well, this place still looks like a dump." Ben muttered as he walked next to you, boots crunching on gravel. "Just... shinier." His head tilted up to take a look at Mr. Marathon's luxurious home—too white and too big for a washed-up B-lister like him. Being in the Seven for a few years really did him a favor, it seemed.
You snorted. "You say that about every city."
"Because every fuckin' city is a dump." He grumbled, before lowering his voice. "Last time we came here was in—what, '81?" He bumped his shoulder into yours intentionally, and Homelander—who was walking a step behind and looking like a sulking kid following behind his father (which, fair enough)—had to suppress a sigh.
"Almost, '82." You corrected, climbing up the stairs to the front door.
You’d known Ben for decades now. Seen the kid with daddy issues playing macho man after his first shot of V1 until he became America's number one tool for war propaganda—and everything in between.
"We were supposed to come back in '84 for the Olympics but... y'know. Had to go alone." You casually brought up his betrayal and alleged death—just a couple months before your actual last trip to LA.
"Very touching." Homelander said flatly before Ben could reply to you, reaching over your shoulder to ring the doorbell with impatience.
The door opened shortly after, Mr. Marathon's jaw going slack as he took in the three famous faces standing at his door. "Oh my—holy shit." He opened the door wider, ushering you in. "Come in, come in."
The interior was just as white and detestable as the exterior, and you couldn't help but make a face when you saw the guy's self-portait hanging in the entrance.
"Homelander, it is really, uh... really—good to see you!" He stammered, vibrating with both excitement and anxiety. "W—what brings you by?"
"Relax, we're just here to talk."
"Yeah! Great, awesome—" His gaze drifted to Ben, one hand vaguely gesturing towards him. "Soldier Boy—wow, big fan, sir. I actually, uh, popped my cherry in your Underoos."
Ben was about to dismiss this awful conversation when Mr. Marathon spoke up again with renewed excitement, his gaze turning to you.
"And—you!" He exclaimed with a breathy chuckle of amazement. "God, i definitely rubbed one out to your Playboy bunny shoots more times than i can count—the pages were stuck together, i had to find another copy."
Silence.
Long, horrible, awkward silence.
Homelander looked like he was considering just lasering the place to pieces.
"...Shoots?" Ben was the first to break it, eyes narrowing at Mr. Marathon and tilting his head like he'd heard wrong. "What shoots?" His eyes then snapped towards you with not-so-subtle interest. "Playboy?"
"Ben—"
"Since when the hell were you doing Playboy?" He finally asked with a confused shrug, struggling to believe he could've missed something as juicy as this.
"Since you were busy snorting half of Nicaragua and never came back." You shrugged back, but the way he looked at you made it clear he wasn't about to let you brush this off. "It was the eighties! You did your fair share of stupid shit, too!"
He gave you a once over, completely ignoring your point. "...Full nude?" He asked shamelessly, raising a brow at you.
"Of course not!"
"They still out there?" He ignored your whining as well, already turning back towards Mr. Marathon.
"Seriously?" You deadpanned.
"Well—i might still have a... clean copy."
───
Mr. Marathon was still bleeding out on the marble floor, head crushed to pieces when Ben bent down with a grunt, plucking something glossy from under the rubble.
"No fuckin' way. He does have a copy." He muttered, thumb rubbing the dust off the magazine cover.
There you are.
Curled up on a loveseat in a black satin teddy and ridiculous bunny ears, one heel dangling off your foot while you smiled at the camera like there wasn't a single thought behind those eyes. Big hair, dramatic makeup, and a fluffy white tail to top it all off.
America's Sweetheart Finally Lets Loose!
"Oh god, burn it." You gritted your teeth in disgust, glaring at the magazine like it could bite.
"Fuck no, this is gold."
Homelander made a sound somewhere between disgust and exhaustion. "Can we focus?"
"You're insufferable." You grumbled, ignoring Homelander's complaining.
"And you were apparently more flexible than i remember." He clicked his tongue approvingly. "Jesus."
He stopped on a certain page that made him grin like a kid on Christmas Day. "Oh, now this—" He let out a low whistle. "Damn."
You lunged for it instantly. "Give me that!"
He jerked the magazine out of reach effortlessly, laughing as you smacked uselessly at his arm. "No no no, hold on—" His eyes flicked over a full-page spread. "You said no full nude."
"It's not full nude!"
"There is one ribbon covering your tits."
"That doesn't count."
"Kinda does, though."
Homelander stared straight ahead with the thousand-yard look of a man questioning every life decision that had led him here, his facial tics starting to act up.
Ben kept grinning as he finally lowered the magazine enough to look at you properly, and there it was—that smug, annoyingly entertained look that always riled you up.
"Can't believe every asshole in America got to see this before me."
Homelander finally snapped. "Are you two done flirting over a dead body?"
───
"You bought this?"
"Yeah."
You stood in your room back at Vought Tower, Ben at your side with his chest puffed out and an infuriatingly proud grin on his pretty face.
He'd been pounding on your door five minutes ago, insisting that this was an emergency—before dropping a package on your mattress and demanding you open it.
You regretted it the moment you ripped the carboard open and caught a glimpse of black, shiny fabric.
"How did you even—"
"Spent three fuckin' hours figuring out that... that jungle website." Ben shrugged with an edge of frustration.
"Wha—Amazon?" You let out a huff of a laugh, the very entertaining image of him grumbling and cursing at a screen for three hours straight popping in your mind.
"Yeah, whatever. Site kept askin' me about cookies or some shit."
"You learned online shopping for this?" You huffed in disbelief, carefully digging through the plastic bag to pull out the costume, staring down at it with conflict—and maybe a bit of pink on your cheeks.
Fighting the internet just to see you in a skimpy bunny suit was actually pretty romantic, by Ben's standards.
"Won't you put it on, sweetheart?" He leaned towards you, hand reaching to grope the meat of your ass and head ducking down until his hot breath hit the shell of your ear. "Figure if every Tom, Dick, and Harry got the photoshoot, i oughta at least get the sequel."
You folded, eventually.
And you realized you'd rarely seen Ben this invested.
Took you in his arms the moment you walked out, changed in this bunny suit—that you insisted was stupid and raunchy—hands all over your curves and squeezing flesh like he had to make sure this was real. They slid down to your waist again, pinching the soft skin through the satin fabric appreciatively.
"Stop making that face. Smile a little, bun." He teased, amused by how commited you were to looking annoyed despite how red your ears were turning. He could feel your body burning under his palms, flushed and squirming.
"This is not funny."
"Yeah? I think it's hilarious." He retorted, flicking the white fluffy tail on your lower back and tugging at the ears on your head just to rile you up some more. You were about to protest like you always did when he interrupted you, lips crashing hungrily against yours while he pulled you closer until there wasn't an inch left between your bodies.
You squirmed without much conviction when he steered you towards his bed, the empty package falling to the floor as he pushed it off carelessly and sat down on the edge, pulling you onto his lap.
"You're such a pretty bunny, i might just fuck you like one." He purred, gripping your thighs to keep you still. "Wouldn't you like that?"
The grumpy but slightly shaky whine you let out told him everything he needed to know. You're still embarrassed, but so damn into it—and it's exactly what he wants.
One finger hooked into the collar of your bowtie, pulling you in for another rough kiss just to draw more of those adorable grumbles out of you. He was as mean as you remembered, always trying to dominate with his tongue and biting on your lower lip whenever he didn't get his way.
His other hand slid to your hipbone, urging you to grind against him and guiding your movements while his own hips thrust up, the hard line of his erection rubbing deliciously against your clothed slit. He reached for your chest to caress one breast possessively, grunting at the way you arched your back and pressed further into his palm whenever he pinched your nipple through the fabric.
"Gettin' all excited just from a little rubbin'." He murmured against your lips teasingly as he felt you grind harder on your own, chasing more of that sweet friction as your heart pounded through your ribcage and against his hand. "C'mere, bun."
He never stopped kissing you as he maneuvered you onto the mattress, switching your positions until he hovered above you, forearms braced on each side of your head to avoid crushing you under his weight—not that you'd mind. He only pulled back to take you in, from your flushed cheeks to the way the satin strained against your curves. So vulnerable—and fucking delicious.
"Look at you," He muttered, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly rumble. "All red and pouty. Actin' like you didn't want this the second you saw the damn box."
He trailed kisses down your neck, leaving harsh bites and hickeys on the way to your collarbone until he nuzzled his nose into your cleavage—leaving one last open-mouthed kiss on your sternum.
"Roll over." He ordered with a nudge to your thigh with his knee.
"Really?"
"What, you ever seen bunnies go at it in missionary, smartass? Ass up." He didn't wait for you to move, manhandling you onto your stomach and lifting your hips up, bunny ears tilting forward as his fingers tangled in your hair to keep your face down. He hooked his thumb into the crotch of the teddy to pull it to the side followed by a sharp tearing sound that made you jump, mesh snapping to form a jagged hole in your fishnets as he ripped it apart.
"Fuck," He hissed at the sight of your dripping pussy, pink and puffy under that bush of yours he loved so much. "You kept bitchin' all night, but look at that. Little bunny's soaked, just waiting for the big bad wolf to tear her apart." He let out a condescending chuckle, thumb swiping through your folds as he spread your cheeks apart. He relished the way you shuddered and let your head fall forward into the sheets, whimpering softly.
"Pathetic." He snorted, two fingers abruptly breaching past your ring of muscle—earning himself a surprised little yelp. "All tight and snug." He commented, digits already curling and scissoring inside of you while his free hand tugged his pants off, his hard cock springing free from its confines.
"Hnn, Ben—" You couldn't help but whimper as he scratched that spongy spot along your walls, voice muffled against the comforter.
"Yeah, yeah. Stop complainin', you're gonna get it." He scoffed, fingers sliding out of your pussy with a wet squelch. He watched you clench around nothing at the sudden feeling of emptiness, wordlessly begging to be filled. "You gonna be good?" He asked, one hand sliding up your spine to tangle with the hair at your nape, fisting his cock with the other to press the blunt head of it against your slick folds.
"Yes," You nodded frantically, hips twitching with need. "Please, Ben—"
"Please what?" God, you could still hear that infuriating smirk in his voice.
"Please, ngh—fuck my pussy..."
"Atta girl."
He buried himself in one harsh thrust, savoring that desperate cry you let out—something between a moan and a sob that made his dick twitch inside you.
"You like that? You like being stuffed full, bunny?" He drawled mockingly, pelvis pressing against your ass in a deep grind that made you whimper some more. He leaned down until his chest pressed against your back, body blanketing your smaller form.
"Yeah... you love takin' my big fuckin' cock. Always have." He pulled out just enough to make you whine, before slamming back inside you over and over again, the sound of skin slapping against skin mixed with your pathetic, muffled cries filling the room.
"Good girl. Good bun..." He grunted appreciatively against the side of your neck, hand sliding from your nape to grip your jaw and lift your head just enough to catch a glimpse of that flushed face and those glazed over, teary eyes.
"T—too much—" You choked out, each thrust making your body jolt forward.
"Aww, really?" He cut you off by squeezing your cheeks with his fingers a few times, thumb and index finger digging into the squishy flesh—like you were nothing but a cute pet. "Can't handle it, sweetheart?" His movements stopped abruptly, leaving you whining and squirming at the sudden loss of friction.
"You either take it all, or get nothin' at all. And judgin' by the way your legs are kickin' for more right now, i reckon you prefer the first option." He chuckled cruelly, his free hand kneading your hip. "So, are you gonna take it or not?"
You nodded desperately, chin pressing into his palm. "No no, use your words." He nuzzled further into your neck, his beard scratching against your shoulder.
"Mmn—i'll be good... i—i'll take your cock, please—" You barely had the time to beg that he was already hammering into you again, thrusts shallow but hard, balls slapping against your sensitive mound.
"Yeah you will," He grunted while you choked on your own moans and saliva, his grip on your hip tightening bruisingly. "Like the good little bunny you are."
He didn't slow down when he felt your walls tighten and your moans turning into shaky wails, pounding into you until you finally came, gushing around him with a throaty, almost inhumane sob.
"Good fuckin' girl, cummin' so hard on this fat cock—" He felt that familiar heat pool in his gut, thrusts turning sloppy and slightly uncoordinated. "I'm almost there, sweetheart—you can take it."
He came with a roar, hips flush against yours as he spilled himself as deep in you as possible, holding himself there until he was empty. "Fuck—nghh, fuck..."
Your knees gave out the moment he pulled out, goosebumps rising on your skin when you felt your pussy drool with his hot, thick release. The mattress dipped next to you as he let himself collapse, one arm sliding between your waist and the sheets to pull you closer.
"C'mere." He panted, reaching to take those ridiculous ears off your head. A miracle that they stayed on the whole time. "Let's get you out of this, hm?"
He fumbled with the buttons on the cuffs, pulled the zipper down your back and tugged the torn fishnets down your legs—until you laid bare and dazed.
"Y'know, all those dickheads probably fantasized about this," He pulled the blanket over you, tucking you in gentler than you'd expect him to, before getting comfortable himself with a proud grin on his face. "But i can say that i got the real fuckin' thing."
omg you did soooo good on the soldierboy x sup!f!reader, it was like ten times better than i could ever imagine, thank you!!!!! i wonder if you would please write kinda a prequel to that? like, how did reader and ben get together.
reader and soldier boy both being in Payback. at first reader thinks that ben is an asshole (which he is), soldier boy only wants to sleep with reader. but since his usual flirting tactics don't work on reader he starts to act more nicely and 'gentleman-like' towards her. that gets her to like him, and he also realises he isn't in it just for the sex. when they get together, they try to keep it a secret, but he acts like a dick towards everybody except for her, so that kinda gives it away.
so i guess it's kinda angst/fluff? (you can add spice). idk if that's too specific for a request, i just always have these whole scenarios in my head, but I can never put pen to paper with them. also, it might be a little bit ooc!soldierboy but i just feel like he would be super gentle and affectionate to the person he loves.
so glad u liked it!!! i tried my best and to be honest i kinda love this couple so if u want more of them just lmk!! 🙂↕️
(prequel) TRIED TO
wordcount: 2864
summary: How the romance from TRIED TO came to a start…
warnings: soldier boy x fem!reader, ben implied to be bigger than reader, cursing, mentions of violence but nothing too crazy– that’s all for now !!!
The first time Soldier Boy tried hitting on you, he had blood on his gloves and someone else’s cigarette hanging from his mouth.“You new?”
You looked up from the gun you were checking, immediately met with the full force of America’s golden boy leaning in your doorway like he owned the building. Which– technically, with Vought? He kind of did. “You got eyes, don’t you?” You answered flatly, more than used to sleazebags and people underestimating the ‘new girl’ even if she was a supe.
A grin spread across his face at the attitude. “Oh, she’s got a bite”
Behind him, Gunpowder nearly looked nervous watching the interaction unfold. Like he expected you to get either beat up or fired for not immediately dropping to your knees the second Soldier Boy acknowledged your existence.
Instead, you walked past them, shoulder bumping his hard enough to make a point– even if you couldn’t make a dent on him if you wanted to. “Move”
For the first time in years, Ben actually looked surprised by a woman. Then amused, his interest was definitely picked. “Oh, m’gon like you”
“You are gonna leave me alone” You corrected, barely glancing back at him over your shoulder.
“Now where’s the fun in that?”
Turns out? There wasn’t much. Because over the next few weeks, Soldier Boy became the single biggest irritation in your life. He flirted constantly– leaning against walls waiting for you after training, sitting too close during briefings, throwing those stupid cocky smirks at you whenever you spoke. Every interaction came with some smug one-liner attached to it.
“C’mon sweetheart, one drink”
“No”
“One dance”
“No”
“One night”
“Absolutely not”
Ben watched you walk away again and muttered under his breath. “Christ, you’re killin’ me”
Most women folded eventually– maybe because he was Soldier Boy, maybe because he was handsome in that rugged, dangerous sort of way or maybe because he carried confidence like it was stitched directly into his skin. But you? You thought he was an asshole. An entertaining asshole sometimes (unfortunately) but still an asshole nonetheless.
“She hates you” Countess informed him one afternoon while fixing her makeup in the mirror backstage, barely sparing him a second glance.
Ben scoffed from the couch, manspreading while smoking. “Nah” He waves her off.
“She does”
“She wants me bad”
Crimson laughed so hard she almost smeared mascara across her face. “God, you’re one delusional asshole”
Ben frowned, letting out yet another scoff, exhaling the smoke from his cigarette while replying a confident: “Women love me”
“Women tolerate you because Vought either signs their checks or threatens them”
That earned her a glare. Still, the comment stuck with him more than he liked. Because no matter what he did, you genuinely did not seem impressed by him. Not Soldier Boy the war hero– not the celebrity, not the fame, not the flirting, not the charm… It drove him fucking insane.
Then one night after a mission in Detroit, things shifted.
Payback had stopped at some shitty roadside bar while repairs were being done on the vehicles. The place smelled like stale beer and cigarettes, old country music crackling through blown-out speakers while drunken men stumbled around near the pool tables. You sat alone at the counter nursing a drink when a man slid onto the stool beside you. At first you ignored him. That ended the moment his hand landed on your thigh. “You hear me, honey?”
“I heard ya” You replied coldly, removing his hand. “Try it again and lose the arm”
Apparently he somehow took that very much honest warning as flirting. “Aw, c’mon. Don’t be like that–” A heavy hand suddenly grabbed the guy by the back of his shirt. The man barely got out a confused “What the fu–” Before Soldier Boy hauled him clean off the stool.
“You deaf, pal?” Ben asked casually.
The guy paled, instantly recognizing him. Even without his suit, Soldier Boy’s face was fully glued into every person in America’s mind. “Hey man, I didn’t know she was with you–”
Ben’s expression darkened slightly. “She ain’t with nobody” His grip tightened. “But she said no” Then he threw the guy hard enough he crashed into a table– the bar erupted immediately after that. Shouting, chairs scraping, someone trying to swing at Ben and immediately regretting it.
“Ben” Your voice cuts clean through the rumble. For once you actually said his name– he looked over at you instantly. And there it was, that switch. That terrifying, violent man everyone else walked on eggshells around softened the second your voice hit him. You blinked a little at how immediate it was. “C’mon” You sighed, grabbing your jacket. “Before you kill somebody”
Ben looked genuinely disappointed– he was more than ready to beat the lights out of this random man and have Vought’s PR deal with the mess later. You snorted despite yourself, and for one brief second, Ben just… stared at you. Not at your body, not at your legs, not at your chest– you. Like hearing you laugh had punched straight through his carefully built macho-man facade. Something unfamiliar twisted unpleasantly in his stomach.
Oh.
Oh, that was bad. Because suddenly this wasn’t some fun cat and mouse chase anymore.
The realization hit him properly a couple weeks later during a mission briefing. You’d been injured– not badly, but enough to feel weird. Usually, with the V1 flowing through your veins, it took quite a lot to even make you bleed– so when you did get injured, it felt weird. You sat on one of the medical tables while a Vought medic tried cleaning the blood off your face. “Told you ‘m fine” You muttered, simply wanting to head back to your room.
“You need stitches”
“Need a couple minutes” You retort without a care in the world.
The medic sighed tiredly. Then Soldier Boy walked in. The poor medic practically jumped away from you the second Ben approached. And Ben– usually loud, arrogant, impossible to ignore– crouched in front of you quietly. “Lemme see”
You frowned slightly but tilted your chin anyway. (His voice didn’t leave much room for argument) His rough hand rested carefully against your jaw while he examined the cut on the side of your head. The touch should’ve felt strange coming from him.Instead it felt… gentle? Painfully gentle for a man like him. “Should’ve gotten the Hell outta the way” He muttered, voice low and gruff
You rolled your eyes. “Little late now, don’t ya think?”
A tiny smirk tugged at his mouth. “Still got your attitude, means you ain’t dyin’ ” For the first time since meeting him, Soldier Boy stopped feeling like a caricature Vought created and started feeling like a real person underneath all the swagger. And maybe Ben noticed the way your expression softened, because his thumb brushed once beneath your eye before he pulled away. Small, careful– almost absentminded. But it lingered.
After that, things got worse. Or better? Depends who you ask. Because Soldier Boy started acting even more different around you. Subtle at first– opening doors, making sure there was always an empty seat just in case you wanted it, keeping people from bothering you at events, saving you the last beer without saying a word… And the most disturbing part? He listened to you. (Sometimes)
“Did you just threaten that director?”
“He was lookin’ at your ass”
“Ben” You’d gotten weirdly used to calling him out by his name– something almost fond to it by now despite how hard you tried to stay annoyed with him.
“What? M’ observant, guy s’a sleaze– trust me, doll” You don’t even correct him with the nickname anymore.
“You can’t threaten people every time they annoy you”
“Sure I can”
“Right, well you shouldn’t”
He grinned lazily. “Watch me”
You hated how much you were starting to enjoy him– which was a problem, a huge problem. Because Ben was still Ben. Arrogant, reckless, infuriating Ben. But then there were moments nobody else got to see. Like him half-asleep beside you during flights, large hand lazily hooked around your wrist like he needed physical proof you were still there. Or the way he automatically positioned himself between you and crowds. Or how his voice always dropped softer around you, rough edges smoothing instinctively cause he knew you hated people yelling around you. And the worst part? You realized one night he wasn’t trying to sleep with you anymore. Not really– sure, he still flirted. (Constantly) But now he lingered even when sex was off the table. Now he sought you out just to sit beside you– just to hear you talk, just to look at you. That terrified you more than the flirting ever had.
It finally happened after a mission in Boston.
The hotel had overbooked rooms. Which meant Vought, in all their infinite wisdom, stuck you with Soldier Boy.
“Absolutely not”
Ben looked far too pleased hearing that. “Oh no…” He drawled with enough amusement that it almost made you wonder if he had anything to do with this little arrangement. “Whatever shall we do?”
You pointed a finger at him. “You stay on your side of the room”
“Sweetheart, there’s one bed”
“Try anything and I will kill you”
“Doll, if I got to touch ya even for a second– it’d been worth it” He replies with that boyish, lazy grin. (He was definitely proud of that line)
“Ben”
He laughed, actually laughed. God, you were doomed.
Hours later, rain hammered against the hotel windows while the TV static buzzed softly in the background. You sat cross-legged near the headboard reading while Ben sprawled beside you smoking despite the very obvious no smoking sign. Of course, ‘no fucking sign was gonna tell him what to do’ –his words, not yours.
“Y’know” He said suddenly, voice quieter than usual. “Thought you hated me”
You looked up from your book. “I did”
“Ouch” He scoffs, taking another drag of his cigarette.
“You were unbearable”
“Was?” He hums teasingly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. You rolled your eyes, trying your best not to smile at his stupidity. Ben watched you for a second before speaking again. “…Everyone else acts weird ‘round me”
The comment caught you off guard– if there was one thing you never expected from him, it was vulnerability. God honest feelings. “What?”
“They either want somethin’ or they scared shitless” He shrugged one shoulder. “You ain’t”
You stared at him quietly. Because beneath all the arrogance, all the bravado, there was something unexpectedly honest sitting in his expression. And for once, Soldier Boy looked small– not America’s hero– just Ben. “You make it hard sometimes” You admitted.
That pulled a small grin from him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah”
Silence settled after that. Not awkward, but heavy. Then Ben reached over slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him, and brushed his knuckles against your cheek. “Still think ‘m an asshole?”
You looked at him for a long moment, carefully weighing the option and just how much you wanted to admit to him. “…Yeah”
He let out a soft, genuine chuckle, something gentle and warm about it that made you smile to yourself. Then, he kissed you before you could say anything else. And fuck it– you kissed him back immediately. After that night, the relationship stayed secret for approximately three days. Mostly because Ben was physically incapable of acting normal around you.
Payback noticed instantly. “Holy shit” The TNT Twins whispered after watching Ben hand you his jacket without being asked. Gunpowder looked personally devastated. And Crimson Countess nearly choked during a press interview when Soldier Boy instinctively tucked you against his side after someone almost shoved past you. The final nail in the coffin came during a mission briefing when Mindstorm insulted you under his breath.
Ben slammed him against the wall so fast the entire room froze. “What’d you just say?”
“Ben” You warned immediately– voice soft and calm as you’d probably done a million times before. But everyone already saw it. The way he listened to you, the way he backed off the second your hand touched his arm, the way his anger vanished when you looked at him.
The room stayed tense for half a second too long. Mindstorm looked more shocked than hurt, pinned hard against the wall while Soldier Boy held him there by the front of his suit.
“Ben” You said it again, even gentler this time. That was the part that really unsettled everyone, not the violence, they were used to that. It was the fact Soldier Boy listened to something that wasn’t himself or a major threat. Ben’s jaw tightened once before he finally let Mindstorm go with a rough shove. The other supe stumbled immediately away from him, clearly deciding whatever insult he’d muttered was no longer worth dying over.
“Watch your mouth” Ben muttered in a last warning. It sounded almost casual– which somehow made it worse. Across the room, the TNT Twins exchanged a look that practically screamed holy shit. Gunpowder stared at you like you’d just performed mind control, even Noir tilted his head slightly. Because nobody talked Soldier Boy down once he got angry– nobody. It was either getting beaten up or chest-blasted into oblivion.
Except apparently you.
You sighed softly, smoothing a hand over Ben’s chest once he stepped back toward you. “You cannot threaten every person that pisses you off, remember?” It almost sounded like a mom scolding a stubborn toddler instead of a woman raising a killing machine.
“Sure can”
“Ben”
“Alright, alright” He grumbled. “Christ on a cross” Rubbing a hand over his rough, stubbled jaw in a futile attempt to forget his earlier fury.
Mindstorm rubbed his throat from across the room, still feeling the phantom grip of Soldier Boy’s hand on his neck. “This is insane”
“Shut the fuck up” Ben replied instantly, pointing a stern finger at him as a warning. Though it lacked its usual threat– now? It was almost endearing seeing the big bad Soldier Boy reduced to a pliant wall of muscle for a woman half his size, patiently calling his name.
A couple days later, you head up to the penthouse where Ben always spent his nights. The room was dimly lit, the window that led to the balcony wide open and Soldier Boy’s broad frame blocking the night view as he smoked. He was huge, don’t get it wrong– but something about these moments made him look smaller, more human. “S’ creepy to sneak up n’people, y’know?” He hums, a hint of amusement in his voice despite the overall calmness of his tone.
“Reminder that I sleep here too” You remind him with a soft chuckle, stepping out to join him on the balcony, one hand gently resting between his shoulder blades. For a minute, neither of you spoke.
Then his voice became even softer than before. “…Y’mean it back then?”
You frowned slightly. “Mean what?”
“That I make it hard”
Your eyes turned to him, gazing up at his side profile. And suddenly Soldier Boy didn’t look cocky anymore, just uncertain. It was strange on him, almost unfair. You exhaled softly through your nose. “You are an asshole”
“Yeah, heard that one” He scoffs, still looking ahead at the city below while exhaling the smoke from his lungs.
“You’re arrogant”
“Mhm”
“You threaten people like it’s a hobby”
“Technically is” He huffs under his breath– a poor attempt at humor to cover up his previous vulnerability. Despite yourself, you laughed softly. Ben’s expression softened immediately at the sound. God. That look was becoming dangerous.
“But…” You hesitated slightly. “You’re different with me”
He stared at you for a moment before taking a slow drag from his cigarette. “Yeah, I am” He admits, quiet and simple. Because to him? It really was that simple. The honesty in his voice hit harder than you expected. No teasing, no cocky grin– just truth. You looked away first, which definitely made him smirk a little. “There she is” He chuckles softly, turning his body to face you.
“Don’t start”
“You’re blushin’, sweetheart”
“You’re testing your luck, Benjamin”
“Nah” He stepped closer, crowding you into his presence. “I grew on ya by now” You opened your mouth to argue– it didn’t work. Because he was right, you’d learned to love his presence in your life. The smug bastard smiled softly to himself before reaching up and brushing his knuckles along your jaw. Gentle again– always strangely gentle with you. “Y’know” He murmured. “Been trying real hard t’be good for you”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, barely holding the corners of your mouth down from forcing into a traitorous smile. “You threatened three people today”
“Personal growth takes time” He replies simply, shamelessly shrugging one shoulder before dragging you closer to him by the small of your back. A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. Ben looked unbearably pleased with himself– he’d do anything to keep being the reason for that sound.
“I guess it does…” You murmur softly, a fond smile on your face before pulling him down into a kiss.
lowdown ☆ you come home with someone else’s blood on you, and everyone tries to help in the only ways they know how.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2863 ride style ☆ angst/comfort
danger on the trail ☆ blood aftermath, shock, first kill trauma, showering off blood, emotional distress, soldier boy being quietly soft in the most emotionally constipated way possible
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist
the safehouse does not know what to do with you when you get back.
that is the first thing you notice. not the lights. not the old smell of coffee and gun oil and whatever awful food hughie forgot on the counter before you left. not even the blood gone stiff in your trousers, pulling cold against your skin every time you move.
it’s the silence.
the way everyone keeps shifting around you like you are something set down wrong in the middle of the room. something breakable. something dangerous. something nobody wants to touch unless they know exactly where the sharp parts are.
you stand just inside the door after the van empties, one hand hanging at your side, fingers still half-curled around a knife that is no longer there. frenchie has it. you remember that in pieces. cloth around the blade. his hands gentle for once. his eyes not meeting yours.
the room moves.
mm drops the bag of manuals onto the table. frenchie sets his equipment down too carefully. kimiko locks the door behind everyone, then checks the window, then the hallway, because motion is better than standing still. annie stays beside you, not holding you, but close enough that if your knees decide to quit their job, she’ll know before the floor does.
hughie hovers by the couch with bloodless lips and shaking hands. “i’m sorry,” he says again, voice small enough to make your stomach twist. “i’m so sorry, i—”
“hughie,” annie says. not unkind. not angry. just stop. he does. his mouth shuts, but his face keeps saying it.
you cannot look at him for long. he is alive. that should help. but it doesn’t. not in any way you understand yet. it only makes the feeling sharper. one alive because one is dead. one breathing because one stopped. easy. simple. brutal enough to make your chest feel hollow.
butcher steps in front of you.
that surprises you. not because he has been absent, exactly. butcher is never absent. he has been in the room the whole time, carrying the stolen manuals like they weigh less than what happened, jaw tight, eyes too sharp, cigarette at the ready between his fingers.
but now he is in front of you, close enough that annie shifts slightly, ready to interfere if he says the wrong thing.
he looks at you with an expression you almost don’t recognize on him. not pity. not softness. butcher doesn’t really do softness unless it’s been dragged out of him with pliers. but there is something steady there. something firm enough to lean on without asking permission.
“look at me,” he says.
you do.
his eyes don’t move to your trousers. don’t move to your hands. he keeps them on your face. “you did good.”
your stomach turns. “jesus christ.”
“no,” he says, and there’s no cruelty in it. no bite. just command. “you listen to me now.”
your mouth closes.
he nods once, like that’s better. like you are still on mission and he is giving you the next instruction. maybe that is the only way he knows how to be kind without choking on it.
“you were focused. you were ready. hughie’s alive because you moved when you had to.” his voice lowers, rough around the edges. “that’s a bitch of a thing. i know it is. i’m not dressin’ it up pretty for you. but it was good.”
good. the word doesn’t fit. it scrapes against what you remember: the blade going in, the guard’s body jerking, the sound he made against your shoulder. not loud. barely even human by the time your brain let you hear it. good is too clean for that.
“i killed him,” you say.
“yeah,” butcher answers. no flinch. no denial. “and hughie’s standin’ over there because of it.” butcher glances briefly toward him, then back to you. “you think i’m gonna tell you it doesn’t matter? i’m not. it matters. it’ll matter tomorrow, and the day after, and whenever your head decides to be a real bastard about it. but tonight, you’re alive. he’s alive. we’re all alive because you didn’t freeze.”
you don’t understand it. not fully. your body is too cold, your hands too wrong, your brain still kneeling on concrete beside a dead man even as you're staring at him. but you understand the warmth under his words, even if the words themselves are hard and ugly. you understand that butcher is not looking at you like a weapon. not right now. he is looking at you like someone he brought home.
that makes your eyes sting so suddenly you almost hate him for it. butcher sees that too. his jaw works once, like he has realized he has accidentally stepped into concerned father territory and would rather walk directly into traffic than remain there.
“right,” he says, voice roughening back toward familiar ground. he looks past you. “annie.”
“yeah,” annie says immediately.
“get her cleaned up. fresh clothes. whatever else.”
you blink, a little slow. “i can shower by myself.”
butcher looks back at you, sarcasm dragged along the way. “didn’t say she was gettin’ in there with you, did i?”
annie’s mouth tightens, but not with humor. “come on.”
you let her guide you down the hall. not because you need help walking. you don’t. mostly. your legs still work. everything still works. a body should not work this well after doing something it can’t take back.
annie brings you to the bathroom and leaves clean clothes on the sink. soft sweatpants. one of your old shirts. underwear folded neatly under both. she does not crowd you. does not stand in the doorway with her arms crossed. does not watch you like you are about to vanish down the drain.
she just touches your wrist once before leaving. “i’ll be right outside the hall if you need anything.”
you nod. the door closes. the bathroom becomes too quiet.
for a while, you just stand there with your back to the door, listening to the pipes, the old fan ticking overhead, the muffled movement of people outside trying to pretend they are not worried. then you look down.
the blood is darker now. almost brown in places. stiff in the fabric at your knees and thigh, cracked where your legs bent in the van. it takes you too long to make yourself touch the waistband. longer still to peel the trousers down your legs.
they make a wet, awful sound where the fabric sticks.
you stop breathing for a second. then you throw them into the corner like they burned you.
the shower turns on with a shriek of old pipes. the water comes out cold first, shocking over your fingers when you reach in. you wait for it to warm. then hotter. then too hot. you step under anyway.
blood runs pink at your feet. you watch it spiral toward the drain and your mind does something strange with the sight—turns it unreal, turns it into a thing happening to someone else in a bathroom that is not yours.
you scrub your arms first. your neck. your face. your knees. the place where the blood soaked through. you scrub until your skin burns and the water runs clear.
then you wash your hands. once. twice. again.
the soap smells sharp and cheap. it gathers white between your fingers, under your nails, around the tiny splits in your knuckles. you dig your thumb beneath each nail until it hurts.
clear water. still, you see it. you wash again.
your breathing goes wrong somewhere around the fifth time. not crying, not properly. just your chest catching, throat closing, the hot water running over your bowed head while you hold your hands under the stream and wait for them to feel like yours.
eventually, the water starts to cool.
you turn it off.
the bathroom mirror is fogged over, which is a mercy. you dry yourself with slow, mechanical movements and pull on the clean clothes annie left. the sweatpants are soft. it feels obscene to wear something comfortable after cold concrete and blood. your hair drips down the back of your shirt. you wipe the mirror with one hand and regret it immediately when your face appears.
you look tired. not broken. not changed in a dramatic way anyone could point at. just tired.
that feels unfair too.
when you open the bathroom door, soldier boy is there. you stop so suddenly your damp hair slips over your shoulder.
he is leaning against the opposite wall in the hallway, still in the loose shirt and stupid shorts he must have changed into after the mission. not drinking. not pretending he accidentally passed by. he’s just standing there, hair mussed like he dragged a hand through it too many times and got annoyed when that didn’t fix whatever was happening inside his head.
his eyes move over you once. not like before. not the slow drag meant to provoke. this is quieter. checking, maybe. cataloguing. the clean clothes. wet hair. raw hands. trembling mouth you immediately try to control.
“what are you doing?” you ask. your voice comes out husky, too close to breaking.
his jaw tightens. “walking.”
you stare at him. “in the hallway?”
“looks like it.”
you almost snap at him. you want to. it would be easier. familiar. instead, your lips tremble. just once. barely. but he sees it. something crosses his face so fast you might have missed it if you hadn’t learned to look for damage in the smallest places. annoyance, maybe. but not at you. not really. more like his whole body is offended by the fact that you are standing there clean and shaking and trying not to cry, and there is nothing in him built neatly enough to handle it.
he huffs. rough. irritated. his eyes cut away for half a second, like looking at you directly is causing him physical inconvenience. “come on.”
“what?”
he turns toward your room. “you deaf now?”
“i’m not—”
“move.”
you follow because arguing requires a version of yourself you left somewhere on a warehouse floor.
your room is dim when he pushes the door open. annie must have turned off the overhead light earlier, leaving only the lamp near your bed on low, gold around the edges. your gear is still on the chair. your vest folded badly. the deep poster still hidden under the magazines. normal things. stupid things.
soldier boy walks in and takes your bed.
sits first, then shifts back against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent slightly. he looks absurd there. too big for the mattress, too broad for the room, too alive and warm and present in a place where everything feels hollowed out.
you stand near the door. “absolutely not.”
he looks at you. “shut up.”
“that’s my bed.”
“so?”
“get off.”
“no.”
“soldier boy—”
his eyes sharpen. “ben.”
the name lands between you. not soft. not sweet. a correction. a reminder. a demand. your throat closes around whatever you meant to say next.
he holds your gaze for a beat, then lifts one arm. not tenderly. he just opens it, elbow bent, hand loose, like the whole thing irritates him and he intends to blame you for it later. “get in.”
you stare at the space against his side. “are you insane?”
“probably.”
“i’m not sleeping on you.”
“didn’t say sleep.”
“then what?”
“lie down.”
your eyes sting hard enough that you have to blink. “why?”
his mouth tightens. for one second, you think he’ll make it crude. he could. he has a thousand ugly lines stored somewhere behind his teeth, all of them easier than this. something about women needing to be held together. something about you looking like hell. something about finally getting you in bed and having the worst timing of his life.
he doesn’t. “because you’re standing there like you’re gonna fall over.”
your face twists before you can stop it. the tears don’t fall yet, but they fill your eyes. hot. humiliating. your voice comes out smaller than you want. “i don’t want to think.”
he huffs again, but this time the sound is almost painful. his chest lifts with a breath he doesn’t use properly. “then don’t.”
“that’s not how it works.”
“tonight it is.”
“you can’t just order my brain around.”
“watch me.”
a wet, broken almost-laugh catches in your throat and dies there. your lips tremble again. you press them together, but it’s useless now. he’s seen too much.
his expression does something strange. hardens and cracks at the same time. “stop playing rough,” he says, voice lower. “just get in.”
that does it. not because it’s pretty. not because it fixes anything. because it’s him, and it’s awful, and it’s the closest thing to please he can drag out without bleeding from the mouth.
you cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed first, careful not to touch him. ridiculous, considering his arm is still open and waiting. he watches you with growing impatience, then finally hooks a hand around your upper arm and pulls.
you fold against him with a breath that nearly breaks apart on the way out. your cheek lands against his chest, over the loose cotton of his shirt. not the glowing place exactly but close enough that your body remembers the heat of it. one of your hands braces awkwardly against his stomach before you curl it into a fist and tuck it between you instead.
he is warm. solid. your body hates how badly it needs that. “this is stupid,” you whisper.
“yeah.”
“you’re in my bed.”
“yup.”
“wearing shorts.”
“you want me to take ’em off?”
you let out a small, strangled noise that is almost a laugh and almost a sob. “don’t ruin this.”
he goes quiet. his arm settles around your back. heavy. steady. not stroking, no. not petting. not making a production out of tenderness neither of you would survive. his palm rests between your shoulder blades, broad and warm, pressing just enough to hold you there when your breathing starts to shake.
he doesn’t say it’s okay. he doesn’t say you did what you had to. he doesn’t say he’s killed more men than he can count, doesn’t turn your first blood into one of his war stories, doesn’t offer you the cheap comfort of comparison. he just stays under you, breathing slow enough that your body can steal the rhythm if it wants.
for a while, you fight it. you lie stiff against him, eyes open in the low light, staring at the fold of his shirt near your fist. your hands still feel raw. your skin still feels too clean and not clean enough. every time you close your eyes, there is concrete. blood. hughie’s white face. the small sound the guard made when the knife went in.
your breath catches. soldier boy’s hand presses a little firmer against your back. just there.
“i can still feel it,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.
he doesn’t ask what. he knows. his jaw moves above you. you can feel it more than see it. “yeah.”
one word. no comfort in it. somehow, comfort anyway.
your eyes burn again. this time, tears slip out, quiet and hot, soaking into the front of his shirt before you can hide them. your whole body tenses in immediate shame.
“don’t,” his hand stays steady. “not like that.”
your voice is almost gone. “like what?”
“like you’re gonna apologize for it.”
you close your eyes and the tears keep coming, silent now. not enough to make you sob. just enough to make your face wet against him, enough that he definitely knows. enough that he could say something awful and ruin it.
he doesn’t. he looks toward the door instead, jaw tight, eyes hard in the dim room like he’s daring the whole world to come in and make noise. no one does.
down the hall, the safehouse moves in soft pieces. a cabinet opens. someone speaks low. pipes knock once in the wall. life continuing with infuriating nerve.
soldier boy stays.
after a while, your breathing evens out. not sleep. not even close. but less jagged. your hand unclenches against his shirt, fingers relaxing one at a time without permission.
his palm remains at your back. steady. all night, as it turns out.
you drift, wake, drift again. every time your body jerks with some half-formed memory, he is still there. same stupid shorts. same loose shirt. same heavy warmth beneath your cheek. he does not move you off him. does not make a joke when your hair dries messy against his chest. does not complain when your hand ends up gripping the fabric near his ribs.
once, very late, you think he might be asleep. then you hear him breathe in, slow and controlled, and realize he has been awake the whole time, listening to you. watching the door. counting your breaths. never telling you it was okay. never leaving you alone with it either.
you don’t sleep. not really. but you stop shaking before morning.
Dean winchester and his girl best friend that hates men <3
Dean loves her. He knows it. Not always — there was a time before her, long ago. Dean can’t remember exactly when, but it was when Sammy was still shorter than him and had a little height on her. But since then, he’s loved her.
He’s glad to have met her so early in their lives; he’s glad to have had the chance to cling onto her for so long that she doesn’t have any other options but staying at his side, now. Now, Dean doesn’t think she’d even give him a glance.
Not because it’s him, or anything, but because he’s a dude. Probably, also because of him, honestly. She puts up with a lot of his gross man stuff because he’s Dean. At least, that’s always her excuse. She’ll complain about some guy, and scoff under her breath about ‘men’, and Dean will look a little offended, so she’ll pat on his arm and say, “No offense, you don’t count, De.”
He used to actually get kind of upset because he is a man. He’s very manly, and very much a guy. Now, he just pretends to be so he can ask, “Then what the hell am I?”, so he can hear her say, “You’re my Dean.”
She doesn’t really willingly talk to guys that aren’t Dean or Sam. Ever. Every bar, she rolls her eyes at free drinks, but takes them anyways, and turns back to finish her conversation with Dean about what famous cowboys they would be. He’s Clint Eastwood, unless she’s there in this universe, then he has to be the Wild Bill Hickok to her Calamity Jane, obviousy. Having a smoke outside, she refuses a guys lighter and looks to Dean by her side instead, and continues talking about how she would join the Dark Side, but only if Darth Maul asked, or Dean had already joined. Dean, who doesn’t smoke, but carries the lighter he took from Bobby’s for her.
Never once has Dean seen her enjoy a conversation with a man outside of himself, Sammy, or Bobby. She always looks to him for saving, too. He loves when she does that. Loves that she knows he’s always there for her to do that, even if it’s just throwing an arm around her shoulder to give some guy a hint. He loves getting to throw an arm around her shoulder.
He does it a lot, too. Not just for that, either. They sit in the same booth at every diner Dean pulls the Impala into, whether Sam’s there to take up the other side or not. They share beds, definitely just because it’s cheaper, and maybe even cuddle sometimes, when Dean somehow magically pulls her over to replace the pillow he usually holds. They watch cable screenings of movies together, on shitty leather couches, and always end up toppled over eachother with the comfy blanket she brings on every hunt. He likes when she folds first, and crawls onto his chest and in between his legs, but he’ll never complain about resting his head on her chest.
They touch a lot. They giggle and shove, and rub backs, and squeeze arms, and twirl hair, and grab waists, and maybe even hold pinkies and interlock legs under tables. And he’s allowed to have all of that with her cause he’s her Dean. Even all Sammy gets is a side hug and a high five here and there.
She doesn’t have much family left, and she doesn’t talk to whoever is. Her neighbor, though, some old lady with a husband she hates and an oddly large amount of grandchildren, loves her.
She’s never home much with hunting, but when she is, her and her neighbor will smoke a cigarette on the porch together with a cup of coffee. The first time Dean met this lady was interesting. When he pulled into her driveway the sun was barely up, but it was already glistening against the skin of her legs, and the rest of what was peaking out from under her silky robe.
She grinned, and took a drag, smoke pooling from her lips while he walked over.
“Look at this handsome man,” Her old neighbor chimed, waving a finger. “Thought you didn’t have no boyfriend.”
“I don’t,” She laughed right back. He’d been close enough to touch then, so she gave his forearm a little squeeze. “Hi, De.”
“Hey, Sweetheart.” He grinned back down at her, eyes rimmed red and sleepy from the long car ride, but still just happy to take in the sight of her.
“Sounds like boyfriend talk to me, there, honey.” The old lady sipped on her coffee, eyeing him.
“Nah,” Her hand moved up further, giving his bicep a pat. “This right here is why is don’t need one. Not that I ever really wanted one in the first place.”
He thinks about that a lot. And about afterwards, when she called him baby, and stood from her patio furniture to lead him inside. How her hand was warm on his bicep, and rubbed his back to sleep while she read a cheap novel until he woke back up.
She makes loving her easy, but Dean would still do it if it was hard. She never asks for much, but he always knows what she needs. When they get back to the motel room after a long day, and she flops on the bed on her tummy, Dean knows she won’t want to eat anything but pretzels or crackers, sometimes toast, for a while until her stomach will feel better. He’ll tell her he’s going for a drive and show back up five minutes later with a Ginger Ale.
When she scrolls through the TV channel guide before pouting and tossing the remote in his lap, he can tell there aren’t any Dr. Sexy reruns on, so now it’s up to Dean to find an acceptable movie. When a hunt goes bad, and her eyes go all spacey, Dean knows it’s time to go lay in bed. Not necessarily go to bed, just be in bed. With Dean. To lay together, under her huge, comfy blanket. She likes watching cartoons, then, or just talking. The two of them, they can talk about anything for hours.
Sometimes, she likes to lay on his chest. Dean will already be in bed, channel surfing, when she strolls from the bathroom in his old hoodie and soft pj shorts. She’ll crawl into the bed, and curl up with her head on his abs, facing the TV.
Once, halfway through an episode of Scooby-Doo, she shuffled around to face him.
“Do you think it’s weird I never try to get with guys?”
It threw him off pretty bad. Never once, has he ever really thought about it. She just…didn’t do that, and that was that. End of story.
“No. Why would I?”
“I don’t know,” She shrugged. “Just…when we went to the Roadhouse awhile ago and I was hanging out with Jo, she wanted to talk about boys and stuff. I told her you’re the only guy I tolerate — besides Sam, obviously, but — she kinda made fun of me a little. She was just joking, y’know, but I guess it just made me think.”
“What did?” His eyebrows were crinkled, and his pretty green eyes showed just how truly lost he was.
“I just never realized that it wasn’t normal for that to not be appealing. The whole…sleeping with a random guy thing. That’s probably why i’ve never had sex.” She said it like it means nothing, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“…You’re a virgin?” His eyebrows moved all the way up, and his mouth didn’t gape, but it was still open when he finished. The prettiest, smartest, most hilarious woman he’s ever known — is a virgin.
“Well, yeah,” She shrugged again. “Why would I wanna have sex with some random dude who won’t even get me off? I’d rather just do it myself. Besides, I’d want it to be someone I trust, and I only really trust you that much.” Then, after staring him in the eyes and spilling the one thing he didn’t know about her in the most casual tone possible, and saying, out of anyone in the world, she’d only want to have sex with him, she turns back around and watches the rest of the Scooby episode until she falls asleep. Her head is still on his tummy, moving up and down with his breath, and her hand lays in front of it, a little too close to his waistband.
They’ve been different after that. Not much, but enough for Sam to notice. Jo, Ellen, and even Bobby, notice, too when they’re around.
All their soft, small touches that could’ve maybe passed off as just something sweet between good friends now linger. They fully hold hands, all the time. No more pinkies linked under tables, but now, swinging hand in hand everywhere they go. Kisses on the cheek are mandatory when one is leaving for more than five minutes without the other, whether it’s to a different state or the next room over. Hugs are constant and never ending. She receives a minimum of four Dean Winchester given piggybacks on a weekly basis. Playful pushes turn into tickles and giggling and careful tackles onto beds and big bear hugs. Basically, they’re just fucking insufferable.
They say I love you, like they’ve been doing it for centuries. To Dean, it feels like they have. Everything is just so easy with her, that there’s no way he can’t say it back. It’s not like he’s lying, either way. It kinda scares the shit out of Sammy, though, the first time he catches it.
Dean and Sam were just going to the library, she was staying back in the room with an upset stomach because Dean wouldn’t let her go. He’d had gotten her Goldfish and a Ginger Ale already, had her propped up in bed with the best pillows in the room and Cake Boss ready to shine (Dr.Sexy wasn’t on).
Sam had already been waiting by the door, annoyed and impatient when it happened. He was about to start sighing and grumbling for Dean to hurry up when the older brother leaned back into her side, after just finally being convinced to leave it, and pressed a kiss to her temple.
“Call me if it gets worse or somethin’, alright? We’ll be back in a minute.” Her hand curled up, into his hair, basically petting him.
“I know, De,” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
“Nothin’ to thank me for.” He got all bashful, grinning like he was on top of the world.
“Alright, get out of here,” She laughed, and gave him a push. “Stop making Sam wait.” He moved away, finally, and just as the two were about to shut the door behind them, she shouts for Dean. “Love ya!”
He sticks his head back in, grinning so fucking sickly sweet it almost made Sam’s stomach start to hurt too. “Yeah, love ya, girl,” He closes the door, turning back to Sam. “Hurry up, Sammy, we’re running late.”
Yet, both of them will still claim they’re ’just best friends’. What absolute bullshit.
summary: dean working on baby while his little helper tries to steal his tools
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Dean had spent countless hours working on Baby over the years.
The bunker garage was practically sacred territory to him; classic rock sounding softly in the background, sleeves rolled up, grease on his hands while he gave the Impala the attention she deserved.
Usually, it was quiet work. Just him and the car.
But today?
Today was different.
Because this time, Dean had a little helper.
Your son.
Your baby boy was old enough to crawl around confidently now, even taking a few wobbly steps when he felt brave enough. And lately, he’d become absolutely determined to follow either you or Dean everywhere you went.
So naturally, the second Dean headed to the garage, the baby had immediately decided he was coming too. Now he was sitting on a blanket near Baby in tiny denim overalls, trying to grab every single tool within reach.
And Dean is leaning on Baby with the hood up, one hand holding a wrench while the other keeps reaching out every few seconds to stop tiny grabby hands from stealing his tools.
“Nuh-uh” Dean says immediately, gently rescuing a screwdriver from your son’s determined grip before the boy could use it as a teething toy “Absolutely not, buddy. Mom would kill me if you dropped that on your toes”
Your son just blinks up at him with huge green eyes, a perfect copy of Dean’s, completely unbothered. Then immediately reaches for another tool.
Dean laughs under his breath.
“You are stubborn as hell” He mutters fondly “Definitely got that from your mom. But don’t tell her I said that”
The baby lets out a little noise like he agrees. Dean shakes his head with a grin before crouching next to him.
“You can help me for real when you’re bigger, alright?” He says, holding up the tool “When you can actually hold the tools without trying to eat them”
You pause in the garage doorway for a moment just watching them.
It was a ridiculously sweet and domestic sight.
You smile before finally walking closer.
“Well” You say teasingly “Looks like now I got two mechanics at home”
Dean glances up instantly, his face softening into an easy smile “Hey, beautiful” He says warmly.
The baby turns too the moment he hears your voice, you laughed softly and walked closer just as he tried standing up too fast to reach you.
Dean caught him before he could faceplant on the floor.
“Whoa there, speed racer” Dean chuckled.
You crouched beside them, pressing a kiss to your son’s cheek before kissing Dean quickly too.
“How’s the garage crew doing?” You asked.
Dean snorted “Well, one of us is trying to work”
You looked at the baby knowingly “And the other?”
Dean glanced at the baby too “Trying to steal the tools” He said with amusement.
The baby giggled immediately like he understood perfectly.
Dean pointed accusingly at him “See? No remorse”
You laughed, reaching over to wipe a small grease stain off his face. Dean leaned into it automatically.
Meanwhile, your son had already spotted another tool near Dean’s toolbox, tiny hands reached out immediately.
Dean caught him again with quick reflexes, laughing “You really wanna lose a finger today, huh?”
The baby responded by grabbing Dean’s flannel instead, and he softened instantly.
“There we go” He murmured, shifting the baby easily into his lap “Much safer”
Your son settled happily against Dean’s chest, one tiny hand still grabbing his shirt while the other pointed at the Impala.
Dean adjusts him easily onto his hip while glancing back at the car.
“That…” He says to the baby, pointing at the car like he’s explaining something very important “Is Baby. She’s the most important girl in the world... well, second most important. Right after your mom” He said “You be nice to her and she’ll take you anywhere you need to go”
You raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on your lips "Oh? After me, huh? I’m touched. I thought I might be third, behind the car and a good slice of pie"
Dean let out a laugh, stepping closer and wrapping a heavy arm around your waist, pulling both you and the baby into his space.
"Hey, now" He murmured playfully "Pie is a high on that list too, but you? You're the one who bakes a damn good one. And the car doesn't give nearly as good of a kiss"
"I hope not" You snort.
"Tell you what" Dean said, reaching for a rag to wipe his hands "Since the 'assistant' here is clearly on stealing duty instead of helping, why don't we call it a day? I'm thinking burgers, and maybe I'll let the little man have a fry when you aren't looking"
"Burgers do sound better than letting him snack on the tools" You said amused.
“Yeah, anything’s better than him turning my toolbox into a buffet” He chuckled, pressing a kiss on your head before guiding you both out of the garage.
lowdown ☆ the warehouse mission is tomorrow night, which means gear checks, bad plans, and soldier boy’s hands becoming a problem again.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 3071 ride style ☆ fluff!
danger on the trail ☆ weapons/gear, suggestive tension, butcher interrupting because he’s allergic to peace
liv's log ☆ don't forget to vote on this pool to influence the story directly~
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist
the safehouse spends the next day pretending this is not a dangerous move. it does a terrible job.
there are maps spread across the kitchen table, three laptops open at once, guns being cleaned on old towels, batteries charging in every available outlet, and frenchie moving between all of it with the frantic elegance of a man who considers electrical shocks a love language. butcher has been staring at the warehouse layout for twenty minutes like the walls might surrender if he looks mean enough. hughie keeps asking questions that start practical and end existential. annie is quiet in the corner, checking and rechecking the same knife strapped to her boot. kimiko sits on the counter, swinging one foot slowly, eyes moving over everyone like she’s memorizing each and every face before the bruises that will bloom.
soldier boy is in the living room. he sits on the couch with a beer he hasn’t finished, one arm over the backrest, watching the room work around him through the reflection in the dark tv screen. every now and then, butcher asks him something about old vought storage sites, old military contractors, old anything, and soldier boy answers with clipped irritation.
you don’t blame him.
the warehouse is a couple of states away. old vought shell company. officially empty, unofficially receiving enough reinforced alloy and vapor-regulation tech to build something that looks very much like a freezer with a budget increase. frenchie keeps saying it might only be parts. mm keeps saying that is how people talk right before discovering a fully operational nightmare in a basement.
butcher, naturally, has decided you’re all going.
“small team my ass,” he says, tapping ash into a chipped mug annie has already told him not to use for that. “we go in, we see what they’ve got, we take what we need, burn what we don’t, and fuck off before vought starts clappin’.”
“you make it sound simple,” hughie grimaces.
“it is simple.”
“last time simple happened, i watched someone get hit with a crowbar.”
“and?” butcher asks.
hughie pauses. frowns. “i don’t know. i feel like that’s enough of a sentence.”
you are sitting at the table with a checklist mm gave you, pretending to review your gear while actually reading the same line four times. flashlight. earpiece. lockpick kit. spare magazine. knife. emergency gauze. the list is practical. necessary. boring enough that it should be impossible to get distracted from. yet, your eyes keep drifting toward the living room.
not to soldier boy’s mouth. absolutely not. maybe to his hands. which is worse. because his hands are wrapped loose around the beer bottle, one thumb worrying at the label, and all your brain can supply is the memory of those same hands rewinding your wrap slowly around your knuckles. warm fabric. rough fingers. his thumb pressing once over the back of your hand. his voice low enough to become a bad decision before you could name it.
wrap’s loose. god.
you look back at the checklist so hard the paper should feel threatened.
“you good?” annie asks beside you.
“yes.”
you make the mistake of glancing at her.
she doesn’t smile, but her eyes do something knowing and awful.
“don’t start.”
“i didn’t say anything.”
“you were about to.”
“i was about to ask if your earpiece works.”
you stare at her.
she stares back with the face of a woman who could probably survive sainthood if she had to.
“does it?” she asks.
you pick up the earpiece and shove it into the pouch on your vest. “yes.”
“great.”
“you’re unbearable.”
“i learned from you.”
across the room, soldier boy shifts on the couch. you feel it more than see it. which is stupid. you should not have body-awareness of a man sitting twelve feet away.
you stand too fast, grabbing your vest off the back of the chair. “i’m going to check the rest of my stuff.”
annie lifts both hands. “sure.”
you leave before she can look at you any harder.
you don’t go to the gym. instead, you go to your room, leaving the door cracked slightly to still hear the living room commotion.
your room is small. poorly made bed. clean shirt thrown over the chair. boots near the dresser. the deep poster folded badly and shoved face-down under a stack of old magazines because apparently you are incapable of throwing away historical evidence of your own humiliation. your vest lands on the bed with a dull, heavy sound, followed by the knife, the holster, the spare magazine, the lockpick kit, the little roll of gauze annie keeps sneaking into your things like you don’t notice.
you stand there for a second with your hands on your hips and stare at all of it.
mission prep should be simple. it used to be simple. check the gear, check the exits, check the weapon. now, somehow, even a vest feels complicated because your brain keeps reaching back to the gym, to warm hands and rewound wraps and soldier boy’s mouth finding yours.
you take a breath and pull the vest on. it sits wrong immediately. “of course,” you mutter, tugging at the side strap. it twists beneath your fingers, catches under the buckle, and refuses to lie flat. you pull harder. it only gets worse, because apparently even fabric has decided to develop a personality in this house.
behind you, a shadow shifts in the doorway.
you don’t turn around right away. “you lost?” you ask.
soldier boy doesn’t answer for a beat. then, “strap’s twisted.”
slowly, you look over your shoulder.
he stands outside the doorway, not in your room. that’s the first thing you notice. not the messy hair, not the old shirt stretched across his chest, not the way his eyes are already on the vest like he was built to find weak points. the threshold. he stops at it.
“i know,” you say.
“doesn’t look like you know.” his gaze flicks past you once, quick, taking in the bed, the gear, the face-down stack of magazines. then it returns to the strap. “move your hands.”
you look down at yourself. “i have it.”
“you’re making it worse.”
you reach for the buckle again, mostly because spite remains the only reliable source of renewable energy in your life, but soldier boy steps in before you can get your fingers under the twisted nylon. one second he’s at the threshold, the next he’s in your room, close enough that the air changes around your shoulders.
he doesn’t ask. he just huffs through his nose, catches both your wrists in one broad hand, and moves them out of the way like you’re an inconvenience with a pulse.
“hey—”
“stand still.”
your mouth opens. closes. because he’s already got his hands on the vest, already dragging the strap free from where you’ve jammed it under the buckle, already crowding into your space with that unbearable confidence of his, all blunt force and old-world entitlement wrapped up in the deeply annoying fact that he knows exactly what he’s doing.
his knuckles brush your side.
you know it’s not by accident because he could make this quick. he could yank, tighten, step back, and be done with it in three seconds. instead, he takes his time. not soft. not gentle. it’s a lot worse. measured. practical enough to deny, slow enough to make your skin heat under the vest.
“arms up,” he says.
you stare at him.
his eyes lift to yours, unimpressed. “now.”
you lift them with all the dignity available to a woman being physically bullied by tactical gear and one extremely insufferable supe in her own bedroom.
soldier boy uses the opening immediately. his hands go to your waist, rough and sure, turning you half an inch to the left like your body is another piece of equipment he has decided to correct. his fingers press against the lower edge of the vest, tugging it down, then flattening the strap across your side.
“you had it sitting too high.”
“did i?”
“yeah.”
“thank god you came in here, then. could’ve died of poor tailoring.”
his mouth twitches, but it doesn’t soften him. if anything, the almost-smile makes you weaker. like he knows exactly how little space there is between you and is enjoying the fact that you’re trying so hard to pretend you don’t notice.
“don’t tempt me,” he says.
the strap pulls tight. you inhale sharply before you can stop yourself.
his eyes cut up. “too tight?”
the question is almost swallowed by irritation. nearly disguised. still there. “no.”
“good.”
then he does it tighter by a fraction anyway, just enough to make the vest sit firm against your ribs. secure. stable.
his hands stay there, testing the fit, palms broad against the sides of your body while his thumbs press along the front edge.
your room feels painfully small around him. the cracked door. the bed behind you. the gear spread over the blanket. the folded deep poster hiding under magazines. soldier boy taking up the space in front of you with his head bent, hair falling slightly over his forehead, jaw shadowed, mouth set like this is nothing but a gear check.
his hands drag down once more, checking the line of the vest.
your heart does something stupid. “you always this handsy with equipment?” you ask, because if you don’t speak, you might combust.
his gaze doesn’t lift. “only when it keeps moving.”
“i’m breathing.”
“try doing it quietly.”
you scoff. “you’re in my room.”
“door was open.”
“cracked.”
“open enough.”
“that your excuse?”
“worked so far.”
he shifts behind you without warning, one hand at your hip, the other at your shoulder, turning you away from him. positioning. your breath catches—the sudden jolt of being moved by him again, so easily, so completely, like your weight is a suggestion he’s already dismissed. his chest is close to your back. close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your shirt and the vest, close enough that when he reaches around you to check the front buckle, his forearm brushes just beneath your ribs.
“don’t tense,” he says near your ear.
you glare at the wall. “don’t manhandle me.”
“then stop needing it.”
“you are such an asshole.”
“and your knife’s in the wrong place.”
you blink, thrown by the shift. “my knife is fine.”
“no, it’s where you like it. not where it’s useful.”
his hand moves to your hip again, fingers finding the sheath. he unclips it before you can protest, then slides it forward along your belt. the motion is efficient, but the contact is not brief. his fingers press at your waist, his thumb hooking under the strap to secure it, and your body remembers the gym so vividly that for half a second you’re there again: his hand holding yours, his mouth hard and hot, your back near the bench, bad idea, bad idea, bad idea.
you swallow. he notices. of course he notices. “what?” he asks, voice lower.
“nothing.”
“liar.”
“you’re imagining things.”
“i’m old, not blind.”
“could’ve fooled me.”
his hand closes over yours before you can move the knife back. he brings your fingers to the handle, not gently, but with purpose. guiding. showing. making you feel the difference. “there,” he says. “faster.”
you pull the knife halfway from the sheath. it comes easier now. cleaner. damn him. “fine,” you mutter.
“say that again.”
“absolutely not.”
“you were wrong.”
“i was not wrong. i was less right.”
he huffs behind you, and the sound hits the side of your neck.
“if someone gets behind you,” he says, rougher now, the humor thinning out of his voice, “you don’t reach back. you go down, make space, cut if you have to.”
the tunnel flashes through your head again. the hand over your mouth. concrete under your heel. your own breath trapped behind someone else’s palm. your fingers tighten around the knife handle. soldier boy’s hand stays over yours. steady. hard. not comforting, exactly. more like a command your body understands.
“don’t let anybody get a hand on you that long again,” he says.
you breathe out slowly. “i got out.”
“you did.”
“then trust that,” you say.
his hand shifts, thumb pressing once against your knuckles. “i do.”
you go still. he seems to realize what he said a second after saying it. his jaw tightens. he lets go of your hand too fast, like the words are still touching him and he doesn’t like it.
you turn around.
he’s closer than you expect. or maybe exactly as close as he meant to be. your back nearly brushes the bedpost, and he stands in front of you with the vest between you like a poor excuse for distance. his eyes are on your face now, not your gear, and whatever practical reason brought him into your room has worn thin enough to see through.
“you trust me?” you ask. the words come out quieter than planned.
his expression hardens immediately. defensive. insulted by the softness of the question. “don’t get excited.”
“too late. i’m practically swooning.”
“you’d hit your head on the way down.”
“you’d catch me.”
his mouth curves, small and sharp. “would i?”
the room stops behaving. it has no right to do that. there are people just outside. maps on the table. butcher’s voice somewhere down the hall. a mission tomorrow that could put all of you face-first into vought’s newest nightmare. this is not the time. this is aggressively not the time.
and yet.
soldier boy’s hand lifts to the front of your vest again. no reason this time. he catches the top edge near your collarbone and tugs it into place, slow enough to make your breath change. his knuckles brush the base of your throat.
you hate the sound you almost make. his eyes drop to your mouth.
“strap’s fixed,” you say.
“yeah.”
“knife’s fixed.”
“mhmm.”
“so you’re done.”
he doesn’t move. “looks like it,” he says.
“doesn’t feel like it.”
his gaze returns to yours, dark and direct. “no?”
you should step back. you should shove him. you should say something cutting enough to get the room back under control, something about old men and his apparent inability to understand personal space unless it’s reinforced with concrete.
instead, you stand there. like an idiot. like you want him to notice.
he leans in a fraction.
your fingers curl at your sides to stop yourself from grabbing his shirt. his mouth is close now. not touching. but making every other thought in your head look embarrassingly flimsy.
then butcher’s voice cuts through the door. “you two done playin’ dress-up?”
you jerk back so fast your hip knocks into the bedframe.
soldier boy doesn’t move.
butcher stands in the door with his cigarette tucked behind his ear, one eyebrow raised and his mouth curled around the exact kind of smile that makes you want to commit assault with a bedside lamp. his eyes move from soldier boy’s hand still near your collar, to your face, to the vest, then back again.
“gear check,” you say.
“looked thorough.”
“that tends to be the point.”
“didn’t know he was qualified.”
soldier boy turns his head slowly. “you got a reason to be here?”
“unfortunately.” butcher’s smile sharpens. “frenchie got a better read on the warehouse. underground level. two loading bays. cameras on the north side are dead, which means either we’re lucky or it’s bait.”
“it’s bait,” you and soldier boy say at the same time.
butcher’s grin widens. awful. horrific. you want to walk into the sea. “harmony,” he says. “beautiful thing.”
“don’t be disgusting.”
“fuck off,” soldier boy says.
butcher looks between you again, and something in his expression shifts. not much. just enough. the joke thins into calculation, and you feel the change before you fully understand it. you don’t like it. not one bit. “meeting in five,” he says. “try not to get tangled in the buckles.”
“butcher.”
he lifts both hands, already backing away. “five minutes.”
his footsteps retreat down the hall.
you look down at the vest, adjusting the front panel just to have something to do with your hands. “that was horrible.”
a beat passes. then soldier boy reaches out again. not for your waist. not your neck. he taps two fingers against the knife sheath he moved. “faster,” he says.
you look at him. his face is back to unreadable, but not empty. he means it. the mission, the knife, the warning. all of it. “yeah,” you say.
his hand drops. “and next time you get an opening,” he adds, “finish it.”
you lift your chin. “still upset i didn’t punch your face?”
“i’m upset you stopped.”
“that’s a very strange complaint.”
“it was clean.”
“your nose was in the way.”
“then break it.”
you stare at him. he is completely serious. you breathe out, slow and irritated. “you are such a romantic.”
“you’ll be alive.”
that shuts you up. not because it’s soft. it isn’t. not because he says it gently. he doesn’t. but it lands like a promise made by someone who would rather swallow glass than call it one.
you look away first. “meeting,” you say, stepping around him.
he lets you go.
at the doorway, you pause, one hand on the frame. “soldier boy?” his eyes lift. you tap the knife sheath at your hip, right where he moved it. “it’s better there.”
he holds your gaze. then nods once. small. simple. dangerous in the way all small things have become with him. you leave before your face does something stupid.
when you walk back into the main room, annie’s eyes go immediately to your vest. then to your expression. then to the hallway behind you. “gear check?” she asks.
you sit down beside her with great dignity. “don’t.”
her mouth curves. “i didn’t say anything.”
“you were about to.”
across the room, soldier boy walks in a minute later and takes his usual place by the wall, arms crossed, face blank, every inch of him looking like nothing happened. except his eyes cut once to the knife at your hip. then to you. you look away before anyone else notices.almost before anyone else notices. butcher is watching from the head of the table, cigarette between his fingers, smile gone quieter now. and that is worse than if he’d laughed.
Summary: Filming a movie with your co-star and Payback leader, Soldier Boy, gets dangerous when he goes off-script and commands you to strip for his pleasure. actress!reader/payback member!
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“You disobeyed a direct order.” Y/N liked how fluidly she delivered her line. Its rehearsed authority was a worthy contrast to the pressure in her chest. She stood under the hot stage lights. A camera floated inches away from her face, and she was certain it would catch every blemish.
She thought back to the chemistry read in the early days of production. Her co-star had flaked out, but it had been fun to have everybody fawning over her new celebrity status.
She was Payback's rookie. Life was stagnant until Vought signed her off on champagne and caviar. Now, water vapor curled around her boots. The red recording light was enticing. In her periphery, a red cardinal dove across the studio set and she briefly wondered how it had gotten inside.
Training her eyes forward, she focused on the man that would deliver the next line. Just ten paces away, Soldier Boy stood lithe and strong, shield gripped tight. His armored suit made him solid, nearly empyrean.
He turned his gaze to an imagined horizon and squared his jaw nobly. “That order challenged the greater good," he said.
The blocking was mapped out. Strips of coloured tape marked each step the actors would take. Now, Y/N was supposed to stand firm and let him approach. Instead, she took a step back involuntarily.
“We’re a team, Soldier Boy. If justice is to prevail, we have to remember that we're in this together.” The script was crap but the director still bit his fist from the studio chair, enthralled.
Soldier Boy finally shifted his eyes onto her. His focus was more intrusive than any camera she had faced so far. He tilted his head and tense hollows shadowed his neck. Squaring his shoulders, he walked towards her. The soft pads of his boots thudded purposefully.
He reached his mark and she smelled leather once he was close enough. A jaunty quirk of his lips cracked through his character. She was supposed to grip his shoulder now, a touch of solidarity. Audiences would get a kick out of the comeradery, and this scene would end.
She poised her palm inches away.
God, he was attractive. Rough around the edges and a total asshole most days, but sometimes she could convince herself that he truly stood for the ideals they preached. Patriotism, faith, and the greater good. As Payback’s newest recruit, Y/N was still green.
She touched him.
Now she caught a bite of tobacco and the stale cologne that clung to the collar of his flak jacket.
She expected him to shoot out his next line and charm the camera with a smile. Instead, he stared at the hand on his shoulder and frowned.
"Fuck," he muttered. A murmer of disapproval washed through the crew when he turned his back to the cameras.
“Fuck,” he said again, turning on his heel. Y/N stumbled back a step when he nearly barelled into her.
Bated breaths surrounded them as cast and crew hoped to take the shot and call it a day. “Fuck this.” Soldier Boy snapped off his mask and hurled it at the director. “You kidding me with this dialogue?” he shouted, arms extended. "What is this? Saturday morning cartoon bullshit? I sound like a fucking boy scout strung out on Charlie.”
"I hear you. I completely understand," the director insisted. He rubbed anxious circles at the nape of his neck. Standing up, he plastered on a smile and stepped behind his chair defensively. "Mixup with the lines is all it is! We'll take five and give it the ol' go-around. How's that sound, champ?"
Soldier Boy's response was to raise his right finger and fling a prop desk off set. “If you want me to play some wet-paper version of myself, find yourself another asshole in a cape. Get the hell off my set.”
Empty eyes stared at him, idle and afraid.
"Did I stutter? Move out!"
People scrambled. Crimson Countess glided past and the click of her heels tacked pleasantly above the noise. She had been watching patiently from the sidelines. When Soldier Boy saw her, she hesitated, always too soft where her lover was concerned. Or perhaps she was simply complacent like the others.
“Ben, maybe you just need —”
He didn’t let her finish. Just shrugged her off and held out his palm. “Back off," he warned. Crimson's mouth tightened. Y/N stared after her and earned a withering look.
Beneath the gloss, Payback frayed like a copper wire.
Y/N watched everybody trip over themselves to be first off the lot. She moved to join them. It was no secret that Soldier Boy was notoriously difficult to work with. He had a short fuse, and got off on inflicting himself on others.
The room cleared in another sixty seconds. By the time she reached the door, everything was silent. Over her shoulder, Soldier Boy paced. His rage was excessive but she was intrigued. Her eyes trailed from his broad shoulders down to his backside.
Y/N had coveted him since joining Payback. The Countess may have secured a public relationship but everybody knew about the pool of women that kept his bed warm at night. The idea of joining his revolving door of hookups should have felt cheap except her mind constantly entertained it.
Soldier Boy was muttering curses now. Y/N's hand lifted from the door handle and she listened to the faraway stream of profanities.
He had never tried to seduce her. He had groped and dirty talked countless interns and consultants under her watchful eye, but had never made an advance with her. Some days he studied her with dilated pupils, but his fleeting glances never escalated.
She wished they would.
Other days, his eyes would soften. He would call her rookie, impart counsel, and stalk away with a terse nod. She took those moments to bed, pretended they meant something and trailed her hand over warm skin thinking of him.
The cardinal flitted past her and perched on the audio equipment. Its jerky movements captured her attention before it flew off as fast as it had landed.
When she looked back, Soldier Boy was staring at her from his place on-set. His feet were planted firmly. "Planning to suck my dick?" His voice reverberated in a thin echo. "Can't think of a different reason you'd be slumming it in the dark after I explicitly told you to fuck off."
Y/N felt the terrible sensation of stinging pins along her collarbone. She wanted to shoot back a witty remark but couldn't think of a suitable response. "I can leave," she said lamely.
Soldier Boy held a hand to his ear and frowned. "You're the quiet type, aren't you? The kind of girl who bites her lip and doesn't make a sound while a guy's got two fingers up, trying to crack you three ways from Sunday." He propped his boot onto a crate, and leaned forward. Hooking two fingers in the air, he beckoned her forward with a flick of his wrist. "Come on. Get over here."
"I can just leave," she said, forcing the volume this time.
But Soldier Boy was already fetching a fallen script off the ground. "Run lines with me," he commanded. He watched her tentative approach, clicking his tongue impatiently against his teeth. "Top of page six. Where you touch my shoulder. Let’s go."
Y/N did as she was told but a slight tremble shook her wrist when she reached out.
Soldier Boy let out a long, heavy sigh, scrubbing a gloved hand rough over his mouth. The heave of his chest hinted toward a sudden wave of exhaustion. When his hand dropped, his lips pulled back in a tense grimace. He stared down at her.
"Christ," he muttered. "You're too green"
"Excuse me?"
Before she could step back, he pressed a finger to her mouth. "I know you’ve been eye-fucking me since the day you signed your contract with Payback. You want it, bad. But you’re too goddamn innocent."
"I'm just as competent as any —"
"Vought is a fucking meat grinder," he cut her off. His hand dropped and flexed at his side. "It takes girls like you and turns them into drug-addled Hollywood whores before breakfast." He began tracking his gaze towards her breasts. "I've got a good dick on me, Y/N. I could have you seeing stars and moaning my name till' kingdom come. But I'm also self aware. I'm one abrasive, selfish son of a bitch." He leaned in, his breath suddenly hot against her ear. "I'm not having you on my conscience. Comprende? Lose the bedroom eyes, do your fucking job, and stay the hell away from me."
"You don't get to make decisions for me. I know that I have to pay my dues and work twice as hard as anybody on this team to prove I belong. I can take care of myself, thanks."
He let out a low whistle. "Shit. Listen to that. Keep it up, you'll need a spine around here." He walked past her and she fully expected him to take his leave. Soldier Boy stooped until he had secured the director's chair by the frame and dragged it back before settling it five paces from where she stood. He dropped into it with a groan and spread his legs wide.
When he looked up to where she stood, his hands settled flat on his thighs. "Do you want me to fuck you?" He asked earnestly. A cautious look over her shoulder comfirmed their isolation.
Soldier Boy gestured towards her suit, immaculate for the cameras. "Take your clothes off." When she hesitated, he let out a short breath through his nose. "You can stand there and get off on looking at me, or you can finish the job and take off the suit."
Slowly, her fingers found the concealed releases of the suit. The wardrobe department had designed an alterantive film variant of her daily reinforced armour. The fabric was a matte, rubberized polymer that clung to her ribs and hips. She popped the collar seal first. The primary zip slid down with a metallic hiss. Soldier boy brought his right fist to his mouth and bit down, teasing her.
Shrugging her shoulders, she let the molded sleeves slip down her arms. The rigid breastplate functioned as an integrated bra and fell with a clatter. Cool air hit bare skin and beneath Soldier Boy's heady stare, her nipples hardened pleasantly. He was gallant enough to stay quiet and let her settle.
Then, his index finger began a slow tapping against his thigh. He shifted his hips and watched with predatory fascination, a true voyeur.
Next came the hips. She unbuckled the utility belt, letting it drop. So followed the leg harnesses until she was bare except for low cut panties. Entirely under his influence, her chest heaved awaiting further instruction.
"Don't stop on my account," he murmured. His voice had turned to low gravel. "Finish it."
With her fingertips and a slight roll of her hips, the strip of fabric pooled around her ankles, leaving her bare.
"Pick 'em up," he commanded quietly.
She paused for a fraction of a second before leaning down. Her fingers wrapped around the panties and she stood up again. Soldier Boy stayed quiet. He held out his right hand, palm up, and gave a slow flick of his eyebrows toward his chest. Throw them over.
She tossed them.
His fingers closed around them easily. Without a single reservation, he brought the fabric up to his nose, his eyes narrowing as he took a slow, deep breath. A dark look of satisfaction crossed his features before he tucked them deep into his trousers pocket.
Then he stared.
His jaw clenched as he observed the uneven rise and fall of her chest. His gaze streaked down her body, riveting despite its apathy.
"Spread your legs," he said. "Just a notch. That's it."
His hand moved to the front of his trousers, fingers unfastening the fly carefully. Sitting in his director's seat, he began to touch himself. A short grin was all he gave as his wrist paced his gratification. Soldier Boy's pleasure was lethargic and it cruely augmented his authority.
"I think I've made a point," he said. He didn't rush to finish, just tucked himself back in, leaving a hard line in the fabric of his suit.
He finally stood up and kicked the chair aside. His slow stride closed the short distance to Y/N until she caught that same masculine scent of worn leather and cologne.
A familiar pulse of arousal hindered her reasoning. Her mind's eye replayed the sharp motions of his wrist while he fondled himself just moments ago. She had done that. He had been looking at her. Coveting her.
"I want you to fuck me," she whispered. The admission slipped off her tongue to answer his earlier question. Her willpower was too far gone for pride.
Soldier Boy's eyes traced a final path down her body before he grinned up at the ceiling. His suit seemed so modular under the stagelights. When his gaze dropped down again, he pressed a warm kiss to the side of her neck. The wet glide of his tongue against heated skin brought a new thrill to an otherwise sensory experience.
Instinctively, she reached up, hands searching for the broad span of his shoulders. Before she could touch him, his hands shot out and caught both her wrists.
He held her suspended until she was forced to focus. The crease in his brows was sympathetic. "I told you I didn't want you on my conscience," he said.
He let go, allowing her wrists to fall back to her sides. Then he stepped past her, just barely brushing her shoulder with his own.
Y/N didn't turn around to observe his exit. She just stood where he had left her and listened to the sounds of his boots on the flooring, the click of the door handle, and finally, the swing of the door.
The cool air suddenly lost its charm against her bare skin and her body ached with unreleased tension. The empty pieces of her tactical suit were scattered on the floor and she dreaded the thought of kneeling down to collect them.
A sudden flash of red flickered in her periphery. She glanced up and tracked the movement to the rafters until she caught sight of it again.
The cardinal.
For the second time she wondered what it was doing here trapped, out of its depth, and completely out of place.
✦summary: dean is strictly off limits, for so, so many reasons. It's a shame neither of you seem to care.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), dbf!Dean, angst, overprotective dean, older dean, pining, dean being a stupid, lovable dork, feral smut (blowjobs, teasing, dean's dirty talk, brat taming, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, fingering, begging, face-fucking, Dean being a panty thief, finger sucking, jerking off, pussy slapping, lap sex, edging, cockwarming, creampie, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.3k✦
✦author's note: request from @circletreeme ! dean dbf for the girlies <3✦
Neither of you lasted as long as you should have.
It was something that never should’ve happened at all. He should know better, and you shouldn’t have pushed to see if he did. But Dean told you it was never going to happen, and then ten minutes later had you pinned against the wall with his knee pushed between your legs.
“Dirty girl.” He mutters in your ear, littering kisses up and down your throat. “Gonna cum on my thigh, aren’t you. That fuckin’ easy?”
You whimper, and pull at his hair. There’s a pressure, building in your lower stomach and demanding and impossible to ignore. Your eyes flutter, and you press your cheek in the side of Dean’s head. His beard is tickling and scraping over sensitive skin, his lips hot and wet. You’re barely more than a puddle in his arms.
“Deeean-“ You whine out, and he chuckles, squeezing your ass tight.
“That’s right, baby. Call my name, tell the whole house who’s got you in their lap-“
A door slams downstairs, and you shove Dean away just as fast as he rips himself back.
You’re both panting and flushed. You can see his arousal through his jeans, and your fingers are shaking too much to get a proper grip on your unbuttoned blouse.
Your father calls your name, the stairs creaking, and you shove Dean again.
He gives you an incredulous look, mouthing what are you doing?
Closet. You mouth back, pushing him again. The man is built like a fucking tree, it’s like trying to move boulder underwater. Get- “Get in the fucking closet-“
He moves, right before the door opens.
Your father smiles at you, glancing around the room. “You doin’ alright, kiddo?”
“Yep. How was work?” You bounce on your toes, shooting tiny looks to the closet.
He has no reason to check anything. It all looks perfectly innocent. There’s no clothing scattered across the floor or stench of sex in the air. Dean hadn’t even taken his shoes off, and the sweater that he’d ripped from your body is allowed to be on the bed, because it’s your room.
And it’s not like you’ve been known to do this kind of thing.
Sleep with older men.
Sleep with anyone.
You’re pretty sure if your father had to gamble on it, he’d put down money that you were going to die alone. Which isn’t entirely unfair. You speak to men like they’re dogs—because they are—and the last time someone asked you on a date, you spent the whole time staring them with an unimpressed expression and your arms over your chest.
It’s not that you’re rude. You just refuse to lower yourself just to please someone who can’t even do their laundry without Mommy’s help. And most college boys don’t even know their food groups. There’s protein, and green stuff, and candy. That’s it. It makes you want to bash your head into a wall.
But that’s how Dean got you.
Stupid, handsome Dean and his big hands and don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll take care of it. Dean and the way he picked you up like you weighed ten pounds not to show of how much he can bench, but because you’d been standing in his way teasing him, and he’d needed to move you.
He’d placed you onto the counter of the kitchen with such care, and a stern, amused look. You’d gaped at him, heat flooding your cheek and all the blood in your body confused about if it should be curling in your fists and swinging, or pooling between your legs to help you hump him like an animal in heat.
“Not so mouthy now, are you.” Dean had drawled, and that’s when you’d known.
You were a goner. He had you in the palm of his calloused hands.
It worked, because you had him wrapped around your finger.
But neither of you were supposed to be close enough to even touch.
Dean’s your father’s best friend. They met in some old man club for people who like saws and drills or whatever. Maybe it was just a workshop. Or he fixed your dad’s car, and the dumbass fell just in love with him as you were.
Dean’s great. Dean and I got coffee. Dean showed me this new Thunderbird, think I’m gonna buy it. You can drive it, when you get home, maybe we’ll put the deed in your name. I’ll ask Dean if he thinks that’s a good idea. Dean thinks it’s a great idea.
Most of your Senior year had been spent getting calls and texts from your dad about how perfect and amazing Dean was. If he knew that the man was in your closet fighting a boner right now, he might end up more jealous than angry.
It still doesn’t feel like an experiment you want the results of. Some things are better left to the imagination.
“Work was good.” Your father shrugs. “You eaten dinner?”
“Um- No.” You need to stop looking at the closet. It’s suspicious. “I was actually going to go out, and- Eat there.”
“Do that tomorrow.” He waves a hand. “Dean’s coming over tonight, we’re gonna fire up my new grill, see how she cooks.”
“I know, I just- I wanted like Chinese or something.”
“Then get Chinese and eat with us-“ Your father pauses, and you swallow. “How’d you know Dean was comin’ over?”
Shit. You can almost feel him glaring at you through the closet. You’re supposed to be the smart one, sweetheart.
It’s his fault. You can still feel where he’d been teasing your sides, and it’s making your brain all stupid and fuzzy.
You know because Dean showed up early and cornered you in the living room. Because you’d done the stupid dance where you both pretend you’re not going to cave. You’d asked why he was here. He said he didn’t need a reason. You said he did, it wasn’t his house. He’d teased that he was always welcome. You’d rolled your eyes, and asked if he was sure about that. He’d leaned over you and murmured that you sure as shit seemed happy to see him. You’d just glared, because if you spoke you would’ve started to drool. He’d muttered that, for the record, he’d been invited for the drill. But that he was really here because he needed to see you.
Then he’d shoved his hand under your shirt and kissed you stupid.
You can’t tell your dad that part.
“You told me.” You say lamely.
You can almost hear Dean’s groan.
“Oh. Huh.” Your dad shrugs it off. Why wouldn’t he. “Alright. You gonna stay?”
It’s a horrible idea. If you stay, you’re going to spend the whole time grumpy because you’d been so close, and now Dean was feet away and unable to touch you.
“Sure.”
Fuck.
Your dad takes the victory. In his eyes, you’re sure he thinks it’s a miracle that his daughter wants to hang out with him and his friends instead of going out and doing young people things. You think he forgets, sometimes, that you’ve never been all that good at young people things.
And you’re certainly not going to burst his bubble by reminding him of that. Or the fact that of course you want to hang out with his friend. Sex on Legs Winchester. Even if you didn’t have something halfway started with him, you’d stick around just to ogle the eye candy.
“Am I just a sack of meat to you, princess?” Dean mutters when you tell him as much.
You bite back your smile, and shrug. “Maybe. You gonna do something about it?”
He fixes you with an almost awestruck stare, before chuckling and shaking his head.
“You’re trying to get me killed.”
“No, I’m not-“
“Yeah, you are. I pop a boner now, your old man is gonna rip my head off.”
“So don’t pop a boner, dumbass-“
Your words fall off in a tiny squeak, as Dean grabs the back of your neck and pulls you into a deep, long kiss.
It’s far from the first time you kissed. That had been a night only a week after you’d moved back home—a long, torturous week of staring at massive biceps and imagine them wrapped around your neck, or beating yourself up in the sheets as you got off to the idea of Dean and his stupid, cocky smirk—when he’d been staying over so his house could get gassed for bugs or something. You’d smiled at him too sweetly. All his touches had lingered too long. You’d gone downstairs to get some water, and ended up on top of him on the couch.
You still haven’t slept together. Every time you get close, fucking something has to happen, and you stop.
But you’ve kissed so much you think your lips are molded to shape his.
You immediately turn to slack putty, in Dean’s arms. Kissing him back with frantic passion, leaning over his chest and moaning openly into his mouth. Your fingers find their way to his belt, then lower. Dean tips your head back further to deepen this kiss, and you paw at his bugle with a tiny whimper.
He hums, squeezing the back of your neck. “Behave.”
“Don’t want to.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.
“I know.” Dean pulls back, kissing one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You need some motivation, baby?”
You nod, fixing him with your best, doe-eyed stare. It’s the one that always makes him cave, even when he says he knows he shouldn’t.
But you both know you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t be doing any of this. There’s a long list of reason that starts with your father’s best friend and ends with massive age gap that could be followed to prevent all of this. But you both seem to get a little blind, when you look at each other. Suddenly you can’t read and Dean—a man who’s all self-control and smooth, cool collection—stumbles over his feet like a highschooler.
He says that’s how he knew this was worth it. That you do things to him that no one else ever has. You blush and giggle and press your face into the crook of his neck, and for a little while you both forget the whole world. Sometimes you whisper that he does things to you as well. You’ve never wanted to wrap around someone like this and never let go.
And that overrides all logic and reason. It doesn’t matter what kind of rules there are. You want to break all of them, just to be closer to him for a few moments longer.
“You play nice tonight.” Dean whispers in your ear, tracing lazily up and down your spine. “Then I’ll help you sneak out. Back to my place.”
“Your place?” You sound a lot more pathetic than you want to be. You really don’t know how to help it.
“Mhm. And you know what’s at my place that ain’t here?”
You shake your head, and Dean kisses the tip of your nose. It scrunches up, and his eyes shine with adoration. You’re never going to get sick of him looking at you like that. Like you’re the only thing in the world.
“Peace and quiet.” He mutters. “Just you, me, and nothing else.”
Your eyes widen, as you realize what he means. “Oh- Okay.”
“Okay?”
There’s a hint of worry in his voice. Like he needs to be sure you really mean it, even when you’re slack and folded into his arms, digging your nails into his biceps like you’re trying to leave a mark.
You nod frantically, and his shoulders relax.
“Okay.” He mutters, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. You smile at him, and his throat bobs. “Behave.”
“I always behave.” You tease, and Dean snorts.
“Yeah. Alright.”
“I do. I’m very well trained.”
He chuckles, kissing you light and soft. You push up on your toes, trying to chase a little more, and Dean lets you. He always lets you.
“Don’t think you’re the one on the leash, sweetheart.” He mutters against your lips, and you giggle.
“Dogs train their owners sometimes. With feeding habits and walk schedules.”
“Hm.” He leans back, a smile twitching on his lips. “Is this feedin’, or walkin’?”
And this is your favorite expression on his handsome face. The one where you can tell that he’s really trying to be annoyed with you, but can’t stop himself from enjoying your company. From looking at you like he wants to just lock the door and pin you to the bed until you’re giggling and beaming all the time. You’d be all for that plan, if your father wasn’t probably waiting downstairs, wondering why Dean’s running late-
Shit. Right. Your father.
“Actually.” You kiss over his beard, curling your fingers in the collar of his shirt. “I think it’s fetch.”
Dean snorts, and ducks down to kiss you again. You push him lightly back, and he stumbles like he’s been shot.
“Out the window.” You say sternly, pointing at the roof.
Dean groans, running a hand over his face. “C’mon, one more-“
“No.”
“But-“
“Behave.” You mock, and he scowls.
“Son of a bitch.” He grumbles under his breath. He’s making a face like a toddler who just got his favorite toy truck confiscated for bad behavior. It’s rather adorable. “Gonna be the death of me, woman. Can’t believe I’m so in love with a fuckin’ brat.”
“Aw, you love me?”
You say it like it doesn’t still make your heart skip to hear it. Dean sighs like he let slip some grand secret, instead of something that he’s told you countless times in dark corners and in booths of bars.
He looks at the window. He’s back to pouting again.
“It’s gonna hurt my knees.” He whines, and you laugh, closing the space between you once more.
“Tough shit, Winchester. Should’ve tried to keep it in your pants.”
“But you make it so hard-“
“I know.”
That earns you a glare, and you giggle again.
You’re both so very bad at this. Dean should already be downstairs. You shouldn’t be goading him into saying longer, but you can’t help it at all. This is your favorite kind of teasing. The one where you end up folded under him with his pretty lips wrapped around your nipples and thick fingers stuffing up your pussy and toying with your clit until you’re whining his name.
Dean’s looking at you like that’s exactly what he wants to do with you. You’re smiling at him like you’re begging for it, and neither of you ever back down from the challenge.
Then your father calls your name from downstairs. And it’s like a bucket of ice water is poured over both your heads.
“Dean’s runnin’ late!” He shouts. “You should go get your Chinese now!”
You sigh, and Dean grimaces. The urgency doesn’t stop him from grabbing your face between his hands, and kissing you one last time.
“Tonight.” He mumbles like an oath. “Just you and me.”
You hum. “Only if I behave, right?”
“Sure. Only if you behave.”
And he says it like that because you both know perfectly well that it doesn’t matter how you behave. You could sit on his lap or rub your foot on his crotch under the table, and he’s still going to open the door when you sneak over. If anything, the question is just how big a price do you want to pay tonight. How far are you willing to push him, how greatly do you want him to snap once you’re alone.
You think you want him to lose it. He’s always extra pretty when he looks like he’s about to cry from frustration, and he’s never hotter than when there’s that dangerous gleam in his eyes that reminds you he could toss you around like a sack of potatoes.
God, it sounds nice though. Being Dean’s sack of potatoes.
He sneaks out the window, and flips you off after you laugh at him for groaning the whole time. He has to sneak down the block to get his car, and you won’t be here when he arrives. You have to go get your Chinese.
But after that, all bets are off.
Dean is worse at this than you are. The sneaking around.
You get stupid and nervous when your dad is around and Dean is hiding. You told me wasn’t your best moment, but it also wasn’t that far from your worst. And you know your dad. You know that he’s not really going to question most things he tells you, because even your more obvious excuses aren’t that suspicious.
But Dean’s a fucking dumbass.
He’s your dumbass. Your old, grumpy idiot who’s some kind of genius with a wrench and a circuit board and an engine, but who stares at the crossword puzzles you do and mutters that all those letters look fake. He could find his way home if you dropped him in the middle of the woods—you call him your pigeon, and he doesn’t think that’s half as funny as you do—but he also thinks that Michaelangelo is the Ninja Turtle and needs your help writing emails. One time you asked him when he’d last gone to the doctor, and he said some time in ’07. You’d smacked him upside the head and dragged him by the nape of his neck.
Later that week, he’d been grumbling to your dad about how the doc was making him cut back on steak. His cholesterol had been through the roof. He’d protested and bitched, but you’d grabbed his jaw and snapped that if he died, you were going to leave him.
So now he’s down to only two burgers a week, and you’re very proud of him.
Which is what he’d told your dad.
Not the you part—he wasn’t that stupid—but the doctor part. And how he’d been bargained down to two burgers in exchange for other things.
Blowjobs. You might not have fucked yet, but you’d done most everything else, and you’d talked him down from a three burger a week deal with the promise of blowjobs.
Which he’d told your dad.
Because he’s an idiot.
“You’re datin’ someone?” Your dad had said in surprise, and Dean had frozen.
On the couch, you’d rolled your eyes. God, he was so lucky you loved him to death.
“I- I- Uh-“
“Why didn’t you tell me? You coulda brought her over, I wanna meet the lady who finally got you to settle.” Your dad had snorted, his voice dropping so that you probably weren’t supposed to hear it. “Hell, if she gives good enough head for you to drop burgers, I gotta meet her.”
You’d felt sick. When you’d glanced over your shoulder, Dean had looked sick.
His eyes had flitted to yours in panic. You’d given him a tight, prompting look, and his throat had bobbed.
“She, uh- She’s real busy-“
“I got time.”
“Right. Good.” Dean had looked trapped. This was the only time you saw him really stumble over his words. When it came to you.
It would be sweet, if he wasn’t a few wrong words from getting shot in the head.
“She, uh- She’s just- You know- Women-“
“Where’s she work.” Your dad had asked casually.
Dean had gone pallid. “The… Place.”
“Place?”
“Bookshop.”
“Oh.” Your father had called your name, and Dean had looked seconds from passing out. “You know any ladies at the bookshop Dean’s age?”
You’d hummed, pretending to examine your nails. “Um… Maybe Matilda.”
Matilda is the lovely old woman who you share all your shifts with. She has five cats, two grandchildren she loves more than her dolt of a son, and knows that you and Dean are dating because she caught you making out in the nonfiction section a month ago.
Dean had glared at you, and you’d just smiled back. The fuck was I supposed to say? You’d tell him later. There’s only four of us, and two are high schoolers.
He’d gotten out of the bookshop jam by saying that she worked at a different place. Your father had bought the lie, but never dropped it. He never drops any of Dean’s slip ups.
Because every time you’ve almost been caught, it’s been Dean’s fault. There was the time your bra got found in the Impala, and when Dean’s brother knew about you before you were formally introduced, and when you’d been on a date and your dad had walked into the bar. You’d shoved Dean under the table, and the fucking dumbass had decided to kiss your thighs the whole time he was down there. You’d kill him if you didn’t love him. But you also think he’d kill himself if he ever really pissed you off.
But now your dad thinks Dean’s sneaking around with some lady from out of town, and you go to bars by yourself when you said you were going out with friends. And he’s a nice, nosy man, so he hasn’t let go of either fact at all.
“How’s your girl, Winchester?” He asks Dean over dinner, and Dean grunts.
“Good. Pissin’ me off, but good.”
You stick your tongue out at him behind your dad’s back. He’s just grumpy about the couch thing.
Your dad had gone to check on the grill, and you’d put your feet in Dean’s lap. He’d grabbed your ankles and hissed for you to behave. You’d smiled at him and moved them, before immediately crawling over him. You’d had a hand resting right against his crotch, and another grabbing at his chest. You’d kissed his cheeks and neck while he just grabbed your waist for balance.
“’M so wet, De.” You’d whispered, sucking a kiss right under his jaw. “Need you so bad.”
He’d made a strangled, almost pained sound. His cock had twitched under your hand, and you’d pressed down harder.
Dean’s fingers had flexed on your waist. You’d dropped your weight onto his thigh, grinding down and moaning against his skin.
You think, if your dad hadn’t come back the next second, he would’ve flipped you over and ripped off your skirt. But you’d heard the door open, and pulled easily away. Dean hadn’t been able to stand up for five minutes. You’d giggled and run your fingers through this hair, before following your dad out on to the porch.
So he’s a little mad at you.
You hope he stays mad at you. He always kisses you like an animal, when he’s a little pissed. Then he presses your face between your breasts and mumbles about how it’s not fair that he can’t stay mad at you, and it’s a better feeling than any high in the world.
Your goal for the night might be driving him so up the wall that when he finally fucks you, he rearranges your guts in his name.
It’s not going to be that difficult to do.
“What’d she do to piss you off?” Your dad asks, and Dean makes a face.
“Nothin’. Just- She gets mouthy.” He’s still glaring at you. You pretend not to see it. “And she likes to push my fuckin’ buttons.”
“You’re fun to rile up, buddy.” Your dad shrugs, totally oblivious to you and Dean eye fucking across the room. “Just take a deep breath and tell her she’s making you mad.”
Dean snorts. “Trust me. I think she knows.”
You beam at him and flutter your lashes. His eyes narrow, his grip on the counter going white knuckled.
He is fun to rile up. You hope he never works on that.
“You know who I saw at the store today?” You dad asks you, and you hum, poking at your chow mein.
“Who?”
“Gordon.”
“Oh, shit.” You look up. “How’s he doing?”
“Alright. Think he’s livin’ at home too. Surprised you didn’t know.”
“Well, we don’t talk that much anymore-“
“He asked about you.” Your dad shrugs casually. Too casually.
You know where this is going.
“Gave me his new number, to pass onto you. Said he missed you, all four years-“
“Dad.” You sigh, giving him a flat look.
He raises his hands. “I’m not sayin’ anything-“
“Yes, you are.”
“Well- Nothin’ that we gotta read into, but you two were always so close-“
“Dad-“
“Who the fuck is Gordon.” Dean grunts, and you flush.
He looks pissed. And not you just flashed him and he’s got a boner at the table pissed.
Really pissed. Like he wants to bite someone’s head off, but hasn’t figured out who yet.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
“He’s- He’s just my childhood friend-“
“Childhood best friend.” Your dad corrects, and you’re going to fucking kill him and then yourself. “They were little bandits together, we all thought they’d end up datin’, but I guess they both got sidetracked.”
“We didn’t get sidetracked.” You mutter, staring at your plate.
You can feel Dean’s gaze burning into you. It’s almost impossible to look him in the eyes.
“We just- It was never like that-“
“Didn’t he take you to prom?”
“As friends-“
“You didn’t come home ‘till the morning-“
Something cracks, and you and your dad both fall silent.
Dean’s broken his mug. With his hands. One hand.
Oh, God.
You’re worried that if you stand up, there’s going to be a slick stain on your chair.
“You alright, buddy?”
“Yeah. I’m good.” Dean stares at you, nostrils flaring. “You gonna call the boy?”
Boy. Not man, boy. And he says it so mockingly, it makes you feel buzzy and faint.
“No.” You try to sound normal, but you’re sure it comes out pathetic and dazed. “I- Um- We never-“ You glance nervously at your dad, and clear your throat. “Gordon actually ditched me for Anna, on prom night. That was- It was why we stopped talking.”
“Oh.” Your dad makes a sour face. “Well, I always knew he was gonna be bad news eventually. You deserve better, kiddo, and if I see him again I’ll give him a piece of my mind- I’m sure Dean will too.”
And you have to agree with that.
Dean looks like he’s about to go and smash Gordon’s head against the curb. Your dad keeps rambling about Gordon and kids not knowing what they want and how both he and Dean will make sure you never settle for less than you deserve. Dean keeps staring at you, and you’re sure that part is true as well.
Dean’s not going to let you settle for anything less than what you deserve at all. If he can help it, he’s never going to allow you to settle, period.
You really hope he knows, that it’s him and nothing else. Never anything else. Whatever confusing feelings you had eventually developed for Gordon had vanished when you were a teenager. You’d barely had a college boyfriend—more like a few loose options you’d kicked to the curb once you decided they’d lead to pallid and sickly futures—and no one in your life has ever made you care about a relationship the way Dean does.
And you really worry sometimes, that he doesn’t understand that. You try to remind him, but the age gap hangs over your heads like a sword of Damocles. He’s said before that there has to be better boys for you. Boys your age.
You don’t want a boy your age. You want a man.
You want Dean.
And from the look of him, you’re not sure he’d be able to stomach you with anyone else.
“I’m not going to call Gordon.”
Dean looks up from the sink. You’d followed him into the bathroom while your dad cleaned the grill, desperate to make sure he understood. You like him a little grumpy and mocking. It makes everything in your chest feel wrong, when he really seems upset.
“Alright.” Is all he mutters, grabbing a towel to dry his hands.
“Dean-“
“What?”
He gives you a challenging look. You swallow, and lean back against the door.
“I love you.”
The first time you’d said it had been all romantic and dumb in the rain. It had fumbled from your lips like a prayer, and he’d kissed you until your legs gave out. Even now, months later, it has the safe effect. Dean’s shoulders slump, and his eyes soften. Everything in him softens. Just for you.
“I love you too, princess-“
“No.” You whisper, pressing your lips in a tight line. “I really love you.”
Dean frowns. “Yeah, I know-“
“Dean.” You push off the door, your eyes locked onto his. “I love you.”
No one else, is what you tell him with your eyes. Just you. Always just you.
Dean blinks, his gaze raking over your body, then darting to the door. He rasps your name, because he knows you too well. He knows that glint in your eyes, he knows the sweet smile playing on your lips. He tells you all the time, that it almost gives him a heart attack. You close the distance in small, cautious steps. Dean clears his throat, looking almost desperate for you to take mercy.
You won’t. You need him to understand.
“Sweetheart, you can’t-“
“Yes I can.” You sink to your knees, and Dean grabs a fistful of your hair.
Your drag your hands over his thighs, and his swallows hard, a vein in his brow ticking as he tries to keep still.
“Come on.” He rasps. “This ain’t behaving.”
You shrug, slowly undoing his belt buckle. “Oops.”
Dean’s chest heaves, and a small groan rumbles in his chest as you kiss his crotch. You watch him under hooded lashes, pulling down his pants and taking his underwear with them.
He’s already hard. Thick in your hand and weeping from his slit, the angry red of his cock demanding your attention, even as he tries to talk you out of it.
“Baby, you- You don’t gotta-“
“But I want to.” You murmur, slowly pumping his cock with a light grip.
Dean grunts, bucking into your hand. His head is tossed back, his eyes squeezed shut, his breath coming out in pants. You stop stroking him, and he immediately looks back down.
“What’re you-“
“Can I?” You press your cheek into his thigh, letting your warm breath fan over his balls. “Please?”
You pout, just to be sure he knows. Dean never likes making you do this. He always whines on and on about how it should be about you, not him. He says he gets off just fine tasting you and making you cum on his fingers. You’re still trying to make him understand that just the thought of him fucking your face like a toy ruins your underwear.
You’ll be sure to show him after.
Dean stares down at you, gripping the bathroom sink and petting the top of your head. He lets out a ragged breath, closes his eyes, then drags them back open. You think he might be checking that you’re still there.
You’re about to suck his soul out of his cock. He’s not going to get rid of you that easy.
“You sure?” He mutters, and you nod eagerly.
“Please.”
A feral sound rumbles from his throat. His dick twitches, and he gives the tiniest nod.
“Is that-“
“Go for it.” A smile ghosts his lips. “Show me what you’ve got, baby.”
You give him a flat look. He knows damn well, what you’ve got. And you can see him smirking, opening his mouth to say something cocky and smug about you biting off more than you can chew.
You don’t give him the chance, before you’re wrapping your mouth around his head and swirling your tongue.
Dean groans, his blunt nails scraping against your head as his whole body tenses. You hum around him and repeat the motion, again, and then one more time for good measure.
“Jesus-“ He chokes out your name. “Warn a guy- I- Wasn’t fuckin’ ready-“
You smile, pushing further down. You suck lightly, taking his base into your hand and pumping it in time with your mouth. Dean makes a sinful, deep noise that comes straight from your dreams. He croaks out your name, bowing his head and tugging on your hair as his cock pulses in your mouth.
“Baby- Fuck-“
You take your free hand and grab his balls, slowly massaging them as your mouth picks up the pace. Dean’s looking down at you like you fell from Heaven, right onto your knees for him, and him alone.
“You’re a fuckin’ brat, you know that? Just- Lookin’ at me and- Shiiit-“
He’s losing composer. It’s what you live for. The way his eyes roll back and he starts to shallowly thrust between your lips, letting drool slip down your chin and pre-cum leak over your tongue.
“Mouth was made for me.” He grits out, his teeth bared and voice tight. “Pretty little slut, know you love this shit. You’re wet, aren’t you. Drippin’ all over the floor for me.”
You moan in agreement, and Dean slams his hips forward. His cock bruises the back of your throat and you have to relax your jaw to stop yourself from gagging. Dean tenses, his voice raw and strained.
“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m sorry-“
You’re not having any of that.
Dean cuts himself off with another guttural sound as you push yourself forward. Your nose brushes his abdomen, your jaw unhinged to take all of him, and it’s still not enough. You stick out your tongue, flicking the underside of his cock as you squeeze his balls.
“Son of a bitch- You-“
You suck, letting your throat squeeze around the head of him. He makes another, feral sound, and tugs at your hair.
“Baby, shit- You’re so fuckin’ warm, and- You gotta get off or-“
He almost whimpers as you pull back, sliding off his cock with a pop and stroking it as you leave an open-mouth kiss on the swollen head. Dean’s fingers flex, and you know he wants to shove you back down.
You give him a soft smile, kissing down his shaft, then over his balls. You suck there for a second, still jerking his cock in your free hand, and he finally snaps. Pulling you back by your hair and giving you a wrecked, hopeless look. He’s trying to use his listen to me voice, but he seems to know it’s a lost cause. You’ve got him exactly where you want him.
He says your name like a prayer, and you open your mouth. Stick out you tongue, fixing him with a challenging glare.
Dean swallows. “You sure- Fuck-“
You flick your tongue over his head, squeezing the base of his dick tight.
Dean shakes his head, looking up like he’s praying.
“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters, and you know you’ve won.
You keen as Dean’s grip on your hair tightens. He shoves you right down his cock, pushing against the back of your throat before yanking you back. You moan around him, your eyes watering from the overwhelming taste and force. You’re barely more than a cocksleeve for his pleasure, and that’s exactly what you wanted.
Dean barely able to think outside of where he’s fucking your mouth, making broken and worshipful sounds, calling your name with every thrust.
“Fuck, baby- Takin’ it so good, love you like this, choking on my cock. Look so pretty for me, wish I could take a picture- Fuuuckkkk-“
He tosses his head back, still watching his cock pump between your lips. He gets transfixed and babbles, coming apart above you as you just keep smiling and taking it.
“Pretty girl,” he grits out. “My pretty fuckin’ slut, sucking dick like a damn vacuum- Crying for me, baby girl, you need this cock that bad-“
You mewl in agreement, dizzy from the praise. You do need his cock that bad. If the thoughts weren’t being fucked from your head, you whimper that no one fucks your mouth like he does. No one makes you feel so holy and used all at the same time. You’re so wet you feel it every time you shift, so wet you’re worried he’s going to be able to smell it. But you love this. The taste and weight of him, and how no one gets it but you.
It’s almost pornographic, the way he’s taking your mouth. Your lips shine with spit and pre-cum, tears pour down your cheeks as his thrusts become jagged sharp, and sweat shines on Dean’s thighs as you keep working his balls. They’re getting tight and heavy in your hands. He’s about to loose it.
“Baby-“ He taps your cheek, words pushed out between moans. “Baby, I- I’m gonna-“
You sink your nails into his thigh. You’ve never failed to swallow before, and you’re not starting now.
Dean hisses out your name, but doesn’t stop. You moan around him, sucking as hard as you can to shove him over the edge.
He cums hard, shooting thick ropes of release down your throat. You unhinge your jaw, and manage to get most of it. But he always lets out so much, and a fair amount ends up smeared with your tears and dripping down his legs.
You pull slowly back, and start to lick up what you weren’t able to get on your first try. Dean hisses, sensitive from the orgasm, and strokes his hand through your hair. His gaze is fixed on where some had dripped down to your tits. You have a feeling that if you were really, truly in private, he’d shove his face into your chest and clean you up himself.
“You are-“ He lets out a broken laugh, as you smile up at him. “Something else.”
“You’ve told me.” You tease, and Dean rolls his eyes.
“Too proud of it.” He grumbles. “Like you want to be over my knee later.”
You shrug, eyes sparkling. Dean’s jaw ticks.
His thumb swipes over your cheek, where a little bit of the cum is still stained.
“Open.” He mutters, and you obey.
He presses his thumb between your swollen lips, and you take it with a happy hum. Dean groans, watching you suckle his release of his finger. You flutter your lashes at him. He pulls out, smearing spit over your cheek.
“I’m goin’ in an hour.” His voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it. It sends an excited, electric thrill between your legs. “You better follow, or I’m comin’ here and fucking you in your daddy’s house.”
You nod like a bobblehead, unable to even find the words. Dean laughs and pulls you to your feet, kissing you harshly. It’s messy and open, possessive in a way you’d never found hot before you had him.
Other boys being possessive had seemed like they thought of you as a nice little toy they threw a tantrum over having to share. With anyone, even your friends.
Dean being possessive makes you feel priceless. Treasured. He’s yours, and he doesn’t want you to forget it. You can do whatever the hell you want, just so long as you remember that he’s yours.
Your dad is calling for you again. Dean slips out of the bathroom first—he doesn’t have cum and drool to clean off his face—but not before kissing your cheek and slapping your ass.
He says you’re going to be the death of him, but he’s bouncing around like he’s ten years younger. You’re the one who needs to clutch the railing as she walks downstairs. He didn’t even fuck you and it’s hard to walk from the throb between your legs.
You’d been right. You’d completely destroyed your underwear, turning it to just a soaked scrap of lace.
And Dean might have you begging at his feet, but you don’t roll over that easy. You pulled off your panties before you left the bathroom. You keep them bundled in your fist while Dean talks to your dad for the last hour, sitting on the counter with your legs crossed. When it’s time for him to go, he wanders over to give a perfectly innocent goodnight.
His eyes are gleaming, as he drawls see you around, kid.
Kid.
He knows you hate it when he calls you kid. And suddenly, you don’t feel bad anymore.
“Night, grandpa.” You say lightly, and Dean laughs, but it’s rougher than before. You can see it in his eyes, the way he’s planning out every single way he’s going to make you pay for that.
Then you stick out your hand, and he blinks. There’s a confused, cautious shadow over his face as he takes your hand and shakes it. You cover it with your fist, and slip your panties into his grip.
Dean pulls back with a frown, looks down, and coughs so loud he staggers. You bite your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. Your father looks up from the sink with a worried face.
“You alright, Dean?”
“Yeah, uh- Yeah.” He stares at you, working his jaw. His words are pushed through his teeth, and you can see his cock, already straining through his jeans again.
His closes his fist around your panties, and shoves them into his pockets. Your dad asks him something else, but you don’t hear it. You’re fully fixed on Dean. On the dangerous promise in his eyes.
You’re in trouble.
Good.
Dean lives more than twenty minutes away, but you make the drive in fifteen.
You’re desperate, and past denying it. You’ve got the hottest man alive waiting for you and finally about to fuck you, anyone else would be breaking traffic laws as well.
It wasn’t hard to sneak past your father, especially because you failed to sneak past him. You got downstairs and found him watching TV. You’d thought he was in bed, and the blood had drained from your face.
“Dad, uh- You’re-“
“Just watchin’ Jeopardy.” He’d said, not looking away from the screen. “You going to Dean’s?”
You’d tripped over nothing, and choked on the air.
“I- I don’t- I’m not- What-“
“Don’t insult me, kiddo.” He twists, giving you a flat look. “I ain’t blind and stupid. He had a hard on the whole night.”
“Um-“ You fidget with your fingers, unsure if you should run or just drop dead. “That’s- Maybe he was texting his girlfriend-“
“He never texts his girlfriend. He just texts you.”
You open your mouth, then close it. You’re dead. Dean’s dead. Your dad is going to kill him and you’re never even going to get to have sex, and that’s such a huge bummer because you’re just going to sit at his grave forever, and turn into a tree like some old myth, and then your dad is going have no one to talk to sports about. Everyone is losing in this scenario. It’s awful.
“Was it his fault?” You say, because it’s all you can think of. “That you realized?”
Your dad snorts. “Oh, yeah. I had suspensions-“
“Suspicions-“
“I caught you on a date.” He says your name dryly. “You said you were there alone, but his car was in the lot. He said he was datin’ a girl who worked in a bookshop. You’d been wearing his shirt to bed.”
Your mouth falls open, your cheeks burning.
“Oops.”
“Yeah. Oops.” Your dad sighs, turning back to the TV. “Realized when he let me call you on his phone. Dumbass opened the message thread for me and everything.”
Oh. Oh no.
Again, there wasn’t much outside of sex that you and Dean hadn’t done. Which, tragically, included sexting.
A lot of sexting.
Photos of you in lingerie and dick pics and voice memos and a lot of videos, and you’re going to throw up-
“You- You didn’t-“
“Saw more of Dean than I ever wanted to.” Your dad mutters, making a face like he’s also going to be sick. “Was about to punch him for sending that shit to you, but there was a voice memo with it. Listened for about ten seconds, almost got sick, realized it was at least mutual.”
You cringe. You remember that voice memo and photo, just as well as you remember your dad calling you on Dean’s phone because his was dead. You’d thought he sounded weird. You wished you hadn’t been so right.
“I’m so sorry-“
“He treat you well?”
You blink. You almost don’t understand the question.
“Of- Of course he does.”
“Hm.” Your dad frowns at the TV. “He gonna marry you?”
“Dad-“
“I’m just sayin’.” He shrugs. “If he’s puttin’ us all through this, he better hope he doesn’t break your heart. You know I was in the military.”
You almost laugh. “He was in the military-“
“I was ranked higher.”
“Dean was a marine-“
“You think I couldn’t kick his ass?”
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “I think you don’t have to, because he won’t break my heart.”
For a second, you just stare at each other. Then your father huffs, and slumps back into the couch.
“Good.” He waves a hand. “Have fun.”
You nod, then go still.
Have fun.
That’s… Approval.
Your dad knows about you and Dean, and he—begrudgingly, but that’s the best you can hope for—approves.
So that should be the first thing you tell Dean when you get through the door. That you don’t have to keep hiding. You’re rehearsing breaking the news your whole drive over, mumbling the speech under your breath when you knock on the door.
But then Dean opens it, and suddenly there’s only one important thing in the world.
Greetings are forgotten, as Dean wraps an arm around your waist and drags you into his chest. You whimper as his mouth slams over yours, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him further down.
“Haven’t stopped thinkin’ about you since I left.” Dean groans, pulling your jacket off with scrambling hands. “Got in the car and wanted to turn around, sneak back through the window like a fuckin’ teenager- Jesus, you don’t know what you do to me-“
You surge up on your toes, throwing your arms around his shoulder and kissing him until you’re breathless and swaying.
“I- I know.” You whisper. “God, Dean, I know-“
He makes one of those deep, hungry, rumbling sounds, spinning you both around so he can kick the door close. You stumble closer, pressing him back against the wall as your pull his upper lip between your kiss. Dean grunts and crashed forward, grabbing your face between his hands and pressing back.
“Needy.” He mutters between open mouth kisses. “Needy fuckin’ girl, can’t even let me take a breath, can you?”
You tip you head back, your words breathy and high as Dean starts to kiss over your neck.
“You- You kissed me first.”
Dean hums, nipping at your throat. He’s dragging his hands down your sides, slipping one under your shirt to caress your spine while the other gropes at your ass.
“I did, didn’t I?”
“Mhm.” You mumble, lost in the heat of his mouth. He’s sucking on a sensitive pulse point, letting his tongue flick over the skin, and he knows what that does to you. “De- Dean-“
“Guess I’m the one who couldn’t wait.” He says, but it’s mostly to himself. “Been dreamin’ of this for so long, sweetheart. You here.” He kisses further down, pulling down your shirt to get access to the top of your chest. “’Bout to be in my bed.” He bunches up the fabric of your shirt, and only his arm around you is keeping you upright. “’Bout to be on my cock.”
He hisses the last words before rushing back up into a starved, sloppy kiss. He rips off your shirt in the same second, before smoothly unclipping your bra. You gasp as the cold air hits your nipples, nails scratching at Dean’s neck.
“Shit- Dean-“
“I’ve got you.” He scoops you into his arms, kissing your cheek.
“Do you-“ You swallow at his flat, amused look. “Sorry.”
His lips twitch, and he doesn’t break your gaze as he walks down the hall. “You know, you always get mouthy when you’re horny.”
You scowl. “I do not-“
“You do-“
“No, I-“
Dean cranes his neck, capturing your lips in a slow, lazy kiss. You respond in a second with a light tug of his hair, eliciting another pleased, low rumble from his chest.
He pulls back, and you chase him. Getting one more, quicker kiss that he melts into within a second.
“You do.” He rasps, nipping at your nose. “You turn into a real brat.”
You glare, ready to snap something that would only prove his point. But Dean grins, and suddenly you’re being dumped down onto his bed. You yelp at the sudden movement, wiggling and holding him tight enough to strange. Dean grunts, falling forward and barely managing to brace himself over you as you both crash down to the mattress.
“Jesus-“ He mutters your name, and you shove his shoulders.
“You surprised me-“
“You almost killed me-“
“Oh, you’re fine-“
“I’m old, that coulda broken my knees-“
“Shut up.”
You grab his face, pressing up for another stumbling, frantic series of kisses. You’ve kissed Dean pretty much everywhere—on his body and geographically—but this is always your favorite place. On his pretty mouth, under him in his bed. There’s nothing around you that isn’t Dean, and it’s intoxicating. The pine and spice scent of him, the heat of his body, the fact that he just lay here by himself sometimes. Thinking of you, the same way you think of him.
Dean wraps his arms around you, pulling you up off the mattress. You hook your leg over his waist, flipping you both over so you’re straddling his lap and kissing him everywhere you can reach. You grind down onto his sweats, and he moans shamelessly, his fingers digging into your hips.
“You- You’re not wearing your fucking panties-“
“I gave them to you.” You mumble, pressing your ass down against his thickness. The fabric scrapes against your bare pussy, offering perfect friction, and you start to hump him like you’re in heat.
Dean drags his hand up your spine, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you up his chest. He lets you keep working yourself down on his bulge for a few seconds longer, moaning into your mouth as you tease him.
“Dirty, dirty girl.” He scolds, the mocking tone in his voice just spurring you on.
He knows you love it. That’s why he likes it.
“Walkin’ around in just a skirt.” He dips a hand under your skirt, palming at your bare ass cheeks. “Should’ve folded you over the couch to see it. Pretty fuckin’ pussy, bet it’s already nice and wet for me.”’e
He reaches further down, and you gasp as his fingers brush your cunt. He’s right. Of course he is. Dean might know your body better than you do.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Shhh.” He splits two fingers, rubbing them over the outer lips of your pussy before pinching them together.
You whine, trying to hump up into his hand, but he splays his palm on your lower back and presses you back down.
“Behave.” He grunts. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to fuck you how I want?”
He squeezes harder, his thumb grazing over your clit. Your whole body tremors, and you press your face into the crook of Dean’s neck.
“Ye- Yes.” You pant. “But- You’re not fucking me- You’re just- Oooh-“
He flicks his thumb this time, and it’s like a tiny electric shock. You don’t know how he always does this. It doesn’t matter if he’s got his hand between your legs or your pussy right on his face, he plays it like an instrument. It would make you scream if it didn’t feel so good.
“Well,” Dean muses, dragging his thumb in slow torturous circles as he starts to rub your pussy again. “I told you to behave earlier. And did you?”e
You shake your head, almost so overwhelmed from the attention on your core that you forget how to speak. “N- No.”
“That’s right. So I’m gonna fuck you,” he pulls his hand away for a second, landing a sharp slap on your ass before pushing it back. “When you remember how to be a good girl.”
You whimper, but don’t argue. This is what you’d asked for, with all the teasing.
You’d just thought he’d give it to you rough. That’s what behave usually meant. An invitation for you to test the line, if you wanted him to pin your on his mouth and make you cum under you were begging him to stop. Once it meant lying over his lap while he fingered and spanked you, and you’d cum so hard you saw stars.
But that’s not what this is.
You’re melted over Dean’s chest, and he’s being lazy and mean. He keeps playing with your pussy like it’s a cute little toy. Just brushing it and rubbing your clit with barely any pressure.
“Mo- More.” You plead. “I need more-“
You almost sob, as he pushes one finger just into your entrance before taking it away. You hug him so tight you think it must hurt, but he doesn’t even grunt.
“Look at that.” He coos in your ear, smearing a little bit of your arousal on your thigh. “You’re making a mess on me, baby. Just from a little bit of touchin’.”
“Was- Was not a little bit-“
“Wasn’t much.” Dean muses, landing a sharp slap on your swollen pussy. “But it never takes much to get my girl wet, does it.”
You shake your head, tears pricking at your eyes again. You’d beg if you had the words, but right now you’re just trying to hold on.
“Everything makes you so horny.” Dean drawls, going back to rubbing his big, warm hand over your pussy. “Remember when we got ice cream? Had to fuck you in my car, ‘cause you couldn’t even wait to get to the damn house.”
“You- You were- You were wearing a really nice shirt-“
“Sure, princess. It was the shirt.”
“It was-“
Dean slaps your pussy again, and your words fall into a whine.
“You ashamed of the truth, princess?” He teases, right in your ear. “How you really wanted me to stuff you up, fuck you and fill you like the cumslut that you are?”
You keen, and you can’t stop yourself from humping his hand again. This time, Dean lets you. He knows you need it.
“That’s right, baby girl. I know you like that.” He bites your ear, and you wiggle your ass right onto his fingers, trying to force one or two inside you. “I remember how I came on your thighs. You almost got me to put it in that day. One more of those pretty pleases and I woulda caved.”
“De- Deeaan-“
“Kept those panties too. I got a whole drawer for them, just for when I miss you.” He kisses the side of your head. “And I always fuckin’ miss you.”
The tears start to flow, half from the debaucherous sweetness of Dean’s words, and half from desperation. If you don’t cum right now, you’re going to explode.
And you’re close. You’re so close. Your pussy is clenching around nothing, but you’ve gotten the tips of Dean’s fingers to press onto your clit, and the sensitive little button is going to be enough to get you over the edge. He grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls it up, forcing you to meet his eyes as you work down onto his fingers. You sob in desperation, lips quivering and tits bouncing. Dean groans, pushing up to kiss you as hard as he can. And you’re so close.
Then the asshole stops.
He pulls his hand away, slaps your pussy, and stops.
You make a strangled, broken sound of defeat, and Dean just chuckles. He makes you both sit up, massaging your ass and kissing away your tears.
“Nice try.” He smiles, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “You think you earned bein’ able to cum?”
“Ye- Yes.” You pout hopefully, and Dean chuckles.
“Aw, sweetheart. You ain’t even mouthy anymore.”
You swallow. “I- I can be-“
“Jesus.” Dean laughs, and that pools right in you tummy, the embarrassment stoking an already raging fire.
Dean’s rubbing your sides, kissing all over your shoulders as breasts as you just try to breathe. You earned this. You really did. But god, it’s a perfect torture. He’s just kissing and touching you, in a way that would almost be innocent if you weren’t soaked wearing just a skirt and leaving a stain on his jeans.
“’M sorry.” You breathe out, wrapping your arms around Dean’s head.
He hums, taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Your eyes flutter, and it’s hard to stay focused. He’s so warm, his tongue dragging in little circles. You swallow, your voice getting higher as he starts to suck.
“I- I’m sorry I teased you, De- I- Pleaseeee-“
Dean moves away, grabbing your jaw and holding it back for him to inspect. You give him your best, pleading expression and pray it breaks him.
He taps your lips with his thumb. “Open.”
You obey in a second, and Dean’s lips twitch. He leans down, and spits right into your open mouth.
He’s done this before. It practically makes you gush every time. And it doesn’t help that he’s wrapped all around you, watching you with such teasing affection as you take it so easily. You swallow, and blink up at him with a fucked out, dazed expression.
“Good girl.” He mutters, and you beam up at him. “Yeah, I know. You like bein’ a good girl.”
God, you do. And from Dean’s lips, the words feel like a rush of adrenaline.
“But you’re not gonna learn, are you?” He drawls. “Gonna keep me on my toes, running around trying to find places to fuck you that won’t get us arrested.”
“Maybe,” you whisper. “But you like me like that.”
That makes him laugh again, before he pulls you into a shockingly sweet, slow kiss.
“Damn right I do,” he mutters, before pulling back way. “Alright. Up.”
You blink at him. “Huh.”
“Stand up.” He nods to the foot of the bed. “Take off your skirt, ‘n come back.”
“But- You’re- You’re still-“
“Trust me, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the tip of your nose. “If I keep these pants on longer, Little Dean is gonna suffocate. I’ll take care of it.”
You giggle softly, and obey the command. The air feels cold, without Dean there folded over you. It’s just further motivation for you to push down your skirt and wait for his next request.
And you’ve been naked in front of Dean before. Many times, to varying degrees. But you’ve never done it like this.
Just… Bare. Wearing nothing and standing for him to see so clearly, as he pulls off his jeans and shirt then settles at the headboard. He’s taken his cock in his hand, and started to stroke it slowly. Looking you up and down with a lazy grin. Your skin prickles with anticipation, and with anyone else you’d try to wrap your arms around your stomach or shrink back and hide. And the first time you tried that, he’d pinned your hands over your head and fingered you until you squirted.
So maybe you should try it.
“Don’t even think about it.” He growls, when you move. “Wanna see you, baby.”
You swallow, shifting on your feet. “You can see me.”
“Hell yeah, I can.”
Dean’s gaze is burning into you. And it’s the most impossibly sensual thing you’ve ever see, Dean’s massive cock in his hand. The way it twitches and jumps as he touches it, as he watches you. He grunts, his hand staring to beat harder, and you press your thighs tight together.
It’s just you, that’s making him all flushed and hard. You almost start to drool again, thinking about crawling down the mattress and taking him back in your mouth. How he’d probably let you, with how he’s got lidded eyes and making low, rough grunts.
It’s a powerful, beautiful feeling.
But unfortunately, not enough to stop you from scrambling forward the moment he stretches out a hand.
Dean laughs, spinning you around so your back is tucked into his chest. His hand that hand been on his cock hitches up your leg, and the other wraps around your stomach, his fingers grazing under your breast. You tip your head back against his shoulder, closing your eyes and getting lost in the feeling. Dean, wrapped so fully and completely around you, keeping you nice and warm in his massive arms.
“Look at you.” He kisses along your jaw, fingers dragging over your sensitive inner thigh. “Nice and stupid for me already. Ready to be a pretty doll and take this cock.”
“Need it.” You breathe out, grabbing his forearm. “Pleeease, Dean, I’ve been waiting so long-“
You moan as he parts the swollen lips of your pussy, letting his cock slip and rub between your folds.
“I know you have.” He mutters. “Been waitin’ longer. Almost lost my mind, knowin’ how tight and warm you were but not being able to fuck you. Fuck you right, fuck you properly, fuck you ‘till you ain’t ever gonna remember another mans name.”
“Just you.” You manage to whine out, pushing your hips up to get a little more friction. “Always just you, Dean, don’t want anyone else, never wanted anyone else- Fuuuck-“
He pushes inside. It’s slow and careful, deft fingers rubbing your clit to help you relax. It’s not like much help is needed, though. He’s so big you can’t close your fingers around him, but he slips into your cunt like a glove.
“Shit-“ Dean groans in your ear, lips hot and wet on your skin. “Greedy pussy swallowing me up, baby, knew you’d take me so good, take me perfect-“
He bottoms out, pressing against a gooey spot deep inside you body. Nobody’s ever really hit it before, let along split you open so well it gets a consistent, throbbing pressure. His tip kisses your cervix, his breathing ragged in your ear, and you both need a few seconds to adjust.
You turn your head, trying to chase his mouth, and find Dean already there. He kisses you slowly, open mouthed with his tongue mapping every inch of your mouth. His arms are fully wrapped around your stomach, and you cling to them like a seatbelt. You’re lightheaded in the best possible way. Dean hums against your lips, and the sound vibrates inside of you.
You mewl, tossing your head back and clenching down. Dean hisses, and pulls you further back into his chest.
“Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“
“Sorry.” You whine out, turning your face to hide in his neck. “Just- ‘S big, Dean. So big.”
Dean chuckles. It doesn’t help.
“Big, huh?”
“Don’t milk it.” You grumble, and he laughs fully.
“I don’t think I’m the one that’s gonna be doin’ the milking, princess.”
He thrusts up, and you whimper.
“Dean-“
“That’s right.” He repeats the shallow thrust, and your moan gets loud. “Sing for me, baby, show ‘em who owns this pussy.”
“Y- You.” You stutter out. Your head is empty. You don’t think you can fit Dean’s cock and thinking at the same time. “Dean- Deeean-“
He attaches his lips to your neck again, sucking and kissing as he pushes you further down on his cock.
But he stops thrusting. He just has you… sit there.
On him. So full you can barely breathe, every nerve in your body stimulated but being offered no relief.
“What- What’re you-“
“Wanna keep you’re here for a while.” He murmurs, his kisses slowing. Becoming lazy and over attentive again, without giving you what you really need. “Just like this. My perfect fuckin’ girl, look at you.”
He taps your clit, and you try to arch up into the touch, but his hold is too strong.
“Fuck- Dean-“
“Just a little bit, baby.” He coos, rubbing your clit with the very tip of his fingers. “Just hold it for me.”
And God, you try. You sit on Dean and let him tease and touch you however he wants. He drags circles around your clit until you’re panting and whining, then moves his attention back up to your nipples. Tweaking and rolling them between his fingers, kissing over your neck and shoulders as his cock twitches inside of you with every lewd moans of his name.
“You like that?” He murmurs, and you nod.
Then he stops it, kissing the sob out of your mouth and moving onto something else.
He’s done this to you before. Had you in his arms and teased you until you couldn’t take it, then let you cum. But he’s never done it while sheathed inside of you. It heightens everything, making it impossible to think outside of his hands and lips and cock. His thick cock, not pressing against your ass, but buried in your cunt and still hitting all those sensitive places.
You’re on fire, and Dean’s just letting you build and build and build up to an explosive pressure. There are spots dancing behind your eyes, when he starts rubbing your clit in fast, brutal circles, then stops just before you can fall over the edge. You claw at his arms, wrecked beyond words, sobbing and trying to get away and get him closer.
For a second, you make the mistake of bowing your head. Your eyes flutter open, and you get a full view of Dean’s cock settled inside you. His balls pressed right against your ass, the way he almost fit everything in, but there’s still a bit of his base that didn’t make it. It’s slick with your arousal, dripping right out of your pussy as you whimper.
“De- Deaaan-“ It’s all you’ve been moaning, for who knows how long.
You’re so overstimulated, time is starting to blur. Maybe it’s been an hour, maybe only five minutes. It feels like you’ve been here forever.
“Please- Please-“ You blubber, leaning back to look at him under tear-stained lashes, the words falling from swollen lips. “I- I’ll do anything, oooooh- Fuck-“
Dean gives a shallow thrust, and your whole body spasms. He’s watching under hooded, lust blown eyes. And if the starved, animalistic look in his eyes is any clue, if he doesn’t cave for your sake, he’s going to cave for his.
“You gonna be good for me?” He rasps, and you nod frantically.
“So good- Please-“
Dean kisses you again, but this time he shifts you in his arms. His arm wraps around your neck, pinning you fully to his chest in a headlock. Your eyes roll back, a dazed smile covering your face.
His movements are relaxed and controlled, but you can see the feral glint his eyes.
You won.
“Perfect fuckin’ pussy, making a mess all over this cock.” He grunts out, bending his knees so you’re fully folded into his lap. “Could die here, baby- Fuucckkk-“
He seems to lose his own voice, the second he starts thrusting up into you. A beautiful moan rumbles in your ears, and Dean presses his nose tight against the side of your head. You whimper, holding onto him tight, mostly to try and keep grounded.
Dean’s fucking into you at a rough, snapping pace, and this is what you’d expected, but it’s better than you could’ve dream. The feeling of every vein and inch of him being pushed though your cunt. The obscene sounds of his cock slamming into you cunt, his arm around you forcing your head back onto his shoulder, giving you a full glimpse of Dean as your pussy strangles and squeezes him.
He looks destroyed, panting broken praise in your ear as his lips droop and his mouth hangs open.
You push up a little, managing to get his attention with a whimper. He gives you a curious look, then understands in a second. His lips mold over yours, and you babble some cockdrunk nonsense against his mouth. You’re fully crying again, so lost in the pleasure that you can’t even find the shame to care. Dean’s drilling up, pushing every thought in your head away into a pleasurable haze.
He pulls your knees up higher, letting him hit even deeper than before. Each stoke is deep and rough, and you’d been worked up so well that your pussy is just weeping and taking him like you’re a fuckdoll. You feel like one, in the best possible way. Stuffed up and pounded with abandon, slicking Dean’s cock so that it drives right back into your like a toy.
You moan, letting your eyes close and drowning in the impossibly good feeling. You can’t believe you waited this long. If Dean fucks like this, you might never get off his cock again.
“That’s it,” he squeezes your breast before moving those sinful fingers back down to play with your clit. “Takin’ me so perfect, baby girl, just gotta cum for me- Cum all over my dick, show me how much you love it- Come on-“
That’s really all it takes. Dean’s everywhere around you, his cock bullying into that gooey spot, and your orgasms hits you so hard you think you black out. The heat that had pooled in your stomach explodes and floods all your senses, pouring out of your pussy as your hips buck and you squirm in his grip.
Dean groans your name, and his thrusts get tighter. Faster and more brutal as he chases his own release. It prolongs your own orgasm, forcing it to drag out as you vision dances with spots.
Dean slams home, turning your head to find another, bruising kiss, and now you might be ascending. He’s cumming deep, deep into your pussy, and the sounds get better as he fucks it back into you. Everything in you is so full, you think you might be about to burst with light.
You get a soft kiss on your brow, as his grip loosens around your neck. When he finally settles and tries to pull away, you fumble to grab his wrist, fixing him with a pleading stare. You don’t ever want to be empty again.
“Gotta take care of you, baby.” Dean mutters, kissing the back of your hand. “We can do more later. When you’re talkin’.”
You roll your eyes, and he chuckles, booping your nose. You wrinkle it, and he kisses the angry pout off your lips.
“Silly girl.” He murmurs, and just like that you’re melting again. “Like I could live with myself if I didn’t fuck you again.”
You flush, and roll over to hide it in the sheets. Dean laughs, kissing the base of your spine and slapping your ass before fully standing up.
And you learn another difference between boys and men. All the douchebags you’ve slept with before rolled off of you and started smoking or talking about something unimportant.
Dean gets you water, and coaxes it down your throat. He draws a bath and carries you into it, but not before making sure you pee. He changes the sheets and gets you clean clothing and brings you a snack, smiling at you and kissing the top of your head every single time.
“You’re like a maid.” You mumble once you’re back in bed, curled into his chest.
He laughs, grinning down at you. “Only for my favorite girl.”
“I’m your favorite?”
“Don’t be a brat.” He gives you an amused look. “Don’t think you’d be able to handle another round, honey.”
You sigh dramatically, flopping fully onto his chest. You prop your chin up, watching him watch you. There’s that quiet, unending adoration again. You wish you could see it every second of every day, instead of sneaking out and-
Oh.
“Shit.” You sit up, and Dean grunts, grabbing your waist to keep you steady.
“What, what’s wrong-“
“I- Um- You can’t get mad.”
Dean says your name in a low warning, and you swallow.
“My- My dad- He, um-“
“Sweetheart-“
“He knows!” You blurt. “He’s known for a while, actually, and it’s- It’s actually your fault, you showed him that dick pic and voice memo you sent me-“
“I what-“
“You did it by accident! But you still did it, and-“
“Which one did he hear?” Dean demands, and you cringe.
“The one about- About tying me up.”
Dean goes pale. He groans, tipping his head back and grabbing onto you like he thinks someone’s going to rip you away.
“God fuckin’- I’m dead-“
“No!” You grab his face with a smile. “You’re not! He’s fine with it!”
Dean blinks. “He is?”
You nod. “He- Well, he wants to know when you’re going to marry me, but- Um-“ You laugh nervously. Dean’s older. You just had sex for the first time. He probably doesn’t want to think about that yet. “You know. He’s chill.”
“He’s chill.” Dean echoes.
“Mhm. Except for- The marriage thing.”
Dean hums. He’s relaxed again, dragging his palms in slow circles over your ass. His lips pull into that lazy, satisfied smirk. You flush just from the sight of it.
“What?”
“Nothin’.” He squeezes your waist. “Just tell him to give it a few months.”
“A- Give what-“
Dean raises his brows. Your mouth falls open.
“A few months-“
“I know what I want.” Dean shrugs. And you can see it. Him watching you so, so carefully.
And you smile.
Because you do to.
“Yeah?” You whisper, leaning down to hover your lips over his.
“Yeah.” He mutters. “That alright with you?”
You answer with a kiss, and Dean grunts, immediately rolling you over. And this sweet, slow moment feels like it’s going to last forever.
You hope—you pray—that it does.
✦End note: honestly this might be one of my favorite i hope you enjoyed it.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
lowdown ☆ vought’s freezer plans move from theory to almost-real, which means training becomes necessary again. unfortunately, kissing soldier boy once has made training rather inconvenient.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 3569 ride style ☆ banter n fluff
danger on the trail ☆ rough training, manhandling, freezer-capsule mentions, emotional avoidance, kissing
liv's log ☆ i think the enemies are no longer enemy-ing. i wonder how long that's gonna last! 🤭 ☆ don't miss out on this pool and vote on what temp v would do to you!
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist
the hole gets patched before dinner.
mm does it himself because apparently none of you can be trusted with walls, tools, or basic honesty, and by the time he’s finished, the gym looks almost normal if you don’t know where to look.
unfortunately, everybody knows where to look.
the new patch sits beside the padded section, slightly raised, slightly too smooth, a pale square of fresh repair against the older wall.
it hasn’t been painted yet. you hate that part most. the wall isn’t broken anymore, but it still remembers. so do you.
later that night, frenchie finds something buried in the drive that makes the patched wall matter less than the reason it exists. he comes out of the back room with his laptop tucked under one arm, face too serious for a man who spent the afternoon arguing that your vintage deep poster should be preserved in a museum of historic hormonal mistakes.
“we have something,” he says.
everyone looks up. butcher is by the window, cigarette lit between his fingers. mm is at the table, sorting through printouts. annie has one boot on the chair beside yours, tying the laces tighter than necessary. hughie is eating cereal out of a mug because all bowls in this safehouse apparently vanish into another dimension. kimiko is perched on the counter, watching frenchie’s face. soldier boy is on the couch.
you know this despite not looking directly at him. you have developed excellent peripheral vision for emotional self-preservation.
“movement where?” butcher asks.
frenchie sets the laptop down and turns it around. “shipment records. vought is moving reinforced alloy panels, temperature regulators, vapor systems—pieces that match the containment schematics.”
the room changes. no one gasps. no one needs to. the words are enough. containment schematics. the freezer. the thing that looks like a clean, improved version of the chamber vought left soldier boy inside.
your eyes flick to him before you can stop yourself. he doesn’t move. not even a twitch.
“where?” mm asks.
“warehouse a couple of states away,” frenchie says.
butcher leans over the laptop. “this current?”
“tomorrow night, if the record is not lying.”
“and if it is?” hughie asks.
butcher smiles without humor. “then we break into the wrong warehouse and make new friends.”
“love that for us,” you mutter.
soldier boy stands. just like that. no comment. no joke. no ugly little aside to make the room stop looking at him. he walks toward the hallway, slow and heavy, and nobody stops him.
but your eyes follow him until the hall takes him.
“prep starts now,” mm says, voice steady. “if we’re going anywhere near that thing, everybody needs to be sharp.”
everybody means you.
you know it before he says your name. maybe because his eyes cut toward you with that careful, measured concern that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin. maybe because annie’s face tightens. maybe because butcher looks at you like he’s already calculating where you fit best and how much risk that means.
you look down at your hands. your knuckles are completely healed.
training becomes priority again, which is a very reasonable thought and a very unreasonable problem. training means soldier boy. and soldier boy means the wall, and the glow, and the kiss, and his hand at your waist, and the absurd fact that he lied in front of everyone with a straight face and said you punched him through drywall.
mean right hook. god. you should be medicated.
the next morning, the patch is still unpainted. you find him in the gym because, apparently, both of you are deeply committed to meeting in places where bad decisions are made.
he’s not training yet. he stands in front of the patched wall, arms crossed, looking at the pale square with a blank expression. the punching bag hangs behind him. his shield leans against the bench. the air smells faintly of fresh plaster under the rubber and old sweat.
you stop in the doorway.
this is already different from the last time you walked into this room. no low light. no terrible pressure in the air. no glow under his shirt. but your body remembers anyway.
“if you’re here to hang another poster,” he says without turning around, “pick somebody with nicer tits.”
you breathe out through your nose. there he is. awful. alive. almost normal.
“i’m here to train.”
he turns then. his eyes move over you once. not slow in the old way. not obvious enough to weaponize. just checking. hands, shoulders, face. side. like he’s making sure the list of things he didn’t break stays that way.
“with me?”
“unless invisible man is in the room.”
his mouth twitches, barely. then it goes away.
the silence stretches, and you hate that you know exactly where the danger is now. not in his hands. not first. the danger is the part before that, the moment where the room shifts and he doesn’t say enough and you mistake familiar for safe.
so you try something new. awful. mature. deeply uncomfortable. “are you okay to train?” you ask.
his expression closes immediately. “what?”
“you heard me.”
he stares at you as if you’ve just asked him to braid your hair and discuss childhood wounds. “since when do you ask?”
“since you almost redecorated with my face.”
his jaw tightens. not anger exactly. not only that.
you step inside slowly, hands loose at your sides. “i’m not trying to start something.”
“sounds like you are.”
“fine. i’m trying not to be stupid in the usual way.”
“that’s new.”
you look at the patch on the wall. “frenchie found a lead.”
“heard.”
“so you also heard the part where we might be going near pieces of that thing.”
his gaze flickers. “yeah.”
“which means i need to train.”
“then train.”
“with you, damn it.”
he says nothing. the old you would fill the silence with a joke. the newer, apparently cursed version of you waits.
soldier boy looks back at the patched wall. “not gonna happen again.”
you don’t ask him what he means. you both know. “okay.”
he looks at you sharply, like he expected more. you give him nothing else. his mouth curls, sour. “that easy?”
“no.” you fold your arms. “you lashed out. at me.”
he laughs once, humorless. “that what we’re calling it?”
“what would you call it?”
“you pushed.”
“i did.”
“you didn’t listen.”
“i didn’t.”
“and?”
“and you punched a hole beside my head!”
his face goes still. the air between you tightens, but not like last time. no rising heat. no pressure. just the two of you standing in front of the thing he did.
he looks away first. “wasn’t aiming at you.”
the words come out rough. not soft. not apologetic, exactly. scraped out of him like he resents every syllable.
you swallow. “i know.”
his eyes return to yours. you hold them this time.
“i know you weren’t aiming at me,” you say. “i also know i was standing there.”
“i needed quiet,” he says after a moment.
that’s worse than an apology somehow. you see it again: his fist in the wall, his chest lit up, his body locked against itself. don’t. fucking. push.
“i know that too,” you say.
he looks almost angry that you keep understanding things. “don’t.”
“don’t what?”
“do that.”
“understand?”
“yeah.”
you almost smile. almost. “must be awful.”
“you have no idea.”
“i have some idea.”
he stares at you for a second too long. then he turns toward the mat. “hands up.”
just like that. no thank you. no sorry. no conversation carefully finished. just hands up, because this is the language he can still speak without choking on it.
you take the gift.
your wraps are already in your pocket. you bind your knuckles while he rolls his shoulders and steps onto the mat, and neither of you looks at the wall again. not directly. the patch sits there anyway, pale and ugly and present, watching like a third person who knows too much.
training starts slow. slow enough that you can feel the shape of it returning. stance. guard. weight. he doesn’t crowd you at first. doesn’t touch you until he has to. when he corrects your elbow, his fingers are firm but brief. when he nudges your ankle wider with his foot, he does it without the usual comment about your balance being a national embarrassment.
it almost makes you miss the insult.
“you’re quiet,” you say after the fifth reset.
“you’re loud.”
“i haven’t said anything.”
“exactly.”
you narrow your eyes. “was that a joke?”
“no.”
“sounded joke-shaped.”
“hit.”
you hit.
he blocks.
“again.”
you hit again.
“better.”
you almost stop. “that one was a compliment.”
“that one was an observation.”
“observations can be compliments.”
“mine usually aren’t.”
“because you’re usually unpleasant.”
“again.”
this time, you move cleaner. hips first, shoulder follows, fist last. the bag jumps back hard on the chain, and you feel it through your arms in the best way. not sloppy. not angry. controlled. the kind of hit that would hurt someone human. the kind of hit that proves the work has gone somewhere.
soldier boy watches the bag swing. then you. “again,” there is something in his voice that wasn’t there before.
you do it again.
he corrects less now. that’s how you know you’re improving. not because he says it, because he stops interrupting you every three seconds. he lets you move through combinations, lets you reset yourself, lets you fix your stance before he can bark at you for it. when he steps in, you don’t flinch away. you pivot. when he reaches for your wrist, you’re already turning. when he tries to trap your shoulder, you drop your weight before he finishes the lock.
he grunts once. small. almost nothing.
you hear it anyway. “was that approval?”
“gas.”
“charming.” you snort.
“focus.”
and you do. that’s the strange part. you are focused. not perfectly. not without the kiss sitting somewhere under your skin, making every close correction more dangerous than it needs to be. but you are better than you were. your body trusts the movements now. the holds don’t turn you blank. the pressure doesn’t steal your brain. you feel the openings. you see where his weight shifts, even when he’s too strong for it to matter.
it matters anyway.
he moves in suddenly, forcing you to pivot, and this time you read him fast enough that your body answers before your nerves can get sentimental. his hand catches your wrist; you turn with it, letting the momentum carry you close instead of fighting him too early. he expects you to drop low. you don’t. you step in.
his guard opens for half a second. there. right there. your fist comes up toward his face. clean. fast. better than anything you threw at him in the beginning. or ever. his nose is right there, his jaw, the smug line of his mouth.
you could hit him. not hurt him, not really, but land it. prove it. say dead to his face like he did to you so many times.
yet you stop. less than an inch from his face. your fist hovers in the space between you.
soldier boy's eyes drop to your hand. then to you.
the room goes quiet except for the faint creak of the bag behind you.
“why’d you stop?”
your throat tightens. “i had it.”
“didn’t ask if you had it.”
“i did.”
“then why’d you stop?”
you pull your hand back, suddenly irritated. “because i didn’t want to punch you in the face.”
his gaze sharpens. “training,” he says.
“i know.”
“you think the next guy’s gonna thank you for being polite?”
“you’re not the next guy.”
that lands too close to something neither of you has agreed to discuss. his expression changes by almost nothing.
“no,” he says. “i’m not.”
your pulse gives a stupid kick. you hate it. you hate him. you hate that he notices both.
“don’t look so smug,” you say.
“hard not to.”
“i chose restraint.”
“you hesitated.”
“i made a moral decision.”
“same thing in a fight.”
“you want me to punch your nose next time?”
“i want you to finish the move.”
“noted.”
“again.”
you swing for his shoulder to shut him up. he catches you easily, but this time he laughs. actually laughs, low and rough and unwilling, like it got dragged out of him by force. it hits the room wrong. good wrong. your own mouth twitches before you can stop it.
“there she is,” he says.
“don’t.”
“thought you were dead in there.”
“i was preserving your face.”
“my face doesn’t need preserving.”
“history disagrees.”
his mouth curves. faint. mean. almost warm. he turns your wrist, steps behind you, and locks you into a hold. not harsh. not gentle. firm, familiar, annoying. “get out.”
you try. you nearly do. that’s new too.
he has to adjust his footing to keep you pinned, and the realization goes through you bright and clean. not enough to beat him. never that. but enough to make him work. enough to prove your body isn’t just reacting anymore. it’s learning.
“again,” he says, voice lower.
you try again.
this time, you break one part of the hold before he catches you in another, and your laugh comes out before you can stop it. not because it’s funny. because it almost worked, because his arm tightens at the last second, because for one wild heartbeat, you felt him have to think.
“what?” he demands.
“nothing.”
“you laughing at me?”
“a little.”
“wrong answer.”
suddenly his arm is under your thighs and the floor disappears.
“oh, you asshole—”
he throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. actually nothing. your stomach hits the hard slope of him, your hands catching at the back of his shirt, the world flipping upside down in a blur of mat, bench, and pale wall patch. your hair falls over your face. dignity leaves through the nearest exit.
“put me down.”
“get free.”
“from up here?”
“you wanted training.”
“this is kidnapping.”
he pauses for half a second. you feel it. then he starts walking, slow and smug, across the mat. not far. just enough to make the point. your hip bumps his shoulder with each movement, and the whole thing is so absurd you start laughing despite yourself.
not a polite laugh.
not a restrained one.
a real one.
it echoes down the hallway before you can swallow it, bright enough that somewhere far off, hughie says, “is she okay?”
“probably not,” butcher calls back.
“mind your business!” you yell, upside down.
soldier boy’s hand clamps more securely around your thigh to keep you from sliding. “squirming’s not a plan.”
“put me down before i bite you.”
“don’t threaten me with a good time.”
you shove at his back. useless. obviously. “you’re unbearable.”
“you’re still up there.”
you try to elbow him. he shifts. you miss.
“dead,” he says.
“i am going to become a ghost and haunt you specifically.”
“you already do.”
the words land too close to something real. both of you go quiet for half a second. then he sets you down. carefully. not gently in a way anyone could call gentle if they valued their teeth. but carefully. he lowers you onto your feet with one hand still braced near your hip until your balance catches, then lets go like the care was accidental.
you stand in front of him, hair a mess, cheeks hot from laughter and humiliation and something else that has no business being there.
“that was not useful,” you say.
“you learned you’re easy to carry.”
“i knew that already.”
his eyes flick down your face. “did you.”
your breath catches. his mouth curves.
“careful,” you say.
“you gonna stop me?”
“maybe.”
“yeah?”
he steps closer. you don’t step back.
that is the first real mistake.
the second is looking at his mouth.
the third is him looking at yours.
the gym seems to narrow around both of you, the patched wall and the bag and the distant safehouse noise falling out of focus. his hand lifts, not fast this time, not sudden. two fingers catch the loose end of your wrap near your wrist, tugging once like he’s checking whether it’s secure. or giving himself an excuse.
“wrap’s loose,” he says.
“you going to fix it?”
his eyes meet yours. “you asking?”
you should say no. obviously. there are several excellent reasons to say no. vought has freezer parts in transit. butcher is one bad idea away from building a moral sinkhole. soldier boy almost blew a hole through the safehouse two days ago. you are standing in the same room where he punched through a wall beside your head. and, perhaps most importantly, kissing him once was already a catastrophic decision that your nervous system has chosen to replay like a favorite song. so naturally, you say nothing.
he takes that as permission. or maybe you give it when your fingers turn slightly under his.
he rewinds the wrap around your hand, slower than necessary. not delicate. he doesn’t know delicate. but controlled. thumb pressing over your knuckles, palm turning yours, fabric sliding warm between his fingers and your skin. you watch his hands because looking at his face would be unbearable, and because his hands have become a problem all on their own.
“you’re quiet again,” he says.
“i’m concentrating.”
“on?”
“not making another terrible decision.”
“how’s that going?”
“badly.”
he huffs. almost a laugh.
then the wrap is secure, and his hand is still holding yours. for no reason. no practical one, anyway.
you look up.
he is closer than before. not enough to trap. enough to choose. the difference matters now. you know it does, because he’s giving you room to move and you are not moving.
“bad idea,” you say, before anything happens.
his gaze drops to your mouth again. “yeah.”
“very bad.”
“you said that.”
“i’m making sure we agree.”
“we agree.”
you move first, maybe. or he does. impossible to tell, because the distance between you has been arguing with itself all morning and finally gives up. his mouth meets yours hard enough to end the debate but not hard enough to scare you. that distinction blooms through you, sharp and immediate. no glow. no panic. no room about to come apart. just him, choosing it, and you, choosing it back.
the kiss is hot, fast, needy in a way both of you should be deeply embarrassed by.
he steps into you, one hand catching your waist, the other still wrapped around your bandaged hand like he forgot to let go. your free hand grabs the front of his shirt. his mouth moves against yours with rough certainty, and this time there is no emergency to hide behind, no blast to interrupt, no excuse big enough to cover the truth of it.
you want this.
so does he.
that is the terrifying part.
he makes a low sound when you kiss him back harder, and your whole body answers before your mind can file a complaint. he turns you slightly, not slamming, not crowding too much, but guiding you back until the edge of the bench hits behind your thighs. his hand tightens at your waist, fingers spreading there like he’s thinking about lifting you and thinking better of it only because the universe has not fully abandoned you yet.
you break the kiss first.
his mouth follows for half an inch before he stops himself.
you are breathing too hard. so is he.
your forehead almost touches his shoulder, but you catch yourself because that is where softness lives and softness is currently above your pay grade.
“bad idea,” you say again. it sounds worse now. more honest.
soldier boy’s eyes are dark, fixed on your mouth, then your face. he looks like he wants to argue. not because he thinks it’s a good idea, but because his body is still voting loudly for terrible policy.
instead, his thumb moves once over your knuckles. small. almost nothing. “yeah,” he says, rough.
you nod. very mature. very reasonable. then neither of you moves for three whole seconds. until finally, you pull your hand out of his.
“training’s done,” you say.
his mouth twitches. “you decide that?”
“yes.”
“since when?”
“since i’m about to make another bad decision and i’d like to pretend i have character growth.”
he looks like he might laugh.
you step around him, careful not to brush too much, which is stupid because his mouth was just on yours and your hand is still warm from his grip. the patch on the wall catches your eye as you pass, pale and unfinished. for once, it doesn’t feel like the only thing in the room.
at the door, you glance back. he’s still standing near the bench, one hand resting on his hip, the other at his side, fingers slightly curled like they remember holding yours. his shirt is wrinkled where you grabbed it.
“same time tomorrow?” you ask.
his eyes lift to yours. the old answer is there. you can see it. you asking or telling. say please. something smug. something easy. but he doesn’t say it. not this time.
“yeah,” he says.
you nod once and leave before your face does something humiliating.
Hello hello! First off, love your writing, it’s just fantastic! Second, may I request a soldier boy x reader please. Maybe someone he noticed in the media room in ep 3, not realizing she was head honcho of the media. Decided to flirt and try to sleep with her, so bam smut happened. I had the idea of maybe they were sneaking around after that and made multiple sex tapes, one maybe leaking out but instead of both denying it, they just confirmed that they were together wether engaged or just plain out dating!
Seriously though love your works!!
Thank you soooo much anon🩷🩷🩷 I love this so much😩
Soldier Boy SOOOOOO had sex tapes back in the day, and I’ll bet money there was a lot of ‘em. Vought PR was probably so over it every time a new one popped up🤣
I love hearing back from anyone that loves reading my works!!! This one is for you👏🏻
//
It started in that press conference.
You caught his eye as he stepped up to receive his medal. He tossed you a wink as the award settled against his chest, cameras flashing, capturing the charming gesture. The way he approached you gave away his first impression of you was some intern tagging along with the press vultures. Little did he know, you held a little more power than that.
“You get my good side? Should be easy since I don’t have a bad side,” he flashed a lopsided smile that would make a nun wet.
You bit your lip as your eyes gave him a once over, “What makes you so sure?”
He chuckled, “Come up to my apartment, little lady, and I can give you the scoop on all my sides.”
“You’re straight to the point.”
“I don’t waste time when it comes to pretty interns eye fucking me,” he winked again.
You thought about correcting him, but you decided it would be a little more fun to play into his fantasy, “You’re probably use to it. I mean…you’re Soldier Boy.”
“Guilty is charged,” he smirked, “I can give you an exclusive interview if you got the time.”
“Really? That would be great!” you exclaimed, leaning into the lie, “Thank you so much! My boss is going to flip out!”
He laughed heartily before placing a guiding hand on your lower back, slipping out of the room and ignoring all the questions.
//
That’s how you ended up here.
One hand clutching the head board, the other wrapped around his neck and head, riding his thick cock while his mouth sucked deep marks into your tits. The bed squeaked and groaned in protest, but it was barely heard over your wild moaning and his deep grunts. You cried out as he spanked one of your ass cheeks, growling into your tits, “Fuck, keep ridin’ me, doll.”
You whined as the headboard slammed against the wall, “You’re so big!”
“Sure know how to stroke a cock and an ego,” he chuckled through pants.
You wrapped both arms around him, digging your fingers into his hair, pulling his mouth to meet yours in a sloppy kiss. He thrust up into your grinding. You weren’t about to lose this orgasm—the building could be burning down around you both and you’d still be chasing this high. He chuckled and bit your lip as your nails dug into his scalp, body poising for the crescendo.
“I’m—I’m—OH FUCK! YES!” you screamed to the ceiling, body beginning to convulse.
Soldier Boy’s strong hands kept your hips moving with ease, letting the symphony of wet squelching and the fluttering of your inner walls do him in. He came with a mighty roar as he spilled inside. You slumped against him when your remaining energy slipped away. The sound of panting filled the air as calming hands slid across your skin.
“Woo…I haven’t fucked like that since Disco died,” he chuckled into your neck.
A breathy laugh left your lips, “I don’t think…I’ve ever fucked…like that.”
One hand stayed on your hip while the other reached over for a coffee cup and a lighter. You leaned back a little and picked up the half burnt joint, placing it between your lips for him to light. He watched in amusement as smoke curled from your swollen lips before you placed the joint between his.
“Still need that exclusive interview?” he mumbled and flicked the lighter closed.
“Nah. I’ll have one of my interns do it,” you smiled, playing with his hair.
“Your interns?“ he asked, pulling the joint from his mouth, “Interns can have interns?”
You shook your head and took back the joint, “No. But the Director of Media Relations can.”
The look he gave was one of skepticism, “The fuck is that?”
You giggled, tracing your finger across his chiseled jaw, “I’m in charge of making you look good to the public, hot stuff. And, as long as we get along, and you don’t blow up another building, that shouldn’t be too hard.”
“I’ll be damned,” he scoffed, “Well the only thing I’m interested in blowing is my load on these juicy tits.”
//
Sneaking around with Soldier Boy was way more fun than it should have been.
It was unprofessional to sleep with the ‘talent’, lose your job type of unprofessional, but…fuck it. Ben was like a drug you couldn’t or wouldn’t quit. You cared less and less with every shameless flirt in a meeting, slap on your ass in the hall, and sleepless night banging the headboard against the wall. He was insatiable, always wanting more, and you gladly pushed your own boundaries for the reward.
Which is why you didn’t hesitate when he suggested filming your raunchy rendezvous.
“I’ve seen your old sex tapes. Very tasteful if I do say so myself,” you complimented.
He stood at the end of the bed, naked and smirking as he lit a freshly rolled joint, “You wanna be part of that legacy, sweetheart? Gotta fill that stupid glass box you gave me with somethin’.”
You propped your head up on your hand before asking, “You wanna film us? Why?”
“Why not? I’m a handsome motherfucker, you’re a knock out with nice tits—why the hell not?” he asked as he blew smoke in the air.
He offered the joint, and you took a drag as the idea mulled around in your head. “As long as it doesn’t get out. I don’t need to cover up my own sex tape on top of fooling around with the talent,” you admitted.
Ben kneeled on the mattress, a charming smirk tugging at his lips as he crawled over you. “Relax, baby. Ain’t nobody gonna see it. I need somethin’ to beat my meat to when you’re not here.”
His lips found your neck to kiss over all the fresh hickies replacing his old ones. You still held the joint between your fingers when you wrapped your arms around his neck. Every kiss had tingles shooting down your body to your abused pussy. The way his beard scratched against your skin only added to it.
“Just set up the camera, and I’ll do the rest,” he mumbled before biting at your ear, chuckling when you gasped.
//
You moaned wildly into the palm of his gloved hand, every thrust shaking your desk. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck while your legs locked around his moving hips, clinging to him for dear life. The only thing keeping you from falling was Ben’s other arm secured around your waist. Rough fabric from his suit dragged against your clit every time your hips met, the friction making your head spin. Your eyes had long since rolled back once he started hitting that hard-to-reach spot over and over.
“Sssh. Keep it down, doll. Tryna get us caught or somethin’?” he murmured into your neck.
You shook your head as you dug your heels into his ass, silently begging him to keep going, to go harder.
“Goddamn lucky this pussy is so good,” he punctuated his sentence with a harsh snap of his hips.
His hand barely muffled your squeal. The whole floor could hear what was happening, but would they interrupt? Would they say anything? Of course not. They weren’t stupid.
Her body was poising for release. The way he was stroking against her g-spot was too good. The way his suit was rubbing your clit was too good. The way he was moaning and grunting in your ear was beyond amazing.
“Not gonna make that meeting on time,” he teased through panting.
Just as the high was peaking, your nails digging into his neck, the door swung open. All movement stopped, both jerking your heads towards the intruder. Sage waltzed in without a care as you shoved Ben off of you.
“I’d apologize for interrupting, but I’m not sorry,” Sage admitted in her usual monotone.
“What the fuck, Sage?!?” You screeched as you fixed her skirt, “Have you ever heard of knocking?”
“Oh you want me to knock even though the entire floor can hear you two?” Sage retorted.
Ben couldn’t (or wouldn’t) hide the prideful smirk on his face. You fumbled with clasping the buttons of your blouse as he casually tucked himself back into his pants.
“Well on a different note, I thought this would interest you,” Sage announced, scrolling through the tablet in her hands before laying it on her desk.
After Sage pressed play, the sound of your moaning and Ben’s grunts filled the office once again. Your eyes went wide, mouth going dry as the tablet continuing to play one of the sex tapes you’d made three weeks ago. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, nearly drowning out the unmistakable sounds of the tape you vividly remembered recording.
“Oh my god.”
Ben stared at recording before speaking, “Was that the one where I stuck my—“
“Ben!”
“That’s been circulating on every social media platform and sleazy tabloid website since last night,” Sage informed, eyes flicking to you and Ben.
She studied both of your reactions carefully. Obviously, you were mortified, beyond embarrassed and devastated—a justifiable reaction to something so intimate and graphic leaking to the public. Something like this was career-ending.
Soldier Boy was on the opposite end of the spectrum. He’d been around this block before—a whole generation knew what he looked like in the sheets thanks to his love of documenting his best work. She wasn’t surprised by the prideful smirk tugging at his mouth or his chest puffing up when your recorded voice started screaming for more.
You couldn’t find your words, stumbling through a sentence, “H-How…who…w-what?”
“You’re lucky this was the only one. You had a couple of doozies that would have been way worse for your image,” Sage nonchalantly chuckled, “By the way, how does one get in that position in a shower? I’m still trying to wrap my mind arou—“
“You bitch! You leaked it?!?” You screeched, eyes blazing with unadulterated rage.
“Yeah, I did,” she shrugged, “Grandpa needed a boost in his ratings, and what better way than introducing a lovely new couple scandalized by a breach in privacy?”
Ben scoffed playfully, “Not surprised. People been raving about my dick since the first video camera.”
“Couple?” you echoed, completely ignoring Ben’s comment, “You invaded our privacy for ratings?!”
“Don’t act so surprised. You’re Director of Media Relations. You know how this works,” Sage shook her head, “Oh, you’re probably getting fired over the whole ‘Good Girl Gone Bad with a 100-Year-Old Supe’ thing, so you’ll need to pack it up.”
The air left your lungs and you braced yourself on your desk.
“You’re firin’ her for your bullshit?” Ben’s almost sounded irritated when he asked.
“Actually, a promotion,” Sage corrected, “She’s going to be your PR-approved girlfriend. Wife, if polling trends favor it.”
The silence that fell over the office was suffocating, but Sage couldn’t be more content. She picked the tablet back up, silencing the ongoing video, before seeing herself out.
“Congratulations, and try not to break the internet again,” she wiggled her eyebrows at you before shutting the door.
Ben watched her go with a smug look, “I got a feelin’ she watched every single one of those videos.”
You nearly collapsed onto the desk, like the rug was pulled out from under you and wrapped up in it. You knew better than to film yourselves, but you had become too careless. You were too dick-matized to realize how reckless and blatant this secret affair had become. Ben had a way of making you feel like you were untouchable (except to him).
“Hey, look at me,” Ben ordered.
You met his hard stare, tears of frustration starting blur your vision
“Don’t go cryin’ over spilled milk,” he tsked, stepping in front of you, “Now they can’t say shit if I bend you over the conference table.”
You couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled up. That was as good as it was going to get with him. His facial expression was hard but his eyes held a softness.
“You’re fine with this? Me being your…PR-girlfriend?” You asked.
“I’ve had worse, honey,” he scoffed. “Stick around long enough and you might end up Mrs. Soldier Boy. Lotta women would kill for that.”
