When you are ovulating, Simon’s cock weeps from overstimulation, but he never complains.
You’ve been riding him for who knows how long, and he’s on his… actually he can’t even remember how many times he’s cum. You’re feral, truly feral, bouncing up and down his length, sitting down fully until his tip is pressed against your cervix and leaking precum. Grinding down on him, your hands fall to his chest, digging your nails into his skin to steady yourself as he writhes beneath you.
He’s a whimpering, whining mess, cursing under his breath, with his eyes rolling to the back of his head when your pussy clenches down on his length. Every time your ass slaps against his thighs a breath of air is knocked from his lungs, leaving him gasping and clutching the bunched-up sheets around his limp body.
“C-can’t take anymore l-lovie,” he stutters, placing both hands on your hips, but instead of moving you away, his own hips buck up just to feel more of your warm, wet walls around his aching cock.
His mouth hangs open as drool drips from his chin, his eyes half-lidded while he watches your breasts bounce directly in front of his face, and he can’t help but suck one nipple into his mouth to bite down and relieve some of the unbearable pleasure. You moan out, your fingers moving to tangle in the hair at his nape, pulling harshly on the strands before pushing your chest out for him by arching your back.
“One more Si, p-please… need it, need your c-cum,” you beg, gazing down at him with fucked out eyes, obscene moans flooding his ears each time his cock knocks against your cervix.
Your knees dig into the mattress on either side of him, caging his body underneath yours while you ride him as if your life depends on it. Skin slaps against skin, the sounds sharp and loud, the headboard bangs against the wall, sure to leave a dent or scrape the paint, not that either of you care. The smell of sex hangs in the air so thick you can taste it, musky from the salty sweat beading across the two bodies that move together in tandem.
“So g-good,” you praise, bouncing harder, faster, pushing him deeper inside of you while your walls suck him in, and clench down as if your pussy never wants him to leave.
The veins and ridges of his cock slide through your walls, filling you up to the brim, leaving no parts of you empty for too long. He sucks, bites, licks on your nipple, letting it peak between his lips before moving off with a pop and focusing on the other. One of his hands slides from your hip, finding your clit with ease to rub tight, quick circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves instead.
You cry out in pleasure, sinking down fast to grind against his fingers before lifting up once more. With the added stimulation, your body grows weaker the closer and closer you reach your climax, and you beg him to help you.
“C’mon lovie… I g-got you,” he says, planting both feet on the bed behind you, and steadying you on top of him before he begins to pound into you from below.
His balls clap against your ass, sensitive and empty, and he whimpers every time. You slump against his chest, your nipples dragging across his rough skin, his fingers still working your clit, and you’re walking the edge of your orgasm faster than you would like.
“C-close… I’m so…”
He thrusts in deep and hard, knocking the air from your lungs, cutting off your words as a sharp gasp rips from your throat when his tip nudges against your sweet spot. Stars burst behind your eyelids, the sheer ecstasy rushing through your body is enough to have you cumming on his long, thick cock.
“That’s it. Cum on m-me,” he encourages, eager to feel you come undone, his cock crying out for him as it bullies your insides and bruises your cervix.
Your muscles draw taut, your body becoming rigid as pleasure consumes your entire being. Cum gushes from your entrance, leaking out around his length for the umpteenth time tonight, dripping from his skin and pooling onto the already wet sheets below. Your pussy clenches impossibly tight and pulses rhythmically around him.
He fucks you through your high, drawing it out as long as possible before giving himself the same release, his fingers only letting up on your swollen clit when your body begins to jerk and twitch from his overstimulating touch.
“Shit- gonna f-fill you up again lovie.”
With a few more thrusts he’s burying himself to the hilt and releases his seed deep inside of you. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, leaking out from his tip against your cervix, coating your walls and dripping out when there is no more room left inside of your raw walls. Your belly tingles from the sensation, your skin burning from his touch, your body weak on top of his as his thrusts slow and he collapses onto the pillows again.
Simon’s chest heaves against yours while he tries to catch his breath, his heart pounding in your ear as he comes down from his intense high. You do your best to recover too, your breathing coming in short, ragged gasps, the sound of your blood whooshing past your ears louder than any of the lingering whimpers and whines from stimulated sensitive body parts, your legs and arms trembling from the prolonged activity, it is all too much and not enough at the same time.
His cock continues to twitch inside of you, the mess continues to pool underneath you, and knowing you, you still would want more.
Everyone talks about how having a big dick is a blessing until you actually have to face the 8 n half inches he packs :((
The lieutenant is so used to one night stands chickening out, women gulping nervously as he pulls out a sword they can’t wield (lolz!)
And the worst part, since SAS takes up most of his time, the poor guy doesn’t have time to settle down with a pretty dove and stretch her until it fits!
Imagine the shock in his brown eyes when he presses the tip into you, his sergeant that barely meets his shoulders, and you seem to take him just fine. Small whines, uneven breathes that echo from your lips. Soft pussy stretching perfectly to let him in.
His glare rolls over your face, brows knit tight as no discomfort responds back. Simon pushes in a little deeper, a small hiccup echoing the room as he, for the first time in god knows how long, bottoms out without fat tears making his stomach tighten in discomfort.
He stayed between many women’s thighs, just accepting he might never get anything more. Not with those wretched inches and circumference he bares.
He can’t recall how many times he’d gone home with a bad case of blue balls while sending home a dove perfectly blissed out.
But with you? With you it’s different. You take him with a few grunts and a slacked jaw. Managing to actually bear his rough pace, his size, his greedy, scarred hands sliding wherever they can reach.
Big!Simon that finally has a lovie to properly dick down.
WARNINGS: teenage angst. underage drinking. underage smoking. underage sexual activity. smut (mdni). dry humping. coming in pants. clit stimulation. cannibalism references (barely). angst. teenagers being horny. 5.0k
The drive-in becomes something of a tradition, just like the walks.
Every Friday—with an exception here and there—you and Dean go watch a movie together.
Sam stops coming along after the night you take him to see It.
You hadn’t known about Sam’s phobia of clowns, but Dean had. He laughed his ass off when Sam’s face fell as the movie title rolled in.
“I expected this from my asshole brother, but you?”
Trust a fourteen-year-old boy to be dramatic. It takes a whole new order of marshmallow nachos and lending him your precious copy of Carrie for him to forgive you. But he still refuses to come along.
The new tradition isn’t the only change that comes from that night.
Any residual ice between you and Dean has melted away.
You hang out all the time now—after school on the empty sidewalks, at the local arcade, at Bobby’s house. Why Dean Winchester chooses to spend time with you instead of one of the pretty, normal girls from school still escapes you.
But you actually start to talk, even if sometimes it’s still too quiet for Dean to catch. You make murmured jokes, tease him under your breath, and even nudge his shoulder when you're feeling brave. You chat in philosophy class, whisper the right answers to him, and he says them out loud just to piss Richie Rich off. They even get into a fight once, after the asshole mocks Dean’s worn-out clothes.
“Does daddy not love you enough to buy you a jacket that isn’t half-ruined?”
The next day, the tires of Richie Rich’s beloved BMW convertible are found slashed in the school parking lot. There’s no proof of who did it, even if Richie keeps pointing fingers at Dean.
No one notices the knife tucked inside your boot.
You also start taking Dean along on your searches for animal bones in the forest. The two of you wander through the foggy woods of Sioux Falls—your steps quiet and doe-like, Dean’s heavy and predatory. Once, you find a small, dainty bat skull hidden beneath a bed of pine needles. You let yourself fall to the ground, knees scraping, and rinse away the remaining decay with your water bottle.
Once it’s clean, you hold it up to Dean with a grin, like a trophy. The bone gleams under the sun, and your legs and dress are now smudged with dirt. He looks at the skull with mild disgust, but then his expression shifts into something soft and fond when he sees the genuine joy on your face.
“You little freak,” he huffs, ruffling your hair. But his voice is soft, coated in affection.
You sing along to his cassettes when you hang out in his room, even buying him new ones from the town’s local thrift store. He even teaches you how to shoot, wrapping his big hands around yours to help you aim. You manage to hit five out of seven cans, and the proud smile Dean gives you keeps you walking on clouds for the rest of the week.
You get drunk for the first time with him on your seventeenth birthday. Only, Dean doesn’t know it’s your birthday. You’re not one for celebrations. At least, not when they’re about you.
You sneak one of your mother’s bottles into Bobby’s house—whiskey, because Dean once said he liked it. The first shot makes your eyes water, and Dean laughs, teasing you for endless minutes. You punch his arm, pour yourself another, and swallow it like water.
It burns with something inherited. A heirloom. A curse.
Dean seems to feel the same—judging by the way he stares at the bottle like a betrayed soldier.
Can’t escape those addiction genes, you guess.
But the burning fades about halfway through the bottle.
Then, you lose all trace of shame. The barbed wire that’s always wrapped around your throat unravels, and the ever-present tension deep in your bones evaporates, leaving only malleable, tender flesh.
Dean lies on his bed, smoking a cigarette, as you change his cassette to something you got for him. Something darker, layered, ghostly.
“That obscure indie shit you dig so much,” Dean calls it.
“Did Sam teach you that word?”
“Shut up, smartass.”
Head floaty, empty of the voices that have haunted you since birth, you twirl around the room to the soft piano of the song.
Dean watches as the golden light of the setting sun shines around you like a divine glow. The flowy skirt of your dress rises up and exposes the smooth, delicate skin of your thighs. The smoke from his cigarette curls around you like you’re calling to it—like it recognizes your mystical nature and craves wrapping around you.
Dean knows the feeling.
You twirl again, trip on one of his boots, stumble into the bed next to him, and break into a mess of giggles and rosy cheeks, nearly burning yourself with his cigarette.
Oh, you wish Dean would put it out on you.
Both of you stare at the ceiling fan for a long moment of silence after that. Your hand trails down the edge of Dean’s wooden bed frame, your fingers finding one of the many markings carved into it. A pentagram inside a sun. You wonder what it means, if it’s a band’s logo or some kind of ritualistic symbol.
Instead of asking, driven by the drunken, unstoppable need to tell the truth, you whisper:
“Today’s my birthday.”
Another moment stretches between you, smoke slowly filling your lungs as Dean blows it toward you—you asked him to, because you can’t get enough of the smell—and then he whispers back:
“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
The next day, Dean picks you up in the pickup truck and takes you to the drive-in, even though it isn’t Friday.
“Didn’t think you’d get away with turning seventeen and not celebrating, right?”
There’s a silly grin on his face, but something filters underneath. Something somber, blue and gray.
You don’t ask. Instead, you quickly get ready for the hangout. You decide to wear your mother’s black cowboy boots. It earns you an up-and-down look and a murmured compliment—and it makes you glow.
You settle into your usual spot at the drive-in. You buy some popcorn and finish it before the movie even starts. Dean still claims he doesn’t want any but ends up stealing a handful from you anyway. This time, you both sit closer to the middle of the bench seat, just inches apart.
The movie starts.
Slasher flick again.
Your eyes stay on the screen as a girl—topless, because they always are—gives her boyfriend a little show. They’ll both be murdered in minutes.
But Dean’s eyes aren’t on her. He doesn’t even glance her way as she removes her bra, slow and sensual in a way you’ll never be.
No, he’s looking at you.
Quiet but mesmerizing. Tragic and magical.
You’re scared, but you’re also starving.
It’s been months of staring at Dean—his pretty face, his soft freckles, his darkening hair, his darker soul—and being hungry.
You turn to meet his eyes, and something grotesque crawls inside of you.
“You’re so pretty,” he murmurs, his hand coming up to brush your bangs behind your ear.
Your mouth parts, but no sound comes out. You’re not used to compliments, and you’re not used to the burning sensation in your chest—the one you know the name of, but are too scared to label.
When Dean’s eyes dart down, you know it’s coming. You have half a mind to panic because this is your first kiss. But also, there’s something animalistic clawing at your chest, something that tells you you’ll know exactly what to do.
So your lips meet—unexpectedly warm and dreamy, Dean’s calloused hand cupping your cheek—and you have to dig your nails into your own thigh to stop yourself from devouring him.
Because you want to. You want to sink your teeth into his flesh, savor it. You want to hook your fingers around his ribcage, crack it open, crawl inside, and sleep snuggly wrapped around his heart. You want to eat him down to the marrow, suck every drop of pain out of his bloodstream, press against him so close that you rot together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
But for now, you settle with engulfing his lips with yours.
Dean kisses the way he shoots. Confident, expert, hitting every target. He knows exactly where to bite, how much tongue to use, and when to bury his fingers in your hair.
You, on the other hand, are all instinct. You follow what the beast on your chest demands, for the first time in your life letting yourself take what you want. You bite his lower lip, savoring the way the soft flesh gives under the pressure of your incisors. You suck on his teeth until a small noise escapes from the back of his throat. You pull on his hair, tilt your head when he does, and lick over his lips when he breaks the kiss.
You guess you did well enough, because Dean’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide until only a thin ring of green remains. His hand tightens in your hair, enough to send a shiver down your spine but not enough to hurt.
You wish he would make it hurt.
“You fuckin’ drive me insane, sweetheart.”
“I think you were already insane,” you deflect with humor, because it’s easier than accepting that Dean Winchester might actually want you back. “But that’s okay. I am too.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head before kissing you again. This time, his hands travel to your waist, slowly pushing you backward.
Someone in the background screams just as your back hits the leather seat. Suspense music plays—slow and haunting—right when Dean hovers over you, arms on each side of your head, his breath fanning your face.
Tobacco, cherry pie, and a hint of mint.
“We don’t have to, if you—”
You tangle your fingers in the hairs at the nape of his neck and yank him down.
“I want to,” you murmur against his lips, barely keeping your voice from trembling.
Please.
Your teeth clash, and your tongues collide. This time, the kiss is violent. Lips bruising, hands groping, nails scratching. Dean shrugs off his jacket before he starts to kiss your neck. The heat that floods through your body is something you’ve never felt before. His teeth graze your pulse, and then he sucks, trapping the flesh between his teeth and licking.
The sound that escapes your throat is obscene, your back arching off the car seat, moving closer to him. Your eyes slam shut, and your hands clutch his shoulders, nails biting into his skin through his shirt
“Dean—”
“You taste even better than I imagined,” he murmurs against your neck, his warm breath over the new bruise making your breath falter.
He continues to kiss down your throat, around your collarbones, and lower. His mouth is desperate, possessive, leaving marks wherever it latches onto. You pull on his hair, nails running down his back over the thin fabric of his shirt. It makes him moan.
You shift under him, your legs spreading, making room for him. He fits perfectly in between them, the rough fabric of his jeans scratching the tender skin of your bare thighs, his lips finding yours again.
He presses you down against the car seat, hand on your hip, his whole body weight on top of you, grounding and maddening. His large, calloused hand glides over your thigh and makes its way under your skirt, where there’s already a wet patch on the front of your cotton panties.
His thumb brushes over the damp fabric, and you gasp. Your back arches, the touch so different from your own. Your hips buck, simultaneously trying to pull closer and away from his hand.
His grasp on your hip tightens, holding you in place as his thumb rubs slow circles over your clothed core, drawing a sweet little whimper from you.
“You’re so damn wet.” His voice is low, almost a growl, as his finger presses harder against you, sliding between your lips and finding that little bundle of nerves.
“Fuck,” you whisper, still conscious of the fact that the pickup truck has no side windows, and anyone walking by could hear you.
You’re dripping by this point, pupils blown and thighs twitching. You feel Dean’s fingers making their way to the side of your underwear, and panic rises in you for a second.
Someone in the movie dies screaming, probably the love interest.
You grab Dean’s wrist, stopping him from moving further. But before he can question you and the moment gets ruined, you wrap your legs around his middle and pull him closer, until his clothed cock is pressed against your core.
That’s safer. That you are ready for.
Dean doesn’t seem deterred by the change of plans. He simply groans when he feels the heat of you through the layers of clothing. He leans down for another hungry kiss, grunting against your lips as he rocks his hips, grinding his hard-on against you.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, husky and rough.
“It—it’s good,” you whimper, your hips jerking up when the outline of his dick hits your swollen clit dead-on, sending electricity down your spine.
Dean moans into your mouth, biting down on your lower lip as your movement gives him a new angle of friction between the two of you.
You feel so sensitive, raw, and exposed. You’ve never felt this good, this heavenly, this sinful—like divinity is just on the tip of your fingers, but you’re falling straight down into the burning pits of hell.
The rough texture of denim should hurt against you, but it burns just right. The wetness dripping from you soaks through your panties, staining Dean’s jeans. Marking him, claiming him.
Dean’s hands move, cupping your breasts and squeezing, his thumbs rubbing over your nipples through the fabric of your top. It draws a needy, strangled sound from you.
“You’re so fuckin’ hot.” His hips start to move more frantically, rubbing over your clit again and again. “Wanna ruin you.”
Yes, please. Ruin me for anyone else, turn me into something only you can touch.
You throw your head back in pleasure, your hands finally landing on his chest.
You let them roam, exploring the sun-kissed skin you’ve been craving for so long. Your fingers slip under his shirt, pressing against lean muscle and scratching down his abdomen when his cock brushes over a particularly sensitive spot. The red lines you know will mark his skin make the beast inside you howl, satisfied and territorial.
Mine. All mine.
Even though he isn’t.
Dean groans, guttural and wild, his thrusts growing desperate, feral—almost like he’s actually fucking you. It feels too good, almost too much. A bitter reminder that this probably isn’t the first time Dean’s done this, that he’s been in this exact position with other girls, maybe even some from school.
But any sour thoughts leave your mind when he moans your name, low, urgent, strained. You’ve read enough books to know he’s close, that you’re about to make Dean Winchester come. Just from some over-the-clothes friction.
Your hand tentatively travels down his body, cupping his cock over his jeans.
Fuck, he’s big.
You squeeze, hard but not enough to hurt. Or so you hope.
Apparently, that’s the right thing to do, because Dean’s eyes snap shut, his hips buck uncontrollably, and he comes in his jeans. His breath is ragged, his hands gripping you, and his hips press further into your hand.
He pants your name over and over again, like a prayer. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his jeans ruined, and he looks fucking beautiful.
He rests his head against your chest, right between the valley of your breasts, as he comes down from his orgasm, struggling to catch his breath.
You run a hand through his hair gently, admiring the portrait-worthy sight of Dean Winchester after he’s just come—skin glistening with the afterglow and warm breath all over your skin. You still haven’t climaxed, but it is okay, you’re satisfied with making Dean feel good.
But then he lifts his head, lower lip trapped between his teeth, and his fingers find your drenched cunt over your panties. Your hips jerk, and a startled, breathy sound comes out of you.
“Fuck, Dean—” you whine, your hands clutching his shoulders.
“Feels good, huh?” he teases, a smirk in his face. But there’s something else behind it, an edge that you had never seen before. It is primal, possessive, and it makes you feel like you’ll combust.
His fingers quickly find your sensitive little nub and rub over it. Your legs part wider, eager and pliant. Your cheeks burn with pleasure and shame and ecstasy, all at once.
Somewhere in the background, the final girl is fighting the masked killer. She runs for her life, bleeding, hurting, escaping. You ignore it all.
“Dean, please,” your voice comes out all shaky and filthy. Your thighs tremble as his thumb travels down your slit, pressing onto your entrance over the fabric before returning to your clit, your slick sticking to his skin, soaking him in your juices.
You feel animalistic, wild, ravenous. You crave all of Dean—his flesh, his blood, his insides. You feel floaty, on fire, soft and raw at the same time. Your thighs tense, and your back arches. Your mouth is wide open, eyes half-lidded and glossy, lips bitten-red, and tongue half out.
“Come for me, sweetheart,” he whispers against your ear, low and deep, his thumb working at your overstimulated, sensitive cunt. His eyes are all over you, like he is admiring his work—the way you are completely at his mercy, coming apart under his touch.
Far away, blood splashes all over the screen. You are bathed in bright, crimson light as a scream escapes your throat. Your teeth find the skin of Dean’s neck and sink in, deep enough to leave marks that make the beast in your chest wail.
All you can see is red.
Your orgasm burns over you like wildfire, every nerve in your body igniting as his finger doesn’t stop its ministrations. Wetness gushes out of you, completely ruining your panties and leaving his fingers sopping. You pant, your body still twitching, eyes wide as you ride your climax. That’s the hardest you’ve ever come. You had no idea it could feel this good.
Dean pulls his drenched hand away from your drenched pussy, and then he brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting you.
You freeze, hazy mind trying to wrap around the fact that Dean just licked your slick off his fucking fingers. He hums, satisfied and a little strained, like he is holding back.
Something deep inside of you growls, and you feel sick with desire.
“What the—” Your hips twitch against nothing, your breath rapid and your eyes still glossy. And Dean looks so fucking smug about it.
“God, you taste so good, sweetheart,” he murmurs with a proud little grin. Another scream, sharp and biting.
The words make you blush, and you immediately pull Dean in for a kiss, trying to hide the way your cheeks burn.
You lick inside his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue, and you moan. Fuck, you want Dean like this, coated in you, branded, yours. You want everyone who kisses him in the future to taste you, to know he belongs to you, even if he doesn’t.
Dean keeps you pressed against him, his hand reaching for your face, fingers gripping your chin and holding you in place so he can kiss you as much as he wants, however he wants. You let him, allowing his tongue to brush over every corner, every surface. You let him take whatever he wants from you, just hoping that he will take good care of it.
His mouth leaves yours for a second before biting down on your lower lip, almost hard enough to make it bleed. You hiss, your legs tightening around him, and your cunt somehow getting even wetter.
You bite back, teeth digging into his lower lip, leaving you with matching bruises.
Slowly, the kisses turn softer, sweeter. Both of you catch your breath, the rabid desperation quietly leaving your bodies, leaving only the tingling sensation of the afterglow as your limbs tangle together in the car seat.
Dean pulls away from your mouth, nuzzling into your hair, breathing you in. One of his hands is wrapped around your thigh, keeping you close, as if he can’t stand the thought of letting you go. He holds onto you like you’re something precious—something he doesn’t want to destroy but will inevitably crack under his touch.
And you will let him. You will let him break you, let him make you bleed until he feels better, until everything is better.
You’re glad he hasn’t pulled away, because you feel like you might die if he does.
Eventually, the credits roll, and you break apart. Dean pulls back slightly so he can look at you, his eyes holding the same intensity as before, but the sadness from earlier is creeping around them. Gloomy, almost mournful.
He kisses your cheek, then leaves a light peck on your lips.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
You nod, tiny and still a little hazy. He chuckles, presses another kiss to your lips, and sits up.
Every part of your body screams at the distance, but you swallow it all down before following him, straightening up on the car seat and running your fingers through your hair, trying to tame it. Thankfully, most people have left already, only a few suspiciously dark and shaky cars around you.
“Better get home quickly.” Dean turns on the engine, shifting in his seat and grimacing. “This will get really uncomfortable soon.”
Right, because he knows what to do in these situations. Because he’s done it before.
You try to get as comfortable as you can, though your underwear is clinging to your skin and your inner thighs are somehow still glistening and sticky. Dean turns on the radio, and Bon Jovi starts playing. You raise an eyebrow at him, but he just shrugs, and your laugh is swept away by the wind as he starts to drive home.
Dean’s hand finds your thigh, and it stays there for the whole journey. You stare out of the window into the starry sky, your mind swirling with the night’s events.
Your insides feel melted, turned into ashes by Dean’s burning touch. You feel like you’re glowing, the memory of his rough hands on you still fresh in your mind, your body remembering him like a tattoo you know you will never get rid of.
Dean has etched himself onto your skin tonight, carved his name into your heart, and you should be ecstatic. But his shoulders are tense, his eyes unreadable as he stares at the dirt road in front of him like it might hold some kind of ancient knowledge. His fingers don’t drum along with the music, his mouth set in a thin line instead of that relaxed little smirk that is ever-present on his face. And while his hand is on you, it feels less like comfort and more like tragedy.
You make your way to your house in silence, utterly and nerve-wracking.
“Right, I almost forgot.” Dean kills the engine and grabs a small wooden box from the glovebox. “I got you something.”
Your jaw drops a little, your eyes widen, and you hold the box like it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever set your eyes on. You haven’t received a birthday gift since you were five, before your mother had found her true love in the bottles.
“You didn’t have to, Dean,” you whisper, but your fingers are already opening the box, delicately and reverently, as if it’s something holy.
“Of course I had to,” he huffs, his eyes studying your every expression.
You don’t argue. Instead, you carefully unwrap whatever’s hidden in the box. A gasp leaves your mouth, and Dean snorts when you look up at him with eyes full of wonder, starstruck and beautiful.
Inside the box, wrapped in velvety fabric, is a silver dagger. The blade is shiny and wavy, gorgeous and sharp. The handle is engraved—smooth, swooping little waves on the crossguard, words in a language you don’t recognize elegantly carved into the handle, and at the end, a metal goat skull.
You devotedly take the dagger into your hands, holding it with the love and gentleness you once only had for your oldest paperbacks, those with broken spines and yellowing pages. Your fingers run over one of the goat’s horns, admiring the cold perfection of pure silver.
“It matches with all those bones you dissect.”
You huff, rolling your eyes. “Articulate, not dissect.”
But the smile on your face is sweet and endeared, and your eyes swell up with tears you force yourself to hold back.
“This is too much, Dean.” But your hand is already wrapping around the handle, the weight of the blade in your palm feeling natural, like it was always supposed to be there. “Where did you even get this?”
A pure-silver dagger couldn’t be cheap anywhere.
Dean shrugs, trying to act nonchalant, but his chest puffs out at the sight of you being so moved by his gift. “Bobby had it hidden around in his basement, and I thought it’d fit you better.”
That makes you giggle, eyes darting up toward him. You fight the urge to jump into his lap, to wrap yourself around him and never let him go.
“Is it real silver?” you have to ask. Dean nods once and doesn’t offer more explanation.
“You’re a decent shot, but I’ve seen you with that knife of yours,” he chuckles, his hand wrapping over yours on the handle of the dagger and squeezing. “It’s just in case you need to defend yourself.”
He whispers it like it’s a secret, like he’s afraid someone—or something—will listen.
You look back down at the dagger, at Dean’s grip around your hand, at the way it seems almost desperate, scared.
You wonder why you can’t just defend yourself with your old knife, why Dean wants you to have this one. You wonder about him learning to shoot, bow-hunt, and knife-throw. You wonder about the markings on his bed frame and the way he always stares at the shadows for just a little too long. You wonder about what the hell his dad does for work, and what has Dean so terrified.
“Why does it have to be silver?” you murmur instead, because you’re really good at looking red flags right in the eye and then completely ignoring them.
Your thumb runs back and forth over the skull, and your heart flutters at the knowledge that Dean thought about you after seeing something so beautiful. Because that is the most important thing at the moment.
Dean shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. “I don’t know, it might be… useful.”
It doesn’t explain much, but then Dean leans forward and presses a kiss to your lips. He tastes like popcorn butter and still a little like you, and it sends every rational thought flying out of your head.
He murmurs a goodbye against your lips, and you whisper it back. You hold the wooden box against your chest with veneration as you jump off the truck, closing the door and staring at Dean through the glassless window.
You offer him a sweet, enamoured smile, but his face is twisted. His smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes, and his hands are slightly shaky where he grips the steering wheel.
You're about to ask what’s wrong when he opens his mouth, not really looking at you.
“Just—please promise me that you’ll stay safe.”
It takes you out, because it’s a weird thing to say, even for you. You know better than anyone that there are a lot of things you need to stay safe from, that they come in all shapes, from shadows following you at night to your own family, but Dean says it like it’s imminent. Like danger is coming for you, soon and fast, like he knows it, like he’s seen it.
“I—” But he looks worried, pained, sad. And you can’t handle it. So you don’t ask any questions again. “I will stay safe, I promise.”
It seems like enough for Dean, since he nods and turns on the engine again. You stare at him a little longer. At the boy you’ve been watching forever, the boy who saw you when nobody did, the boy who was the first to touch you and who you think might just be the last.
I don’t need to worry about staying safe with you by my side, boy with the gun.
You stare at him as he gets ready to drive away, and something rises from your chest. Something bitter but addictive, something disgusting and cloying and infective but oh so fucking good. You know the name, but you don’t say it. Not now, maybe someday.
“See ya,” you mutter, and Dean clenches his jaw before nodding, finally looking at you like a cult leader looks at a lamb before slashing its throat open.
“See ya, sweetheart.”
But it seems like you did need to worry, because that’s the last you see of Dean.
He doesn’t show up at school the next day, nor the next one, nor the whole week. A month goes by, and there’s no sign of the Winchester brothers. Bobby offers no explanation more than a “I’m sorry, kid.” and a head pat.
You have no number to call, no address to mail a letter to, no reason why.
All you’re left with is a silver dagger, a newfound taste for whiskey, bruises between your thighs, and a broken heart.
The Dean Winchester special.
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NOTES: Part three! I'm so sorry for the wait, but it's finals week. I will try to be as consistent as I can with the update but it might take a little while. still, I am so in love with this story and love every second of writing it. thank you so much for all the love, I don't deserve you guys. please let me know what you think, it makes my sick little brain so happy! I love you all, hope you liked it!!!
pornstar!dean who’s reputation truly precedes him. in the adult film industry, dean winchester is a household name. he fucks like a god with a filthy mouth and giant cock. you would be lying if you said you didn’t drool over his videos. his latest, “breeding my bunny girl”, had your hand slipping beneath the covers and between your thighs.
pornstar!dean who has been with everyone under the sun. he never had a set type in any of his work. he’s been with every size, color, and gender. and each time he always treats them like they’re the only person in the room— like it’s not just a way to make rent. his hands are always on his partner, whispering dirty secrets into their ear before letting the mic pick anything up.
pornstar!dean who’s over the moon to meet you. you were nervous because of his stardom and your recent career in the industry. but dean walked onto set in his fluffy robe, met your eyes, and grinned like a mother fucker. “prettier in person, sweetheart.” he spoke gently, caressing your hand and kissing the top of it. his eyes wandered over your figure, appreciating you and offering a wink.
pornstar!dean who’s actually a sweetheart in his own way. he tells you he respects the hell out of you but in the same breath tells you he’d gonna fuck you like he thinks you’re scum.
pornstar!dean who makes sure you’re comfortable. before the scene even starts, the two of you are talking about anything and everything. he revealed that he picked up porn videos as a way to help pay for his younger brother’s college. the sentiment made you feel so close to him— which is probably what made the on-screen chemistry so prevalent. right before the director calls action, he whispers low into your ear, “tell me if you wanna stop or you don’t like somethin’. yeah?”
pornstar!dean who’s a cocky bastard. his cock is shoved all the way inside you, tip bullying your cervix as he grinds slowly into you. there are tears streaming down your cheeks as the pleasure builds in your abdomen, heat rushing through your veins. “gonna cum already?” he mocks, hand slipping down to rub lazy circles on your clit with his thumb. when you babble and whimper, he grins into the nape of your neck. “uh!” he parrots, tone condescending and ruthless. “words, sweetheart. tell me who’s beatin’ this pussy up.”
pornstar!dean who’s not performative at all. every word, every noise, every movement he makes eminates from who he is. he’s finely tuned to how your body works within minutes. the man knew exactly where your bundle of nerves was located.
pornstar!dean who knows how to work the camera. with certain angles, he makes his movements look far rougher than they actually are. during a scene, your head is against the wall with his cock shoved down your throat. dean takes your hair gently and weaves his fingers through, then each trust of his hips he bangs his knuckles against the wall. on camera, it looks like your head is getting put through the damn drywall. but in reality, it was much less painful and far more enjoyable.
pornstar!dean who takes ample care of his body. he goes to the gym every day to look and feel his best. every crease and sharp edge of his body looked to be cut from marble. his muscles were defined and bulky— a modern statue of David brought to life.
pornstar!dean who’s a gentleman. “where do you want it, baby?” he roughs out, hips snapping unevenly against yours. “where d’ya want this cum?” when you answer him, a meek squeak with a muffled ‘inside’, he moans lowly. “dirty fuckin’ girl. s’perfect.”
pornstar!dean who wipes your tears away when the scene ends. he gently pulls your head to his chest to paw at your tears, whispering sweet nothings as you both cool down. “did s’good. you’re my best girl, you hear?” he’ll press a kiss to your temple and rub your back before the crew comes in with robes.
pornstar!dean who texts you a few days after filming. “just accidentally jerked off to our scene. twice. let me see you again. I’ll bring every food and condoms. whatever my girl wants first.”
pornstar!dean who specifically requests to film with you again when your schedules match up. he’s not subtle at all— he’ll text you after wrapping up a scene with someone else, “wish it was you I got to cum all over :(”
content warning 𖨂 NSFW. MDNI. fem!reader, fauxcest, p in v, dean refers to reader as ‘lil sis’ and 'kid,' slight manipulation, lowkey perv!dean, au: faux!big!brother dean
“Hey, kid…” Dean Winchester itches his blurry eyes as he lifts his head from the soft pillow to get a better view of you standing at the foot of his bed. The motel room is dark, and his sleepy eyes struggle to make out your silhouette. Slight illumination comes from the alarm clock that reads ‘2:08’ in digital numbers, and the soft glow of the moonlight through the window curtains helps Dean’s poor eyesight as he makes out the shape of your body. “Can’t sleep?”
“No.” You whine, sleep deprivation seeping in your tone as your lips sport a pouty frown. With careful steps, you round the corner of Dean’s bed, fingers feeling for an empty spot in the queen size mattress. “Can I sleep with you tonight?”
“Course you can, sweetheart,” Dean speaks lowly, the grogginess of sleep embedded in his voice as he scoots back to make room for you. He lifts the covers, sucking in a gasp as cool air pecks at his bare skin. The only piece of clothing protecting him from the nippiness of the Midwest nighttime are his boxers, but it’s much too dark for you to notice.
As you clamber into Dean’s bed, he throws the covers over and reaches for your waist to pull you against his body. With your back against his chest, you’re suddenly aware of his lack of sleepwear as he engulfs you in a spooning position. Dean’s skin is warm against yours, and you’re more than aware of his crotch pressing against your ass. It isn’t often you climb into your best friend’s bed anymore— not when you front the tough hunter exterior, but it’s nice to be in his comfortable embrace.
Dean handles you like glass, or a porcelain doll, under the assumption that you’re fragile. He considers you special cargo that might shatter under his rough touch so he’s extra careful with the way he cares for you. Even on hunts he’s got one eye peeled, making you stick to him like glue so you don’t get yourself into any trouble. He’s always muttering things like “leave it to the grown ups” and “you’re my shadow on this hunt, kid” which makes your skin hot with anger, but the amount of times you’ve protested this only makes Dean double down. Climbing into bed with him only proves you’re the annoying-little-sister-type that he’s gotta keep an eye on, but you can’t be bothered to care tonight.
“Stop tossing and turning. Go to sleep,” Dean groans into your neck as you wiggle around, throwing your body in different directions every so often. Even with Dean’s arms around you, the struggle to fall asleep is evident in your restless movements. “You want me to sing you a lullaby or something? My pretty lil sis needs a bedtime story?”
“Maybe something like that would help,” you turn to face Dean, your face buried in the crook of his neck as you breathe in his woodsy scent.
“Something like that, huh?” Dean says quietly as his hands fit between your thighs and gently pushes up the hem of your nightgown. “Big brothers always take care of their little sisters. I know what to do.”
You don’t protest as he slides your panties halfway down your legs, pushing your nightgown up enough that he can feel your bare sex with his fingers. He groans as he collects your arousal, wasting no time as he palms himself and slides his hardened dick out of the slit in his boxers.
“Dean…” you trail off, the sultry whine echoing throughout the dark motel room as he works your legs open and shifts his own body between them.
“You trust me, right? You trust your big brother?” Dean works the tip of his cock against your slit, focusing on circling your clit before pressing just the tip into the base of your hole. “Say it— say you trust your big brother.”
“I trust my big brother!” You cry out, opening your legs to give him untethered access to your cunt. Dean presses into you, slow and steady, as he fills your cunt with his throbbing length. He rocks his hips forward, the tip of his length pushing your boundaries and forces a high pitched squeal from you as it tucks against your cervix.
“Yeah, baby. That’s right, you trust your big brother. Now let me fuck you to sleep.”
content warnings; edging / ruined orgasm, slight biting / marking, cum eating / self-tasting, pillow humping / rutting, pet names / pet play undertones (puppy, good boy, etc.) humiliation / degradation (verbal, calling him “bitch in heat” etc.) sub!ben / dom!reader, voyeurism / being caught, scent kink / scent fixation, praise kink (counterbalanced with said degradation)
this is what happens when you give me one “what if ben was a dog who really doesn’t like being left alone” thought and absolutely no adult supervision. i fully spiraled into domestication, scent-brain, and pillow-humping disaster territory and then just… kept going.
HE would never, under any circumstances, admit to being domesticated, because the word itself felt like an insult with teeth, like a leather muzzle cinched one notch too tight by hands that assumed ownership was the same thing as understanding. domesticated meant conquered. it meant softened. it meant reduced into something ornamental and obedient, a creature that sat when told and quieted when pleased, a warm accessory sprawled across someone’s couch with the dull-eyed patience of the owned. he would sooner bite through his own tongue and swallow the proof of himself, would sooner choke on the coppery insistence of it, than let that label touch him and leave a mark.
and yet.
it did not align with how he was around you, not even a little, not even on his best days when he could still pretend he was made of steel and not of need, because something in him unspooled the second you were in reach, something that had nothing to do with muscles and everything to do with gravity. he could call it possession, he could call it vigilance, he could dress it up in the language of tactics and threat assessment and say he was simply making sure you were safe, but the truth was meaner and simpler, feral in its honesty, because he wanted you close the way lungs wanted air, the way starving men wanted bread, the way a dog wanted the hand that fed it and the lap that let it sleep.
if you left the bed, he would follow on instinct before thought, a low sound trapped behind his teeth, and if you pretended not to notice he would pretend harder, like denial could cauterize the shame of it. He would sprawl across your side of the mattress when you stood up, not because he liked the space, but because it still held your warmth and the faint, addictive imprint of you, and his nose would drag along the sheets with a slow, reverent insistence as if he could inhale you back into the room. he would wear your clothes when you were gone, your hoodie, your old t shirt that had softened with time, and he would sneer at himself in the mirror while doing it, jaw clenched, eyes hard, because it looked like surrender and felt like relief, because the fabric carried your scent like a secret prayer and he could tuck his face into it and pretend the day was not empty.
it did not align with how he was around you, not even a little, not even on his best days when he could still pretend he was made of steel and not of need. it did not align with the way his body betrayed him every time you shifted beneath him, the way his muscles tightened as if your movement tugged on something anchored deep under his ribs. it did not align with the low, involuntary sound that gathered at the back of his throat when you started to move, something that was not quite a growl and not quite a whine, but lived in that humiliating middle territory where instinct eclipsed pride and language failed him. the room was still dim with early light, the curtains leaking a thin, gray wash that made everything look softer than it had any right to. and he was a solid weight over you, warm and heavy and too real, his breathing slow at first and then subtly ruined the moment you tried to slip out from under him.
his arm cinched around your waist like a band of iron, hauling you down that extra half-inch as if gravity suddenly wasn’t doing its job and he had to help the universe along. his palm flattened, possessive in a way he would have denied with violence if anyone else had named it, his fingers flexing once, twice, as though testing the boundaries of you and deciding there were none he intended to respect. he pressed his face harder into you, nose digging in, lips brushing your sternum through fabric, inhaling like your scent was a ration and he had lived too long on starvation. it was ridiculous, the way he tried to physically fuse himself to you, as if proximity could become permanence if he just applied enough force, as if he could weld the two of you together and dare the world to pry you apart.
“ben,” you said softly, and the way you said it was its own kind of sin. you did not raise your voice. you did not need to. there was already the familiar curl of amusement in your tone, that small, knowing curve that suggested you were perfectly aware of the way he was holding you there, perfectly aware that the reluctance radiating off him was not subtle in the slightest. you were smiling. he could hear it. that knowledge alone sent irritation and heat crawling up his spine in equal measure.
“the hell are you so happy about?” he muttered into your chest, the words half-muffled, half-growled, the consonants roughened by the press of fabric and the fact that he did not want to let his mouth leave you long enough to speak properly. “i’m comfortable. you move, you fuck it up. simple math.”
you huffed a laugh, that soft little exhale that made his throat tighten as if laughter could be a hook. your hand slid into his hair, not to push him away, but to comb through it, a gentle, absent touch that landed too perfectly and stayed too long. he went still for a second in the way predators did when they felt something brush the soft part of their throat, and then his shoulders eased in spite of himself, as if his body recognized safety and leaned into it before his pride could object.
“i have work,” you said, and there it was again, that easy certainty, that reality you kept carrying into his spaces like a bright, unignorable lantern.
work.
you had work. you always had work. it existed like a rival that never slept, a faceless thing that stole hours from him with bureaucratic indifference, and he hated it with an irrational, corrosive intensity that embarrassed him if he thought about it for more than a second. work meant you leaving. work meant the apartment returning to its unnatural stillness, stripped of your scent and your movement, stripped of the little human noises you made without noticing, the shuffle of feet, the clink of a mug, the low hum when you read something and found it funny. work meant time stretching out in front of him like an unlit corridor with no exit, every hour a quiet, gnawing animal chewing on its own hunger. it meant pacing. it meant staring at the door like it had personally offended him. it meant listening too closely for sounds that were not there, catching the echo of footsteps in the hallway and feeling his entire body lift toward it like a compass yanked by a magnet.
he would never admit that either.
he would never say that he could tell, with humiliating accuracy, the difference between your steps and a stranger’s, that he could hear you before you even reached the door, that his whole body would prepare itself for you as though you were weather and he was something that depended on it to live. he would never say that sometimes, when you were gone, he caught himself sitting too still, attention fixed on the entrance like something trained. tail metaphorical but it felt just as real in his body, a phantom limb made of want, twitching with restless expectation. ears metaphorical too, hyper-alert to every insignificant noise in the pipes, every elevator chime, every distant laugh in the stairwell, every echo of someone else’s life passing outside the door that was not you. waiting, waiting, waiting, a verb that tasted wrong because waiting was not something he did, not in training, not in anything that mattered. he endured. he survived. he outlasted. he did not wait.
except he did.
for you.
“work,” he repeated like it was a curse, and you felt the vibration of his voice through your ribs, felt how he pressed the word into you as if he could shove it back where it came from. he shifted, just enough to pin you more effectively, thigh wedged between yours in a way that was both practical and indecent, a calculated barricade disguised as comfort, and the contact lit up a chain reaction in him that he tried to ignore and failed.
his breath warmed your shirt in slow pulses, and when he nuzzled again it was not subtle, it was hungry, his nose dragging along your sternum like he was mapping you by scent, like he could memorize you into permanence. his hips rolled once, a slow, thoughtless grind against the inside of your thigh, and the sound that escaped him was a rough little “nhh,” aborted halfway, like his throat had betrayed him and he hated it for speaking. you felt the shape of him, hardening with the inevitability of tides, and the way he froze afterward was almost comical, as if stillness could undo biology, as if he could pretend arousal was not arousal when it was literally pressed against you.
“you’re always going somewhere,” he said, and he tried to make it annoyance, tried to make it an accusation, but it came out with a roughness that scraped at the truth underneath. his hand tightened at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to be felt, not enough to hurt, a reminder delivered in pressure, a quiet instruction: stay.
“that’s what adults do,” you said, and you did not sound apologetic about it, which was part of what made him bristle, because you never acted like your life needed to shrink to fit his appetite. “they go places. they do things. they pay bills.”
he made a sound that was almost a scoff, but it broke halfway into something softer, something that wanted to be a complaint and turned into a plea before it could finish forming. his nose dragged along the fabric again, and his mouth followed, lips pressing there with a slow insistence, a kiss that was not romantic so much as territorial, like he was stamping himself into you in a language older than pride. his breathing thickened, and the next grind of his hips was less accidental, a slow, deliberate drag of his cock along the seam of your thigh. the pressure obscene in its simplicity, because it was not penetration, it was not the usual spectacle of sex, it was just friction and want and the humiliating fact that he needed you so much he could get off on being denied the rest. a low sound curled out of him, and he shifted again, like he was trying to find the perfect angle to keep you pinned while making it impossible for you to forget what he wanted.
your fingers tightened in his hair, not yanking, not cruel, just enough to make his scalp prickle, just enough to remind him who was touching him, and that alone made his eyelids flutter, made his mouth part against your shirt like he was about to bite and chose restraint at the last second. “ben,” you repeated, and this time it was less amused, more warning, threaded with warmth, and he responded the way he always did to warmth, with a flare of defensiveness that was almost immediate.
“i’m not,” he started, and then stopped, because whatever he was about to deny was sitting too plainly between your bodies. his jaw clenched, throat working, and he lifted his head just enough that you could see his eyes, heavy lidded and sharp, the green of them darkened by sleep and by something else, something that looked too much like devotion to be comfortable. “i’m not moving, call in sick.”
“i already called in sick last time,” you murmured, and the smile in your voice returned, smaller now, more intimate, like you were speaking directly into his nerve endings. you shifted under him, just a fraction, and the way his whole body reacted was immediate and violent, muscles going taut, breath catching, a sound ripped from him like a splinter pulled free. his arm cinched tighter, hauling you down as if you had tried to escape, and his hips jerked once. the movement stuttering, needy, his cock grinding against you with a desperate little insistence that made his face twist like he hated the pleasure even as he chased it. he swallowed hard, nostrils flaring, and you could almost see the war inside him, the part that wanted to bare its teeth at you and the part that wanted to lay down at your feet and let you do whatever you wanted.
“c’mon, you’re gonna make me late,” you said, though your voice held none of the urgency the words might have warranted. It wasn’t a protest, not really—it was theater, a pantomime of responsibility against the wet heat of his mouth dragging over you like obligation was just one more thing he could peel away with friction. your hand moved again, slow and certain, fingers sweeping down the back of his head in a stroke that felt too practiced to be anything less than intimate.
your thumb brushed over the shell of his ear, catching just the edge of cartilage, and that was all it took—his entire body shuddered, a violent little tremor that passed through him like a tremor through wire, like you'd tripped a switch somewhere in his spine. a whimper hitched in his throat, snagged behind clenched teeth. the bed groaned in sympathy as his hips rolled again, slower this time, coaxing rather than claiming, grinding himself against your thigh with all the subtlety of a man who had forgotten shame, or maybe just surrendered to it entirely.
his breath was hot through the fabric, lips damp against the spot where your shirt clung to skin, and the sounds he made were obscene in their restraint—tight little gasps, strained through the nose like he was afraid of what might come out if he really let himself speak. when his teeth grazed your chest again, it was with that same careful reverence, a pressure too restrained to be called a bite, too greedy to be innocent. like he wanted to mark you but feared the indulgence would break him open. like the only thing standing between self-control and surrender was the thin membrane of your patience.
and then he huffed.
a bratty, petulant exhale that had no business sounding so needy. it was the sound of a grown man refusing to accept reality, refusing to be left, refusing to be civilized. he mouthed along your throat, open-mouthed kisses placed with maddening precision, half worship and half challenge, as if to say this doesn’t apply to me. his breath fogged against your skin, and then he nuzzled into the junction of your neck with something between insistence and affection, rutting soft, slow, lewd little arcs against you with the full weight of his cock dragging needily along your thigh. the friction was muted by fabric but only barely—every shift of his hips made the heat between you more unbearable, his briefs damp with precum, your leg slick where he’d been grinding.
you let out a sigh, quiet, weary but fond, and that was it—that was the sound that broke him. his whole body went pliant for a second, slack with relief, and then eager. he made a noise that barely qualified as human, high in his throat and thick with longing—“mmmh, fuck,”—and started rutting again with a new kind of urgency, his motions less polished now, more desperate, almost juvenile in their singularity of focus. whines spilled from him, shameless and breathy, as if every little inch of friction was a reward, and every inch denied was a cruelty too immense to name. his hips snapped forward in short, aching bursts, cock twitching helplessly, smeared and soaked and throbbing. he wasn’t trying to fuck you, not really. this wasn’t about that. this was instinct, this was need, this was a full-grown radioactive time bomb reduced to dry-humping like a bitch in heat.
you could feel the throb of him even through the fabric—his cock straining against the damp cling of cotton, pressed hard and leaking against your leg like it knew it didn’t deserve more. and fuck, the sounds—those pathetic, breath-stuttered gasps that caught in the space between a moan and a sob, each one dragged out like it hurt to feel so good. his fingers dug into your side, not to restrain but to cling, like he needed to keep you there physically because emotionally he had already unraveled, already surrendered every ounce of his pride to the altar of your attention.
you could’ve let him have it.
just a little more friction. just a few more centimeters of thigh, pressed up, angled right. just a subtle shift in your weight, the smallest roll of your hips against the soaked heat of his cock where it dragged against your skin like a wound he kept re-opening, desperate to make it bleed. you wouldn’t even have to try. he was right there—poised on the high-wire edge of it, cock throbbing, the dark patch at the front of his boxers bleeding wider with every rut. every helpless pulse of precum that smeared him into your leg like a confession. his whole body was a prayer—bowed, trembling, mouth slack where he pressed it to your throat—and he was so close it was a kind of madness, an animal thing, instinct wrapped around need until all that was left was friction and whine. friction and moan, friction and the wet, twitching, ache of release just out of reach.
he would’ve liked it. would’ve broken for it. bucked into it. would’ve let out the kind of gasping, ragged groan that sounded like it came from somewhere deeper than voice—something torn out of his belly and dragged up raw. he would’ve moaned into your skin like it was his only anchor, buried his face in your neck to muffle the sob-sharp cries as he came. cock throbbing hard, dumping helpless pulses of hot, thick cum into his briefs like a boy too worked up to wait for permission. would’ve soaked your thigh with it, ruined the fabric between you, left a spreading warmth and a shameful wetness that clung even after he was spent. and afterward, he would’ve gone pliant with that same ruined, debased gratitude that always made your chest ache, like he’d been given something sacred instead of just allowed to cum.
but you didn’t. not yet.
instead, you let him rut against you for a few more drawn-out, heaven-bent seconds, just long enough for him to really believe it might happen, just long enough to let the sound of his breath hitch and snag and shatter in your ear as he chased it like a dog off-leash. you let him humiliate himself, just a little more. let his moans get higher, thinner, torn from the throat of a man who was supposed to be strong, who had been built for carnage but reduced now to wet little whines and dry-humping like he didn’t know any better. he smeared another sticky trail against your leg with his cock, fevered and slick and aching, every drag of it a desperate, silent plea—want me, let me.
and then—
your hand, steady, surgical, made one last slow descent down the back of his neck. a parting benediction. a touch given not for comfort, but as a controlled withdrawal. your nails raked through his scalp with just enough pressure to make him arch into it, his breath catching again, a hiccuped moan half-swallowed, and in that split-second his eyelids fluttered, lips parted, jaw slack with the beginnings of what might’ve been the sound he made when he came—
“okay, ben.”
two words. flat. gentle. final.
a guillotine drop, sharp and clean, no raised voice, no scolding bite—just calm authority, draped in velvet and knotted with command, wrapped in that awful, elegant simplicity that made it worse. the cruelty wasn’t in what you said. it was when. it was the timing, the scalpel-laced subtlety of taking it away exactly when it was within reach, his pleasure bubbling just beneath the surface, hot and thick and stupid, and then—snipped, like a string yanked from the belly of a marionette.
he went still.
utterly, devastatingly still. not just physically—viscerally. a stunned, full-body stillness. the kind that came when something essential was stolen without warning. the kind of stillness you see in animals that have just been orphaned by violence. gutted-still. breach-born still. his body paused mid-rut, hips frozen in the exact position where they’d been grinding so greedily against your thigh, cock trapped and twitching, fat and wet inside ruined cotton. his breath stalled in his throat like even air had become punishment, like he could delay time if he just held still enough, if he didn’t breathe or blink or move, maybe the moment wouldn’t pass.
his cock, hard and twitching, pressed against your thigh like the memory of what almost happened, pulsing with each stuttered heartbeat like it knew it had been cheated. you felt the throb of him still—warm and swollen and soaked, so thoroughly soaked, his briefs clinging to him like a second skin stained by failure. there was a dark, glistening mark smearing across your skin where he’d been rubbing himself against you—begging with his body in the most vulgar language it knew—and now all that wetness had nowhere to go. just heat, just pressure, just the ache of being denied when his entire nervous system had already begun to tip over the edge.
“i need to go now,” you said, soft as velvet, a sweetness that lacerated. the worst kind of cruelty: kind. no edge, no apology, just certainty dressed in silk, control so absolute it didn’t need to raise its voice. you reserved for when you wanted him to understand it wasn’t up for discussion. no impatience. no reprimand.
“we can continue this when i get back.”
you might as well have said heel.
it was worse than a rejection. so much worse. rejection was clean. it was a closed door. but this—this was the low, smiling hook of denial with a promise laced through it like perfume. it was yes. later. and that was what made it exquisite. because ben didn’t need no. he needed to be wanted. needed to be taken apart fully, not left at the threshold, body ruined and cock weeping and need flooding his bloodstream like venom with no antitoxin in sight.
you shifted—barely, just a subtle change in your weight, the smallest angle of retreat—and somehow it felt seismic. the air changed first, the warmth of your body peeling infinitesimally away from his, the pressure of you lifting like a storm pulling back from the horizon. that fractional movement began to dislodge him, to peel his weight off of you atom by atom, and his body reacted before his brain could catch up.
ben reacted like you’d struck him. no sound at first. just his body spasming in place, fingers tightening into you with a grasp that wasn’t resistance, not really—he knew better than to pull you back, knew the line between obedient and petulant—but there was a desperation to the grip, a kind of frantic ache in his hands like he could memorize the shape of your waist in that final moment before it was gone. his hips jerked forward with one last desperate rut, cock grinding in a final, hopeless push that said everything his mouth couldn’t: please, please, please.
“fuck—no, don’t,” he rasped, and the sound shredded everything he had left of composure. the words came scraped and broken, barely articulated, torn out on a breath that shook. it was not a command. not even a real argument. just a reflexive protest, the kind a body makes when something vital is being taken away. he heard it as it left him—how small it sounded, how stripped of his usual iron—and humiliation flared hot under his skin, but there was no time to cage it, no chance to stuff it back down behind his teeth. by the time shame caught up, you were already slipping away.
but it didn’t matter. you were already moving. already gone.
already fixing your clothes with the slow, practiced efficiency of someone untouched. already petting his head in passing, as if to reward a dog who’d done a trick correctly but wasn’t getting the treat yet. “i’ll be back soon,” you murmured, and that was the dagger. not the leaving itself, which he could have called familiar. not the words, which were banal on the surface, harmless in any other context. it was the ease of them, the simple, unshaken confidence with which you said it, as if you had not just cracked him open and left him empty. it was the casual assumption threaded through each syllable—like you were reminding him of something obvious. like you understood, down to your bones, that you could step out that door and he would still be here when you returned. waiting. wanting. exactly where you left him.
and the absence of you?
it was subtraction.
it was the molecular absence of something he needed to regulate his entire fucking nervous system. he dropped back into the mattress fully this time, the bed catching his weight with a sighing shift of springs, and lay there spread across the wrecked sheets, chest rising and falling in uneven pulls. the room felt wrong in the way an empty house does when all the furniture’s still there but the lights are out. your scent still clung to the pillow, to the cotton of his shirt, to his own skin where you’d had your hands, and it only made it worse, mocking him with a ghost of what he couldn’t have.
his cock was still hard—painfully, obscenely hard—straining against soaked cotton, the briefs painted with precome so thick it stuck to his skin like glue. the stain bloomed across the fabric, an ugly, needy flower pressed against the front of his ruined underwear. each pulse of his cock was a new accusation, a reminder that his body still expected to be allowed to finish, that it hadn’t caught up to your refusal yet. he twitched even now—tiny, involuntary thrusts, pathetic echoes of the pleasure he’d been denied, like his hips had learned the shape of you and couldn’t forget it.
ben tried to keep his mind busy. he really did.
he planted himself on the couch, thumb working the remote, flipping through channels like he could outrun his own brain if he just moved fast enough. news, sitcom reruns, some reality show where everyone yelled and nothing mattered. noise. color. faces. none of it stuck. it all slid off the surface of his thoughts like water off oiled metal, leaving him alone with the tick of the clock and the hollow ache of the apartment without you in it.
two hours crawled by.
the digital numbers on the microwave shifted over and he felt his jaw grind in answer, a slow, simmering frustration building in his chest that had nowhere to go. how could you just leave him like that? how could you walk out the door when he was still wound tight around the shape of your absence, dismissed and denied and told to be good like some animal trained to heel.
fucking asshole, he thought, with no real venom.
the tv went off with a vicious jab of his thumb. the silence that followed wasn’t real silence, not with the humming fridge and the pipes in the wall and the muffled life of the building seeping in around the edges, but it felt silent compared to you. compared to the sound of your voice, your laugh, the small, unconscious noises you made when you were reading or doing dishes or just existing in the same space. without that, the apartment felt… vacant. not just empty. vacant in the way of a house after the furniture’s been taken out, echoes where living used to be.
he stood up before he consciously decided to move. his feet knew the route; his body followed the groove of habit with the inevitability of gravity. down the hall. past the bathroom. past the closed door you’d slipped through hours ago, leaving him with a pat on his head and a command. back to the bedroom.
it hit him as soon as he crossed the threshold, subtle as a tripwire and just as effective—the air in the bedroom was different from the rest of the apartment, thicker somehow, holding onto warmth and history like fabric holds onto wrinkles. the ghost of your scent hung there, faint but unmistakable, threaded through everything. it lived in the curtains where morning light dragged itself in, in the worn fibers of the rug, in the hollow between the mattress and the headboard, in the thin veil of dust resting on the lampshade that never quite seemed to stay clean. it was woven into cotton and foam and the faint chemical note of detergent that never managed to erase you, only soften you at the edges. there was the clean sharpness of soap, yes, but underneath that, deeper, there was you—that warm, human note he could never quite name but always recognized instantly. no wonder he kept ending up here when you were gone. the rest of the apartment could’ve belonged to anyone; walls, couch, kitchen, all functional, all interchangeable. this room still smelled like a life being lived. like belonging.
more accurately, the bed did. your side of the bed.
he stopped just inside the doorway and went still, arms folding tight across his chest like he could physically pin himself in place with his own muscles. his gaze latched onto the mattress with the sort of ruthless attention he usually reserved for targets, mapping the disorder like it mattered. the sheets on your side were a little rumpled where you’d lain that morning, creased in a way that told on how you slept—one leg thrown out, torso twisted, never as prim as you pretended. the blanket bore the vague impression of your weight, a faint valley pulled toward your spot. your pillow sat slightly askew, bearing the shallow dent of your head, the faint, darker patch where your cheek had rested.
it was stupid, how that little dip in the fabric could hit him harder than a fistfight. stupid, how something so small could punch straight through armor that bullets had bounced off. but it did. each tiny, domestic detail stabbed at him with absurd precision—your hair caught on the pillowcase in a single stray strand, the faint wrinkle in the sheet where your hand had hooked and curled in your sleep, the way your blanket tucked over your side and not his. you weren’t here, but the bed wore the memory of you like a bruise.
he stared at it longer than he meant to, jaw clenched, shoulders tight, every line of his body broadcasting refusal. refusal to move closer. refusal to need this. refusal to admit that he was already swaying in that direction, that his weight had shifted minutely forward, that his feet were itching to close the distance between him and that stupid, rumpled outline of your absence. his fingers flexed against his biceps, nails pressing into the fabric of his shirt in a parody of restraint.
and so what if he did?
so fucking what if, a breath later, he found himself crossing the room in three long, quiet strides, gravity and scent and muscle memory conspiring against him. so what if his knees hit the mattress with more force than he intended, the whole frame giving a small, complaining creak beneath his weight. so what if his body folded forward almost immediately, like standing had simply become too much effort, bracing on his hands, then elbows, leaning deeper and deeper until resistance gave out and he finally collapsed the rest of the way down.
face first into your pillow.
the cotton was cool at first, smooth and indifferent against his skin, like any other fabric pressed to his face. he could have pulled back then. could have laughed at himself, pushed up, walked away. but he stayed. he breathed. and with the next inhale, the cool faded into warmth, into familiarity, into something that wasn’t neutral at all. your scent bloomed under his nose in layers. not a punch, not an overwhelming wall, but a slow, seeping expansion. the top notes were the mundane ones—detergent, a hint of your shampoo, the faint sterile echo of tap water dried from your hair. underneath that, though, there was you. the subtle, distinctly human thing that clung where your skin had met the fabric. warmth and sleep and the soft, worn note of fabric that had been pressed against your pulse points for hours. he felt his chest loosen and constrict at the same time.
his hands moved before he could stop them, sliding automatically around the pillow, fingers curling in to hook over the edges. he dragged it closer, tucking it under his chest, pulling it up so it sat right beneath his sternum, his cheek, his mouth. his arms wrapped around it like he was bracing for impact, like he was trying to shield it from something, or shield himself with it. he huddled around that rectangle of stuffed cotton like it was the last solid thing in the room, like the last piece of you that had stayed behind and hadn’t learned how to walk out the door.
it was filthy, really. pathetic.
he knew it. knew it in the same instinctive, trained way he knew how many exits were in a room without needing to look twice. some old, drilled-in part of him reacted on cue, bristling at the vulnerability of it, at the dependency it implied. it felt like being caught kneeling. like being seen with his guard lowered and his hands empty. that part of him snarled, recoiled, insisted that he didn’t need anything this much, least of all the scent of someone who’d walked out the door and left him to fend for himself against his own thoughts.
“don’t,” the word buried immediately in the cotton so it came out thick and muffled. his mouth was half-open, lips dragged against the fabric, and he could feel his own breath bouncing back into his face. “don’t. that’s—” his voice frayed on the edges of the word, low and raw. “fuck, that’s sick. don’t you dare—”
he told himself he could live without you for a few hours. it wasn’t a lie, exactly. he’d lived without all kinds of things. without safety, without sleep, without a guarantee he’d see another sunrise. he’d done more with less. he’d gone months without touch that wasn’t utilitarian, without contact that wasn’t combat. he wasn’t that far gone. he wasn’t that needy. he wasn’t going to become the kind of sad, domestic cliché that pressed his face into someone’s pillow just because it carried the echo of their body. he’d been alone before. really alone. not this tame, civilian version with walls and hot water and a phone that lit up with your name. he could handle a morning. he could handle your absence.
except the pillow did smell like you.
not the clean, surface-level, polite version—soap and shampoo and the crisp, artificial brightness of detergent. those notes were there, but they were just the frame. underneath, deeper, there was the lived-in accumulation of you. the warmth of your skin soaked into cotton over countless nights, the faint, familiar salt of your sweat from half-waking in the dark and shifting, the ghost of your breath from conversations mumbled into fabric before sleep took you. the tiniest trace of whatever lotion you used, muted now by time and proximity, blurred into something that no longer smelled like a product but like you. morning sleepiness. late-night exhaustion. the softness of your hair when it fell loose and tangled. all of it had soaked in, layer by thin layer, until this cheap, ordinary rectangle of stuffing and cloth had become something else entirely.
it was subtle, but it was there, and it hit some place inside him that didn’t understand words. only cause and effect. scent and safety. you and home.
he inhaled once, sharply, unwillingly, a long drag through his nose like he was testing a mine for tripwires, checking for danger in the air.
it was over.
humiliating, how fast it happened. one breath and something in him shifted its weight, like a beast that had been dozing in the corner and suddenly surged to its feet, fully awake. his muscles loosened and knotted at the same time, the tension in him rearranging itself into a new configuration—no less tight, but different. his shoulders dropped a fraction as his grip on the pillow tightened, forearms pressing it harder against his chest. he dragged it closer even though it was already flush with him, skin to fabric, fabric to bone, as if drawing it in could make the scent stronger, could make that ache in his chest quiet down.
he pressed more of himself into it. his sternum settled heavily over the bulk of the pillow, ribs flattening against the mattress. his face turned further into the worn cotton, cheekbone grinding slightly against the seam until he found a position where his nose fit neatly into the shallow hollow your head had left. it was a ridiculous kind of alignment, like trying to slot himself into the negative space of your absence. safe. owned. unseen. the words circled in some embarrassed, unspoken part of him, and still he stayed there.
he told himself he was just lying down. that was all. just resting for a second. just taking a moment in a room that happened to be less empty than the others. just… being where you’d been. like stepping into the shadow of someone who’d just crossed the street. nothing more. he could have left it there. he could have rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling, counted cracks in the paint, waited like a rational person.
but his body had never been particularly interested in rational.
stillness eluded him almost immediately. what started as a minor adjustment—one knee nudging further into the mattress, one shoulder hitching, his grip on the pillow shifting—turned into a slow, restless series of micro-movements he couldn’t quite seem to stop. the mattress dipped slightly beneath his weight as he resettled, the bedsprings offering that quiet, complaining groan he recognized from countless nights. his chest pressed harder into the pillow, then backed off a hair, then pressed down again, as if testing how much closeness he could get away with.
his breath came out in a low, frayed exhale that sounded dangerously close to a whine when it pushed out of his lungs and slammed into the pillowcase, ricocheting back into his ears. the fabric caught the sound, dampened it, turned it into a private noise he couldn’t pretend not to hear. he swallowed, throat tight, and the next inhale dragged your scent deeper, filling not just his lungs but the space behind his ribs, the raw, hungry part of his chest that didn’t care about justification.
he could feel the rest of his body responding even before he let himself think about what that meant. a familiar heaviness coiled low, a tugging, magnetic awareness that made it impossible to pretend this was just about comfort. nerves lit up along his spine, down into his legs, turning his limbs into live wires humming under too-thin skin. his cock stirred against the confines of his underwear, a slow, inevitable swell he tried not to pay attention to, tried to pretend was incidental. but he was pinned there, on his front, his weight forcing him down, and there was no way not to feel how he was pressed against himself, half-crushed between his body and the mattress, the pressure alone enough to make his hips jolt in a short, involuntary grind.
“fuck,” he muttered into the pillow, voice hoarse, the cotton soaking up the word and handing it back to him muffled and warped. it came out strangled, barely audible even to his own ears, soaked through with a frustration that wasn’t aimed at you, not really, but at himself, at his own lack of control.
his fingers curled into the casing, nails catching on the weave. knuckles went white with the force of his grip as if he could physically keep himself from doing… more. from sinking further. from letting the ache dictate what came next. from missing you this much, wanting you this much, needing you this much.
he tried to go still. really tried. counted heartbeats, focused on the stretch and squeeze of his lungs, on the feel of his own breath soaking warm into the pillowcase and back onto his skin. he bit down on the fabric, letting his teeth sink in, jaw flexing hard enough that the muscles there began to ache. it was a stupid attempt at discipline, at pretending he could bite down on a need until it stopped making noise. for a moment he held himself in that rigid suspension, every muscle drawn tight, breath locked somewhere high in his chest.
then, inevitably, his body betrayed him.
a slow drag, heavier this time, pelvis rolling down in a careful, incremental press that slid the already insistent shape of him along the mattress. it wasn’t elegant, not even particularly efficient, the friction dulled by layers of cotton and the awkward angle of his body. but it was relief, just a thin slip of it, and his body seized on that like a starving thing diving on a scrap of meat. his thighs trembled with the effort it took not to really thrust, muscles twitching under the strain of restraint, but the movement repeated anyway. tiny, controlled attempts at friction that weren’t nearly enough and yet somehow too much, each one stealing another shred of his self-control.
it wasn’t about pleasure. not really. not the usual kind, anyway. this wasn’t him jerking off in the shower, half-distracted, trying to take the edge off a long day. it was something uglier, rawer, stripped of all the familiar mechanics of sex and left with nothing but want. it was about pretending you were there, that the weight under him was your chest, your stomach, your lap, the softness he pressed into not stuffing but skin. about imagining your hand in his hair instead of his own fingers clutching at cotton, your voice in his ear instead of this hollow, buzzing quiet. about filling in the gnawing emptiness of the room with the fantasy of your warmth, your weight, your mouth, your words—
good boy.
the thought slammed into him with the force of recoil, sharp and shocking, not new but no less devastating for its familiarity. his breath faltered mid-inhale, restarting in a jagged, shaky pull that dragged your scent even deeper into him, stuffing his lungs so full of you he almost choked on it. his hips stuttered, losing their half-measured restraint, grinding down a little harder this time, a little less precise. his thighs quivered with it, muscles tensing and releasing in jerky, uneven pulses, caught between wanting to stop and needing to push just one more time.
he bit down on the pillow to keep the sound in.
it wanted out so badly. that small, broken noise lodged somewhere behind his teeth, the one that had slipped earlier that morning when you’d told him no and he’d tried to turn his protest into a joke and failed. the one that did not sound like something a hardened soldier should ever make. it scratched at his throat, crawled up the back of his tongue, looking for an opening. he clenched his jaw until it hurt, eyes squeezed shut so hard little sparks danced behind his lids, and pushed his face harder into the cotton, smothering himself in your scent because the alternative was worse—because the alternative was hearing himself beg in an empty room.
ben’s list of bad qualities was short (long, extremely fucked up) but when it came to you—you specifically—he had no sense of self-preservation, no reflexive flinch against damage, no armor thick enough to matter. no restraint worth the syllables it took to say it. if he had any discipline at all, it was aesthetic only, thin and cosmetic, a surface tension that shattered the second pressure was applied.
leave him alone for too long with nothing but the scent of you in the air, and he cracked open slowly, like a fault line spreading under heat. a man undone not by force but by memory, by the echo of your mouth in the room and the ghost of your skin under his fingers. he fell apart in silence, piece by reluctant piece.
he gritted his teeth, the bones of his jaw clicking together as he lay there with the pillow folded under him like a lover, like a stand-in, like a stand-down order he couldn’t ignore. it should’ve been enough to just lie there. should’ve been enough to inhale you into his lungs and let the craving settle into something dull and bearable. but his cock had other opinions—angry ones. it was flushed, fully hard, straining against the cotton of his briefs like it resented him for trying to behave, like it took his silence as a personal insult. It pulsed with every thud of his heart, leaking wetly into the fabric, a hot, embarrassing proof of just how little restraint he had left. the tip was slick, aching, and every tiny grind of friction between his hips and the mattress only made it worse. not better. worse.
the pillow under him was caught between his thighs, trapped and damp and helpless, cradled there like something sacrilegious, obscene in how thoroughly it had been claimed. his legs tightened around it, squeezing instinctively as his hips rocked forward, grinding his cock down against the center seam in slow, deliberate movements that bordered on obscene. he caught the edge of the casing with one hand and wrenched it taut, pulling it harder against his body so he could feel the drag, feel the pressure, feel something press back.
he was fucking a pillow. he knew that. he felt it. there was no dignity in the act, nothing poetic or forgivable. just sweat and heat and the damp, needy friction of a man too wound up to pretend otherwise. his hips stuttered, the rhythm uneven, messy, guided more by instinct than choice. he could feel the stick of sweat at the small of his back, the way the boxers clung to his ass, the way his cock caught on the fabric and dragged painfully, deliciously along the cotton with every thrust.
and in his head, it wasn’t a pillow. of course it wasn’t.
it was you.
it was you underneath him, warm and heavy and willing, your breath in his ear, your hands in his hair, your mouth saying things that made his blood spark. it was your thigh he rutted against, your body soft and solid beneath him, your voice threading into him like silk dipped in arsenic. the image was so vivid he could almost hear you—feel you—smell you, and that illusion, more than anything, drove him deeper into it.
“touch me,” he muttered against the pillow, mouth slick with spit, the words slurred and soaked with shame. his voice came out hoarse, cracked from being buried too long. “fuck, just—just touch me, please—”
he didn’t even know what he was begging. didn’t matter. his body was chasing a sensation he couldn’t reach, grinding against cloth like it owed him something, like the scent of you soaked into the pillowcase could substitute for your hands. his hips snapped forward in a sharper thrust, cock throbbing wildly against the soaked front of his underwear, the wet patch now obscene in size, the fabric hot and clinging like a punishment.
and god, the way he moaned—quiet, but raw, half-sobbed into the cotton—wasn’t even about pleasure anymore. it was about need. it was about pressure, about absence, about being denied and discarded and told to wait like a good boy and then being left to deal with the consequences of that command alone. it was about the ache of being yours and having no outlet for it but this—this, on the bed you left behind, in the air that still smelled like your skin, fucking himself against what was left of you like a dog in heat.
because he was. that’s what it was, in the end. no metaphor needed. no poetry, no tragedy. just a needy, rutting, heat-drunk mess of a man who didn’t know how to sit still in your absence, who folded at the edges when you weren’t there to keep him sharp, who devolved into instinct and friction and the unbearable craving for contact.
his thighs tensed, quivering as he rocked faster now, losing the lazy rhythm he’d tried to maintain. his spine arched on the downstroke, cock dragging along the pillow in stuttering jerks. he let out another strangled noise, bit down hard enough to feel his teeth creak, and imagined—just for a second—your hand on his nape, pressing him down, keeping him still, owning him.
ben didn’t hear the door of the apartment open.
didn’t hear the soft clunk of keys dropped into the ceramic dish by the entryway, the click of the lock sliding back into place, or the slow, measured footfalls that padded down the hallway toward the bedroom. he didn’t hear the door creak open, or the faint exhale that left your mouth when you saw the mess he’d made of himself, didn’t hear anything at all beyond the wet, pitiful sounds leaking from his own mouth—pathetic little whines, strangled gasps, the shivery half-moans that kept cracking loose whenever his hips rolled forward just right. he was too far gone to register the world around him, ears filled with the roar of his own blood, the shallow rasp of his breathing, and the obscene, slick drag of his cock rutting over your pillow.
his boxers were nowhere near him now—discarded in a careless, wrinkled heap that lay abandoned at the foot of the bed like a failed excuse. he’d probably shoved them off with his heels without thinking, like they were offending him, like they were in the way. his legs were wide, crooked, planted against the mattress with a desperation that made your throat tighten when you saw it—thighs flushed and shaking with strain, knees dug in for leverage like he was bracing himself against a current he couldn’t escape. every muscle in his body worked against itself, the sharp cut of his hipbones flexing with each rutting grind, his ass tensing, back arching in waves beneath skin damp with sweat.
and beneath him—between his legs, caught like contraband—was your pillow.
tangled tight in his arms, clenched to his chest, his whole body curled protectively around it like it was something sacred. or something stolen. his biceps wrapped around it with a fervor that suggested possession, desperation, or maybe both. his cheek was mashed into the center, lips parted, mouth dragging open and shut as he panted raggedly against the weave, mouthing at the fibers like he could bite something out of them, kiss something into them, keep something. spit glistened across the casing in streaks and patches where he’d mouthed it, bitten down, smeared his own hunger into the cloth—biting it not to mark it, but to silence himself, to muffle the mess of noises pouring out of him, as if he could hide how fucking needy he sounded.
but it wasn’t the whines or the cursing or the trembling that told the story.
it was his cock.
hard and angry, flushed a bruised red from neglect, the thick vein along the underside visibly straining, dragging wet and helpless over the dented center of the pillow. he was leaking—dripping—slick smeared in erratic, frantic bursts that bloomed across the cotton like sweat stains, translucent and raw. every roll of his hips spread more of it across the surface, soaking into the fabric, marking it with every pass, every slow, maddened drag. the shaft caught awkwardly on the weave, the texture too rough, too dry in places, not soft enough to mimic you, but he still thrust into it like he didn’t care. like he deserved the abrasion. like it was punishment. the swollen head of his cock caught over the crease of the pillow, dragged along the seam, and he rutted into it like it could feed him back your warmth, your voice, your fucking hand.
there was no rhythm anymore. that had vanished a while ago, somewhere between his second or third whisper of your name and the exact moment he realized he wasn’t going to come unless he pictured your fingers in his hair and your voice telling him what a good, desperate mess he’d made for you. his hips moved in broken little jerks now, frantic and graceless, his whole body shaking with the effort of keeping tension without release. his breath caught on the edge of every thrust, the shallow impact of his pelvis against the soaked pillow forcing little curses out of him—“ngh, fuck, please”—each one thinner, more fragmented, dissolving at the edges from overuse.
his thighs flexed around the pillow, holding it like it might squirm away if he let go, like you might vanish with it, like the scent of you would be lost if he didn’t stay right there, in it, pressed so close he could practically feel you beneath him. his arms curled tighter, biceps straining, nails dragging across the casing as he rocked forward again and again, panting like he’d break apart if he stopped.
and all the while—without a single flicker of awareness—he had no idea you were standing there. watching.
watching how far gone he was. how completely ruined. how yours.
watching the way his cock, flushed and desperate, smeared slick in glistening arcs across the ruined pillow, the head dragging and catching on the cloth with every rut. watching how the dark stain beneath him spread wide and wet, obscene proof of how long he’d been grinding himself into the shape of you. watching the little tremors in his shoulders every time his body got too close, every aborted twitch that might’ve become a climax if only he let himself have it. watching how his lips parted into soft, gasping moans that cracked each time he said your name, mangled and bitten off by teeth digging into the pillowcase.
you watched him shake—watched the arch of his spine snap tighter, watched the soft twitch of his inner thighs as he rocked down hard and hissed like it burned. watched the low, broken “fuckfuckfuck—” drag out of him in a voice scraped raw by hours of trying not to cry out. you watched the way his whole body bowed over the pillow, shielding it like something sacred. something alive.
you came up behind him without a word, not a whisper of presence betrayed save for the subtle shift in air pressure, the faint change in temperature where your body displaced the silence. and still, he didn’t notice. couldn’t. he was already drowning in it—lost in the frantic, rhythm-starved choreography of his own need, buried up to the neck in scent and friction and shameful, imagined versions of you. every part of him was braced for nothing but the raw electric edge of denial. his thighs were quaking with the overworked strain of muscle held too long in the same locked rhythm.
His back was arched tight, a bowstring of sinew drawn and red-lined, the curve of his spine trembling like it was ready to snap. Sweat beaded and trailed down his neck, disappearing into the soft dent between his shoulder blades.His cock hung flushed and slick, twitching with every frustrated roll of his hips, the drag of your ruined pillow doing nothing to soothe the ache coiled low in his belly. He was trembling, legs gone shaky, nerves all wired wrong with denial.
and then your hands landed on him—firm, solid, real.
palms wide and hot against the bare swell of his ass, fingers spreading without permission, thumbs pressing just enough to part the soft skin at the curve of him. the contact was direct. and yet, unmistakably you. he jerked like he’d been tased, a sharp full-body shudder snapping down his spine as if your hands had sunk wires into his brainstem and flipped the switch. his breath caught, stuttered, then hissed out in a broken moan against the pillow he’d so thoroughly soaked. his head snapped up like a deer in gunfire, neck craning, eyes wild and wide with the stunned, blown-open look of someone caught mid-sin.
and then—he saw you.
shock, first. always. that startled, caught-animal stare, pupils blown wide, brows drawn, like he wasn’t sure if you were real or just the final cruelty his brain had conjured to punish him. then—relief. messy, naked, unguarded relief, the kind that crumbled every wall he had left. not a softening of his spine or the loosening of tension—no, ben didn’t do soft. but his eyes changed. the fight in them shifted, turned inward, became a silent confession. you should’ve been here. it was written in the rawness of his gaze, in the way his mouth parted without words, in the frantic way his body leaned back into you like your hands were gravity itself.
“you fucking…” he muttered, voice cracked and breathless, not even loud enough to count as defiance, more like an automatic reaction, some half-formed complaint spat into the pillow as his hips shifted, nudging back against your palms like a mutt in heat. “took you long enough.”
you didn’t answer. not at first.
your hands stayed where they were—broad and claiming, fingers spreading slowly, possessively over the meat of him. not groping. not fondling. just gripping—like he was yours to reposition, to control, to shame.
his body responded like it had been waiting for this, for exactly this. his hips tilted further up, presenting without thinking, his cock dangling beneath him flushed and dripping, an angry red that spoke of denial and self-inflicted torment. his thighs were trembling, gone pink with effort, muscles tight from holding himself in that half-collapsed sprawl, like he didn’t dare move now that you were touching him. his hole fluttered beneath your gaze, twitching involuntarily, a subtle little tremor that betrayed just how close he was to coming undone without so much as a stroke.
and still—he didn’t beg.
didn’t plead. didn’t ask you to fix it.
just stayed there, panting, body slick with sweat, leaking all over your pillow like some ruined, oversexed animal who didn’t have the words to say i missed you.
“look at you,” you said flatly, not even cruel yet—just taking stock. observational. distant. the kind of tone a mechanic might use upon finding a car abandoned on the side of the road, smoking from the hood, engine half-dead. your fingers flexed against the curves of his ass, spreading him a fraction wider, thumbs dragging down slow through the heat-slicked cleft until the swollen rim of his hole clenched and fluttered around nothing. he whimpered at that, high in the throat, the noise cracking into a soft, breathless that he tried and failed to smother against the pillow. “so fucking messy,” you murmured, your breath hitting the sweat-damp curve of his back. “you couldn’t wait, could you. couldn’t last five hours without humping a fucking pillow like a mutt in heat.”
he let out a soft, involuntary whine—more vibration than voice, barely audible but soaked in desperation—and you only smirked. that familiar, unhurried curve of your mouth that never failed to undo him. not when he was like this. not when he was already shaking with the effort it took to keep still beneath your gaze.
“what is this?” you murmured, voice silked with mock curiosity as you tilted your head, fingers ghosting over his trembling thigh. “hm? you want me, puppy?”
his face twisted into a scowl at the pet name, sharp and instinctive, a flash of residual defiance that flared like a last flare on a sinking ship—useless, theatrical, reflex more than rebellion. puppy. the word didn’t just land; it latched, clung to him like it had teeth, the syllables burrowing beneath the surface of his skin to bite at the soft tissue of pride he tried to pretend he still had. his lip curled, nose wrinkling, brows cutting down in a look he might’ve used on an enemy in another life—if not for the way his breath hitched beneath it.
“don’t—” he started, voice low, cracked, already shaky—but the protest withered almost instantly, drowned beneath the heat that lit up his chest when you stepped in closer, when your hand pressed flat against the middle of his stomach and pushed, guiding him back onto the bed like you were staking a flag.
he went onto his back like that: unguarded, compliant, trembling faintly with the leftover adrenaline of shame not yet spent. His thighs stayed spread without prompting, knees bent and twitching faintly with the tremor of overstimulation. the sheet beneath him was a mess of friction-slick cotton and sweat, rumpled and stinking faintly of sex and effort. his chest heaved under the weight of what he hadn’t said, flushed from throat to sternum with the kind of physiological vulnerability that couldn’t be faked—capillaries lit up, gooseflesh marching down his sides, every part of him reacting to you before his voice ever did. and yet, the moment your weight shifted over him, he reached—without command, without thought.
his hands found your back and clung, fingers splaying with the frantic greed of a man overboard finding the hull. his nails dug in—not viciously, not to wound, but like talons hooked into the only tether that could keep him from slipping under. like if he didn’t hold on, gravity would take him somewhere worse. he pressed his face into the junction of your neck, dragging in a breath so long and shaky it bordered on sobbing. not for dramatics—he didn’t have the performative bandwidth for shame anymore—but for necessity. he needed to fill his lungs with you, to reacquire some kind of sensory proof that you were real.
his hips bucked up into yours without finesse, just raw instinct—one desperate grind of skin to cloth, and the smear he left across your pants was hot and shameful and unmistakably his. his cock throbbed against the seam of your thigh, already slick from too much friction, too much want, the fabric between you darkening where his need soaked through.
but the rest shattered. because then—your hand.
you touched him like you had every right to. not apologetically. not teasing. your fingers wrapped around the length of him like you were taking inventory, assessing weight and need and how far gone he’d let himself get in your absence. his cock twitched violently in your grip, the head flushed a deep, angry red, glistening with the indecent aftermath of all that friction. his reaction was full-body. his back arched, taut as a pulled string. hips twitched. his heels planted hard in the mattress. and yet, despite everything, he didn’t speak. didn’t beg. just kept gasping, soft and shamed, as if breathing was all he had left.
“fuck,” he gasped, voice cracked and trembling, reverberating against your skin. it wasn’t even a word anymore, just the exhale of something unendurable. his legs parted farther on instinct, thighs trembling under the strain, his hole flexing as though trying to invite touch with no words, no grace. there was no composure left. no strategy. he was a live wire of sensory input, reduced to pulse and pressure and the drag of your thumb against swollen, over-sensitive flesh.
and then your other hand came down.
not between his legs—yet—but slowly, possessively, sliding down the tense line of his thigh. the inside, where his skin was soft and fever-warm. you didn’t touch where he needed it. you hovered. the anticipation was a knife. the nearness of your palm to his hole made his breath catch in his throat like a glitch in the system, the muscles in his gut flinching under phantom touch. he was so fucking sensitive—tense and twitching, slick with sweat and need, laid out and whimpering under the weight of what you might do next.
“is this what you wanted?” you murmured against his ear, your voice slow and viscous, each syllable dragged out like a cruel fingertip. “dry humping my pillow like some needy little mutt? making yourself come on nothing like it would fill you?”
the growl that left him was choked, caught between defiance and shame. his jaw clenched hard, eyes squeezed shut, and still—his hips jerked up again, traitorous and pleading. the tip of his cock leaked thickly into your hand, the fluid sticky and hot, running in lazy trails down your fingers like it missed you.
“you missed me that bad?” you went on, your thumb catching the head, spreading his own arousal over sensitive skin until his entire frame stuttered with it. “had to fuck the sheets just to survive a morning?”
and then—his voice cracked. a sound, small and shaking, fled from him before he could stop it. a sob dressed up as a gasp. his nails sank deeper into your back, dragging downward like he needed to mark you, anchor himself to something real.
your hand was steady on his cock. your other moved at last, knuckles brushing lightly across his rim in a cruel tease, and the way he twitched—hips grinding, thighs opening even wider—was so unguarded, so raw, it nearly broke your rhythm.
he was close. too close.
every nerve in his body was taut, quivering under the weight of anticipation, and you could feel it in the way his muscles tensed and betrayed him, each involuntary twitch a confession carved straight into sinew. his hips jerked in panicked, uneven little thrusts, a tremulous dance of instinct against restraint, as if grinding his body could somehow forge the impossible: release without permission, relief without sanction. his cock throbbed in your hand, flushed, pulsing with the feral insistence of denied release, a nerve-shot beacon of want that radiated heat through the air like a mirage over summer asphalt. the smell of him—salt, skin, arousal, desperation—coated your fingers like a living perfume, sharp and intoxicating, crawling under your nails and into your awareness.
and then, with surgical precision, you stopped.
your hand stilled completely, the motion arrested as though frozen mid-stroke. one moment the slow, deliberate friction that had been punishing him with agonizing patience; the next, void. no movement. no warmth. no indulgence. he didn’t even have the capacity to process the absence immediately; his body jolted like he’d been shocked with a live wire. a strangled whimper escaped him, breath snagged in the hollow of his throat, ragged and raw, tasting of frustration and betrayal. his cock kicked against your palm, leaking another bead of arousal, slick and angry, sliding along your skin in proof of how undone he was, how fragile and susceptible your absence had made him.
“wait—wait—what—?” his voice cracked mid-word, throat still pressed to the crook of your neck, desperation dripping from each syllable. hands scrabbling against your back, not pushing, not resisting—just clinging, tethering himself to the only constant in a world that had tilted off-axis. “don’t—don’t stop—”
but you gave him nothing.
you removed your hand entirely.
ben shuddered violently. the sound he made—part gasp, part growl, part unformed noise from somewhere between human and animal—shook the room with its rawness. it was primal, untethered, raw and shameful. his body shivered, thighs quivering as if the simple denial had rewired his nervous system, every nerve screaming for release while the world insisted on cold observation.
and then your other hand moved.
the one that had hovered between his thighs, shadowlike, waiting with lethal patience. you slid it down again—slow, deliberate, precise. two fingers brushed along the sensitive seam of him, tracing the edge, teasing, almost contemptuous in the cruelty of restraint. his breath hitched, stuttered, uneven, as if your touch had struck a nerve wired straight to his spine. his body jerked like you’d sent a current through him, legs quivering under tension, knees buckling slightly into the mattress while every fiber of him ached for more.
he clenched.
so tight. reflexive. automatic. a small, panicked anchor that his body didn’t have the option to release.
and yet he didn’t pull away.
“ohh,” you purred, the syllable low and teasing, deliberate and dripping with control. fingers circling that one sensitive rim with slow, mocking indulgence. “you want something here, don’t you?”
he couldn’t answer. couldn’t. his voice had already fractured into raw, elemental noise—moans, whimpers, broken syllables of your name, all scraping out in ragged bursts. his hole fluttered under your fingertips, responsive, shivering, twitching, acknowledging the claim without defiance. his body writhed involuntarily, each movement betraying him further, every small shift a testament to the utter impossibility of control.
and still—you didn’t push further.
you traced him. circling, teasing, meticulous. fingers dragging wet along the slick edges, observing each spasm, each tremor, each helpless twitch that exposed just how thoroughly undone he was. you watched him shiver, watched the way his hips jerked up in instinctive protest and silent pleading, watched the way his thighs flexed and released, quivering under the weight of your restraint. the air itself seemed thick around him, vibrating with heat and need, every exhale of his a confession, every gasp a surrender he couldn’t articulate.
the ache in him was almost tangible, a low hum that reverberated through the sheets, through the pillow, through your hands pressed against him. denial had sharpened every sense, turned his body into a map of want: every tendon, every vein, every quivering muscle a landmark, a warning, a signal flaring in the absence of release. his cock throbbed against your palm in tiny, impatient jerks, the friction between your hand and him cruelly insufficient, a near-torment that teased and denied in equal measure.
your fingers breached him with the kind of precision that bordered on clinical cruelty—no haste, no pity. just the slow, inexorable pressure of your will driving inward, parting him open with a wet, gluttonous squelch that seemed to echo in the charged silence between you. his hole yielded like it had been waiting for this, like it knew you—recognized you—not just as intruder, but as inevitable. his body didn’t tense in resistance; it welcomed you, inner walls convulsing in slow-motion pulses, grasping, sucking, dragging your fingers in as if his flesh had learned your shape by instinct. a hot, clutching hunger that clenched as though terrified of your retreat.
ben moaned, but even that was too civilized a word for the feral, fractured sound that spilled from his mouth. it started deep—a guttural groan born somewhere beneath the diaphragm—then stuttered into something more desperate as your fingers curled within him. “ah—fuhhnn—” he gasped, jaw slack, voice cracked open like the rest of him. it wasn't articulate. he couldn’t form a coherent plea, just broken vowel sounds slick with saliva and surrender. his back arched in a sharp curve, hips bucking down to chase your hand deeper with wild, dogged desperation. every twitch of his hole around your fingers seemed involuntary—like his body had short-circuited, determined to fuck itself on anything you gave it, no matter how much it burned.
he was sweating like a fever victim, the sharp musk of arousal clinging to his skin in humid waves, pooling beneath his body in the crumpled sheets. your fingertips mapped him from the inside—testing the taut ring of muscle that tried (and failed) to keep you out, teasing the silky pressure of his inner walls, stroking along that elusive bundle of nerves that sent shockwaves up his spine every time you so much as ghosted across it. each time you found it, his whole body convulsed, a sharp involuntary seizure of sensation that made his hole clench down with twitching, spasmodic tightness. he whimpered—high and cracked, “ahhhnnn—aaahn,” broken syllables that sounded like vowels strangled by too much pleasure, eyes glazed and wet, mouth open, lips red from biting.
his cock stood rigid against his belly, flushed so dark it bordered on purple, smeared with glistening trails of precum like it was weeping. and then your other hand wrapped around it again—casual, clinical, like you were checking the condition of a specimen. your grip was deliberate. firm. palm dragging from base to tip in a maddeningly slow arc that made him convulse beneath you, his whole body twitching in aborted thrusts. he moved like he didn’t know whether to hump your hand or escape it—every instinct fried, caught between pleasure and overload.
when your thumb circled the head and pressed gently against the slit—just once, just a breath of contact—he screamed. no words. no restraint. just a ragged, raw-throated cry torn from the pit of him, the kind of sound you’d expect from something being unmade. his hips lurched upward in violent spasms, trying to fuck into your fist, trying to fuck down onto your fingers, as if motion alone could somehow satisfy both hungers at once. he was flailing now, rutting against you like a beast in heat, a pathetic, overstimulated mess, the last vestiges of control incinerated beneath the dual assault.
he clawed at your back, fingers scrabbling with no coordination, nails dragging in half-moon gouges like he needed to anchor himself to you to keep from falling out of his own skin. they weren’t touches so much as clings, animal and unthinking, bruising and desperate. when he tried to speak again, it wasn’t speech—just a rasping string of broken sounds against your collarbone, breath hot and wet as his teeth found your skin and he bit, not to hurt, but to hold. puppyish. mindless.
he was drooling, now. you felt it. the slick trail from the corner of his slack lips smearing against your neck as he panted against you, too far gone to notice, too ruined to care. his mouth opened and closed like a fish on land, dry noises spilling out—“hhh—ahh—fuck, please—i can’t—fuhhh—” but none of it had structure. just desperation. pure need. his pupils were blown so wide they’d swallowed the green of his irises, eyes rolling back each time your fingers rubbed just right, just there, just enough.
your fingers flexed inside him, and he seized—his whole body snapping tight like a bowstring, hole clamping down in rhythmic spasms that dragged a thick, wet noise from the mess of his insides. you could feel it, the fluttering contractions around your fingers, the way his prostate swelled under your touch like it was begging for more, demanding it. he whimpered and arched, toes curling, heels digging into the sheets.
ben was beyond language. reduced to need. reduced to you.
you stroked his cock again, matching the motion of your fingers inside him, slow and cruel, syncing pressure and pace until he sobbed through clenched teeth, throat raw. he bucked like a dog, like something broken and rabid, every thrust of his hips a pathetic imitation of control. his entire body vibrated—muscles twitching, nerves firing out of sequence, jaw slack and quivering as your hand pushed him closer and closer to the edge he wasn’t allowed to fall from.
“such a good little thing,” you murmured, lips brushing the damp hair at his temple. “fucking yourself on my fingers like a bitch in heat.”
he made a noise at that—low and wrecked, more breath than voice—a keening moan that sounded like shame wrapped in want. he humped helplessly against your palm, cock pulsing in your grip, drool and sweat mixing on his flushed skin. you nipped at his ear and he whined, a pathetic little sound that would’ve been humiliating if he were still capable of pride.
but that was long gone.
ben was nothing but raw nerve endings now, all instinct and obedience and need. his skin flushed to his chest, thighs trembling so violently it looked like he might collapse entirely, and he still didn’t stop moving. couldn’t. every push of your fingers, every stroke of your hand, made his body react like he was wired directly into you. he bit at your neck again, less a threat than a plea, hips grinding, cock twitching, hole squeezing around you like it knew you’d leave if it let go.
he was trying to milk your fingers.
you felt it in every twitch of his inner walls, every desperate suck and pulse like his body was begging to be fucked properly, even if it would split him open. even if it would destroy him. he didn’t care. he couldn’t care. he was gone—mind shattered across the edge of sensation, breath sobbing, whole body shaking with the effort of enduring.
and you weren’t stopping.
not yet.
not when he was like this—glassy-eyed, soaking wet, whining into your neck like a kicked dog, writhing on your hands as though your touch was the only thing tethering him to earth. not when he was choking on every breath, muscles twitching under his skin like live wires, cock leaking so much it slicked your palm without end.
“good boy,” you murmured, voice poured slow like warm syrup into the shell of his ear, thick with indulgence and dripping with praise. the words were soft, but they struck him like a whip, made him jolt, shiver, whine—every syllable etched into his spine like a brand. “such a desperate little thing for me. you love this, don’t you? being my messy, pathetic little mutt.”
and he did.
ben nodded frantically, mouth opening and closing against your throat like he’d forgotten how to speak—just mouthing, gasping, babbling a delirious litany of “yes,” and “please,” and “more,” each word mangled and half-swallowed, each utterance steeped in shattered need. he wasn’t even trying to form real sentences anymore, not even trying to maintain the veneer of composure. that had burned away long ago.
he pressed frantic, open-mouthed kisses into your neck like a starving thing, like he could repay you by imprinting his desperation into your skin. lips parted, breath ragged, teeth grazing—he nibbled mindlessly, like a puppy caught in instinct, trying to mark, trying to hold onto something as he drowned under the weight of your control. his body writhed against yours in spasmodic bursts, hips jerking, rutting up into your fist with feverish stutters that betrayed just how thoroughly he was unraveling. he didn’t even notice he was drooling until you felt it—warm spit soaking your skin, a trembling whimper hitching in his throat as he tried to suck it back in.
and then—without warning—he broke.
there was no crescendo, no climax signaled by breathless begging or pleading eyes. It hit him like a fissure splitting open inside his gut. sudden. seismic. cataclysmic.
he came with a noise that was halfway between a sob and a scream—raw, keening, soul-deep. his cock convulsed violently in your hand, thick streams of cum spurting across your knuckles, painting his own belly and chest in erratic ropes. his whole body seized, like a violin string pulled too taut and then snapped, muscles locking up as if pleasure had short-circuited his every nerve. you could feel each pulse of his cock, every desperate throb, every twitching spasm that wracked his form.
his hole clamped around your fingers at the same time, vice-tight, fluttering in helpless, arrhythmic spasms like his body was trying to milk you deeper, hold you inside while he shattered around you. the heat of him was scalding, slick and obscene, inner muscles clenching down so hard you had to still your hand completely just to avoid overwhelming him further. even that wasn’t mercy—it was control, restraint in the face of his ruin.
he bucked, hard, legs kicking out in erratic jerks as if his brain had shut off and left his body running on instinct alone. his nails raked down your back, carving little crescents of red across your skin, shaking hands fisting and flexing without rhythm. he was sobbing now—silent, breathless, broken-open sobs that came in waves, his body too wrung out to make sound. his breath hitched violently in his throat with each aftershock, his body twitching uncontrollably as if every nerve ending was still echoing your touch.
but he didn’t stop grinding back.
even in the throes of release, even as his cum leaked from the tip of his twitching cock, he kept pushing back onto your fingers, shallow, trembling thrusts that spoke of need deeper than orgasm. his body still wanted. still ached. still clung to the feeling of you inside. his ass clenched down with erratic, overstimulated spasms, trying to coax more from your hand, even as every motion made him sob harder. It was involuntary—his body possessed by the ghost of what you’d given him, and begging for more.
and still, those kisses. sloppy, desperate kisses against your throat, lips wet with saliva, tasting of helpless gratitude and fraying sanity. he was mouthing at your skin now, pressing his face into your neck like he could disappear into it, whimpering into your collarbone like a dog curling into its master’s lap, too dumb with pleasure to know what to do except cling and tremble.
his mouth opened again—not to speak, but to nibble, gnaw, pant against your skin like he couldn’t bear not having some part of you in his mouth. he’d reduced himself to pure animal instinct, shuddering with the aftershocks, overstimulated past the point of speech.
you withdrew your hand from his twitching cock with deliberate grace, the motion slow enough to feel punitive, the slick weight of him falling heavy against his thigh with a faint wet slap. threads of cum stretched from your fingers like viscous silk, glistening in the low light, already cooling on your skin. his breath hitched at the absence, a soft, strangled whimper catching in the hollow of his throat like the dying echo of a sob. he was still trembling, his body a mess of jerking aftershocks and fluttering overstimulation, skin flushed and tacky with sweat, his thighs smeared with the residue of his own release.
you lifted your soiled hand with ceremonial slowness, letting him see it—cum that streaked your palm gleamed like lacquer, gluing your fingers together in pearled strands, some of it sliding in a slow, deliberate descent down your wrist. one bead detached, fat and opalescent, and traced a languid path along the curve of your hand as gravity coaxed it downward. ben’s eyes followed it. wide. glassy. blown. his pupils were still eclipsing nearly the whole of his irises, devouring the green in uncomprehending dilatation.
"here," you said, voice low, coaxing, almost coaxial in its softness. "clean your mess, ben."
his breath caught audibly, a tremor moving through him like an aftershock of the orgasm he hadn’t recovered from. his mouth opened, lips quivering, tongue darting out instinctively before he even processed the motion. his hands rose shakily, reverent, trembling at the wrists as if some part of him understood this was a sacrament, not a request.
for a single beat, he looked up at you, and then leaned in.
his lips wrapped around them with an almost obscene delicacy, tongue lapping over your skin as he began to suck the cum from your hand with quiet, desperate reverence. it was not hurried. it was not efficient. he savored it. dragging his tongue between your fingers, licking into the webs like he was starving, mouth slick and warm, every motion a meticulous act of penance and praise.
his eyes fluttered closed as he worked, lashes damp and cheeks still mottled with color, jaw moving with slow, worshipful rhythm as he cleaned each digit. you felt his tongue trace the length of your index, curl around your middle, dip beneath your nails, lips suctioning gently at the base of your knuckles. each noise he made was small, wet, animalistic—tiny muffled moans as if the taste of himself on your skin made him shiver from the inside out.
you let him.
you watched him.
he finished the first hand, and without prompting, reached for the other—the one that had been buried inside him, still glistening with slick and the faint, musky perfume of sweat and something deeper. he stared at it, at himself still smeared across your skin, and for a single heartbeat, the hesitation flickered. and then brought your fingers to his mouth again, kissing them first, lips trembling, before drawing them between his teeth and sucking them clean.
✮ Inspired by my favorite Cas era, his catholic guilt phase in season four ✮
MDNI 18+
✎ SUMMARY: Morbid curiosity and an unhealthy obsession leads you to making an angel no better than a man.
WORD COUNT: 2k
PAIRINGS: Castiel x Reader
CONTENT/WARNINGS: m4f | angel grace | virgin!cas | piv | no use of y/n | unprotected | fem!reader | dom!cas
Man and Machine
There was just something about Castiel. The mysteriously distanced angel had a cold air about him. A cold air that had you feeling hot all over. God’s blunt instrument. Something untapped in your conscience just clicked into place when you met the enigmatic being.
His abnormal speaking manners, the acute tilts of his head, the minute squints he gave, his blunt and terse tendencies. They scratched an itch you didn’t know you had.
He was cold and calculated, pure and untouchable. Olive skin that appeared like marble, pulled taut over his lean muscles. There was nothing gaudy about his presence, it was an unspoken power. Mechanical to a fault and you wanted to make him malfunction.
Castiel didn’t understand your outright obsession with him. He had done nothing of the sort to provoke you, in fact he had done the opposite of express interest. His focus was his objective; Dean’s mission. But as your obsession grew, he couldn’t control how his vessel responded. Some primal subconscious push of chemicals and human nonsense telling him to reciprocate. He hardly knew what it meant, all he knew was the magnitude of which he yearned for you. It consumed him, fraying the synapses of his human suit. Yet he stayed strong in his mission. He would not falter.
It isn’t until he intrudes a hunt, that his facade even begins to crack. He is unaccompanied by Uriel after his insistence on you being a ‘mud-monkey’ that didn’t deserve his attention. Dean, of course, failed to get Cas to leave. The angel’s will was iron, steadfast. Dean conjures up a faux-badge for the socially clueless ‘man’ to join them. If the ignorant angel was going to stay, he was going to do it right.
Sam and Dean split ways, going to the morgue to see bodies. Castiel zapped you two back to the motel. Time efficient.
His unscrupulous gaze traced the curve of your jaw, to the soft edges of your body—he forced his gaze to the wall, suddenly finding it very interesting. Two seconds alone (hardly) and he already couldn’t deal. He always thought Father designed women as far too alluring.
You no longer had the capacity to ignore it. (Or to keep letting him get away with it).
“Something on my face?” You ask, testing the waters. You can play dumb (sort of). He says nothing, eyes fixed on the wall. You raise your hand to trace the lapels of his coat. He snatches your wrist in an iron grip. “No.” He says dangerously. He had prayed you would be smarter than this. Suddenly he’s looking at you.
That had been a mistake.
A flood of what he had repressed with his iron will came pouring in. “You.” His eyes flit to the crisp fabric of your white button-up. How he wanted to undo those buttons with his teeth. “The things you seek from me defile and desecrate everything I stand for and everything I am. It disrespects my very purpose.”
“I serve God. Not man.” He rumbles like the roll of thunder.
He falters. Eyes narrowing as he feels the pulse of your wrist quicken at his tone. You were, as Dean would say, ‘a sick puppy’. You liked this. You watched him with rapt attention, the curl of his lip when you didn’t even flinch. The confused draw of his brows together. Why did this mortal crave what was unattainable?
“I’d serve you.”
You’re tongue drags over your bottom lip. Cas’ throat bobs. You unfortunately weren’t lying, Castiel read your every thought like a news headline. You’d get on your knees for him. Why? You didn’t know. Would you regret attempting a hook-up with Mr. No-Emotions-Angel? Probably. Were you still gonna try?
Fuck yeah.
He swore his divinely protected heartbeat came to a full halt. He shouldn’t, pure logic and rationale could tell him that. But the remnants of basic human instinct made him wish for no better than man. He felt so very inclined towards the flesh. He couldn’t deny how good you would look on your knees. Makeup running and face flushed. He had spent centuries doing the Lord’s work. There was no room for your desires or his.
His fingers tightened on your wrist, to restrain you. To restrain himself. “You should show me some respect.” Voice rough like sandpaper, it resonates in your core. And if that tone didn’t make you swoon. “I respect you plenty.” That was the problem.
Pure lust; the juxtaposition of the century. All for an angel, an exacting warrior of God.
Heat flared below his gut, igniting a conflagration of desire he hadn’t experienced in this magnitude. He was never one for lust, or sin. But something in the way you moved, the tilt of your head, how you looked at him like you wanted to taste all of him, made his fingers ache for the curve of your waist. Made him long to notch his lips at the crook of your neck.
“Just what exactly are you trying to do, girl?”
Cold and harsh, exactly what you wanted to hear. “I’m trying to get in your pants, angel.” Honesty is the best policy, right? Lying would be a sin. A glint in your eyes makes his fingers twitch, “Cosmic knowledge and you still can’t read a room.” Soft evening light filtered in through the paper thin drapes. “All you have’ta do is tell me ‘no’. I’ll stop, honest.” His eyes darken, making your fingers curl to graze his knuckles. “I’m not trying to get smited.”
“M’just…presenting an opportunity.”
You knew you weren’t crazy. He felt it too. Every word out of your mouth, every taunting quip, your indisputable stance, it all went straight to his head. (And lower). The pure audacity was enough to make him tick. Releasing your wrist he opted for engulfing your face in his hand, squeezing your cheeks and angling your face upward. “You’re insolent. For such a fragile being.”
Molten heat pools in your gut. “I’m sorry, I’m not hearing a ‘no’?” A smug smile etched onto your expression. Castiel yearned to wipe that smirk right off your face. He pressed you into the wall, cold plaster against your back. He was all corded muscle and sharp angles. Built like a soldier. Meticulously crafted.
His lips curled in a snarl, his pearly whites glinted in the lamp light. He breathed you in—every molecule of what you were, wholly, entirely, without discrepancy.
Your smirk faded, evolving into a visage of desperate want. Almost angry desire. Making you wait so painstakingly long, peeling away the layers of his will, like carving him out of an encasement of marble.
Brows knit together you pull him in, after the slightest resistance, that final bit of marble is chipped away. You crash your lips into his, his chapped lips are ravenous. Your plush lips are his craving. Mouths moving in a clash of tongues and teeth.
A gentle buzz swarms about your skin. Warm, electric. You recoil from the kiss with a soft gasp. A thread of saliva tethering your lips to eachother. Small tendrils wrapped around you, curling in delicate spirals around your jaw. They ebbed and flowed down, down, down. They emanated a heavenly blue—caressing your hips like a welcome warmth of sunshine.
Sparks fly behind your eyelids and your knees buckle. White-hot pleasure hones in on your clit, sending rivulets of buzzing through to your core. Caressing the ridges of your g-spot and thrumming in and out. Precision enough to bring you to the ground. “Shit.” you gasp.
His grace.
Your reaction prompts an unprovoked rumble in the back of Cas’ throat. He needed more. The vibrations grow stronger, your pussy is dripping by now, clenching around nothing. Longing for him to split you open on his cock. He wanted to ruin your pretty makeup, see your lips red and wet, see your eyes watery with unshed tears as he watched your body shake. He wanted to give you a taste of ambrosia.
His arms encircled your waist, holding you up while his grace bullied your sweet spots. He was starved for that look, that look in your eyes as if he was everything you had ever wanted. The angel within him was shouting at him to stop this blasphemous behavior. Yet his vessel yearned to partake in you; as if you were a fine wine, rich and full-bodied. And he wanted to drink his fill.
Your thighs quivered as the divine vibrations hyper fixated on your bundle of nerves. Pulsing and pushing you to the brink of ecstasy. He would fuck the disrespect out of you.
Lazily, you draped your hand over the slope of his neck to hold yourself up. You clung to his form like a damsel in distress. Like he was an idol.
Your limbs were more akin to jello. You twitched and writhed as he turned you into a puddle of sensations, “Castiel…” Your voice was so small now. Nothing compared to how this started. All fiery and emboldened by lust. You said his name like he was your salvation.
"Shhh." He crooned against your skin, running his fingers up your sides, over your curves. "Just feel, hm?” He’d never felt so far from divine, never felt so close to decrepit. The grace flowed about, stopping at that sweet spot and furrowing into it, pulsating. Your legs gave out and a high whine escaped.“fuckfuck….fuckingshit—“ You gasped and gulped for air, face flushed and eyes heavy.
Perhaps he could service his creator’s precious creation. It wasn’t self indulgent at all. He simply was fulfilling your requests, your prayers. What kind of angel was he, to turn a blind eye?
With a low grunt, he gripped you tightly, and picked you up. He lifted you like a throw pillow. He carried you over to the twin beds, unceremoniously dropping you onto one. He hovered above you; his blue gaze roving over your trembling form. He was going to make you fall apart.
Your thighs squeezed together as you sank back into the mattress. The slightest movement had your body jerking in pleasure. You writhed amongst the sheets, mouth prepetually agape and eyes screwed shut. You were on the brink of euphoria. Cas had underestimated how powerful his grace was on human nerves.
“gonna a-ah—“ Your voice was stuttery and huffy. Skin already covered in a sheen of sweat. He watched you unravel beneath him with an almost clinical detachment. His gaze was dark and calculating, taking in every little detail of your body responding to the slightest stimulation.
But his eyes. His eyes gave away how he was utterly spellbound by you. By your malleability, your corporeal perfection. Meeting his cold blue gaze did you in. Your body arched off the bed, hands curling into the sheets, tethering you to the moment. His hand hovered in the air, knees knocking the edge of the bed. For a fleeting moment, he considered leaving you high and—not quite dry. But then he saw it, how you looked at him like he fucking hung the stars.
He hadn’t even touched you yet. Hadn’t dared to allow it. This was how abominations happened.
But then your hand seized him by trenchcoat and you hauled him between your legs. A single plea left your lips. He threw you onto a bed, conscious decision or not, he wasn’t done here. And you knew it.
Suddenly his breath wasn’t so even. It was ragged and labored, despite this, he let you strip the tan coat from his broad shoulders. He didn’t even flinch as you fumbled with the buttons of his white shirt. He grabbed you by the underside of your thighs, tugging your hips to meet his. The warmth of his touch seeped through your clothes. Stamping his grasp onto your flesh.
His thumb pressed to the seam of your lips. “You’ll learn.” He says sharply. Like he wasn’t giving you exactly what you wanted. “Man belongs with man. Not the divine.” You press a kiss to the pad of his thumb. Inky black swallows up the crystalline hue of his irises. In his mind, he’d teach you, he’d demonstrate exactly how you couldn’t handle him. How this was dull in his eyes—angels were above carnal desires.
He disguised his lust with ‘noble cause’.
The lust settled in his gut. Consolidating like sugar-sweet rot. He peeled away your top, feigning indifference. His teeth grazed the inside of his cheek. He looked at you like an exhibit within an art museum, like a carefully crafted sculpture, which to him—you were.
Confused for a brief moment, he allowed you to push him back. He quickly caught up when you discarded your pants and soaked cotton panties. This moment was his mausoleum, as soon as he saw you, bare and coveted he knew he had dug himself a grave. But, Father help him, he’d be happy to die between your legs.
His slacks felt like a prison, clumsily (for a precise being such as he) he kicked them off. He dragged his boxers off with them. His cock, flushed and heavy, bobbed against the flat of his abdomen. He clenched his jaw. Remarkably quiet. But not for long.
A sharp intake of breath broke his stoicism when your legs encircled his waist. Your feet digging into the bare skin of his ass. He felt your reverential gaze, a shudder raked down his spine at your borderline blasphemous appraisal.
His vessel was the epitome of instinct, he watched in morbid fascination as a pearl of pre dribbled down his length. His calloused hands skimmed your figure, every cleft and edge, he groped your tits experimentally.
He could’ve sworn humans did that during copulation. (Judging simply from the tapes he had caught Dean watching).
Suddenly his cold calculated curiosity seemed unsure. You coaxed him forward. The head of his cock slid through the dripping folds of your cunt. That was the jolt of enthusiasm his vessel needed. He hardly breached your entrance before jerking back like the pleasure had burned him. His thighs flexed.
Suddenly, it wasn’t about knocking some sense into you. Suddenly it was about—warmth, need, and making sure he found that perfect duality of your pleasure and his. “You need to tell me how.” He grits out.
“Just….” You take a breath and lift your hips off the bed, easing him forward. You cant your body towards his. “Like this.” You lock your legs around his waist, not letting him shrink back again. “Like that, yes, fu-ck.” Your head lolls back for a moment before lifting to look back down at where he filled you up.
Oh. Oh dear.
“Oh…hghh.” A desperate groan reverberated off his lips. His hand clamped around your hip as he took in their intimate connection, a wave of pleasure surging through him. He couldn’t help rutting forward. The ease with which he slid deeper had his head spinning and his mind buzzing.
He withdrew partially, his chest heaving as he looked down to where your bodies joined. His breath came in ragged gasps, his cock twitched.
"Copulation is…of a beautiful design." There was a hitch in his voice. A hint of something comparable to feeling behind his robotic words. “The way we…ff-fit together.” It reminds you of why you crave the angel. His transendence above mortal bliss, the fact that you could show him the real persuasiveness of ‘sins of the flesh’. His almost innocent ignorance.
“Oh, yeah.” You grin, “Talk dirty to me.” You taunt. Though your sarcasm sounds awful breathy. Shifting your hips, you crave movement. The dull ache for more settling between your legs. He simply grunted like a neanderthal at your teasing. “Quiet.”
Yes fucking sir.
The response sounds only in your mind, but you swear he hears it. He looks far too smug to not have.
You purse your lips shut and start to rock beneath him, hands caressing the flexes and bulges of his muscles. His infuriating mortal’s eyes glimmered, face flushed, brows furrowed. The expression was picturesque. All of a sudden he was done waiting. A surge in his vessel of that same confusing and subconscious need to wreck the everliving shit out of you.
He snapped his hips forward and your lips fell agape in a startled moan that tapered off into a huffy whine. Something within him cracked at the sound of your obscenity.
The motive evolved once more. Masking his disobedience with integrity. He’d pound some respect into you.
He leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of your head, caging you under his body. He looked down at you with a dark, hungry gaze, his chest heaving with laboured breaths.
He pistoned his hips forward at a punishing pace. A grunt of pleasure escaped his grinding teeth.
This wasn’t purely carnal, just exploring cosmic curiosities. Getting you to stop flirting, a sad attempt at sating your lust when he and you knew it would never stop.
The second thrust made your eyes roll back. “Cas—“ Your voice catches on the dryness of your throat, whilst clinging to him like a vice. He hikes your legs over his shoulders and pounds his cock into you, abusing that sweet spot. ‘uh uh uh’ your sounds punctuate every thrust.
He looked down at you with that same detachment, his gaze roaming over the flushed skin of your face, the parted lips, the half-lidded eyes.
His hands skimmed your legs, fingers gripping almost bruisingly at your thighs. His eyes flicked to the way your fingers clawing at the sheets. He witnessed the arc of your body, felt your cunt twitching with each thrust. He had reduced a defiant, annoying, girl into a writhing mess beneath him.
He felt a peculiar sense of pride. His senses were a combination of hypersensitive and just blurry. His vessel sought your warmth while his cosmic entity was almost indifferent. Just wanting to make a point.
You simply don’t care about his indifference, in fact you thirst for it. the fact that he hasn’t even broken a sweat, it makes your stomach do somersaults. He was like a machine.
Biting the corner of your lip you took his hand, not in a hope for intimacy, but to press his hand to the flat beneath your navel to feel the little bump bump bump of him inside of you.
His chest swells, he starts to move faster, fucking you with reckless abandon. His rhythm remained precise as a metronome. Perfection.
Your touch falters, a euphoric curse leaving your lips. That reaction—He couldn't help but feel taken aback. He'd never realized how receptive human bodies could be. Every tiny movement, every little sound you made was like fuel to the inferno within him.
His voice was a low rumble, almost a growl, "This -thrust- is -thrust- an -thrust- atrocity.” He reprimands. The unearthly stamina was an entire other beast you weren’t ready for.
He was starting to understand it.
He had never felt such intense, all consuming sensations before. His vessel's need for human connection was growing increasingly intense, his mind a confusing maelstrom of thoughts and sensations.
Suddenly Castiel felt an inexplicable twist in his gut, a rising sense of urgency that had his knees almost buckling. That sugary rot of pleasure turned to saccharine sweet bliss.
For the first time his rhythm faltered.
A startled moan escaped him and your eyes couldn’t help but light up. He was close. He felt a tightness, like a band about to snap. His hands flexed and his groans grew higher in pitch. His voice cracked with a rehearsal of your name.
He came with a choked, pitiful, sound. His seed spilled into you, and he hovered over your frame like a blanket of heat. His chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. “H-ohh fuck.”You’d sighed, dropping back down onto the mattress blissfully.
That was good. An angel of the Lord, was good in bed. Who’d have thunk it?
Castiel was still as a statue. He broke, allowed himself to get wrapped up in this. He had meant to shut you up—to put an end to your sacrilegious wants and desires from him. To finish his own selfish wants once and for all.
The poor angel, he has only fed into it, and wants to do so much worse.
pairing; billy loomis + stu matcher + himbo!male reader
wordcount: long, filthy, aching (in other words i didn’t count it!)
genre: horror erotica / psycho-thriller smut
warnings: non-consensual sexual encounters (dubcon/coercion), oral sex (reader receiving), anal penetration (reader receiving), overstimulation, public sex, double handling, power imbalance, voyeurism, identity disintegration (reader is viewed as object/fetish rather than a full person), degradation kink (verbal), multiple orgasms, cumplay, cock-worship / body worship.
dumb.
that’s the only word either of them can ever come up with when it comes to you--like their synapses fizzle out and their tongues turn stupid the moment you walk in. dumb. it’s stu’s favorite word—he spits it like a cherry pit, flicks it between his teeth when you jog past with that weightless, stumbling grin, all meat and motion, jersey clinging like it wants to worship you more intimately than even his hands ever have.
and billy? he doesn’t say it aloud. never gives it shape. it just echoes in his skull, thuds like a heartbeat. dumb, dumb, dumb. it pulses behind his eyes when you look at him with those blissful, incurious irises, so bright and so empty he wants to scoop them out and see what shines inside.
you make them both lose it.
it pisses billy off—the way his pulse skips whenever he sees you grin at someone else, the way his throat tightens when you call him “man” with that easy, thoughtless warmth that makes his chest feel too tight. he’s supposed to be the predator, the knife in the dark, not some lovesick idiot loitering in the halls, watching the golden boy pull off his jersey and toss it over his shoulder like some kind of sun-drenched deity. he tells himself he’ll kill you.
that’s his favorite lie.
he'll snap your neck like a wishbone, he'll push you face-down into a locker room bench and slice your spine open and see if your blood really glows in the dark like he thinks it does. but then you smile at him—really smile, that dumb, golden retriever smile—and all his violence goes quiet. all that rage dissolves into something human. and that makes him sick.
so he waits.
outside the locker room after practice, claiming he’s just passing through. cigarette tucked behind his ear, too-casual lean against the wall, pretending he isn’t listening for you. and when you walk out — shirt half on, towel draped lazy around your neck, hair wet and smelling like cheap shampoo and clean sweat — you look at him with that blank, bewildered little half-smile, all sunshine and stupid confusion, and it kills him.
you ask, “hey, man—you waiting for someone?” like he’s invisible. like you don’t know he’s been watching the curve of your sweat-slick back for weeks. and billy’s jaw locks so tight it creaks. he pretends he isn’t burning alive. pretends he doesn’t want to drag you into the dark and press his mouth to the hollow of your throat just to hear you shut up.
and for stu—oh, your “dumb act” is exactly his poison. not because he thinks you’re stupid. no-it’s the way you tilt your head when you don’t get the joke, brows furrowed, that soft “wait, what?” that spills out like a hymn. the way you listen when he talks, like every nonsense word he says matters. like he’s somebody.
he’ll call you a meathead, tease you for your perfect hair and your good-boy smile, ruffle your hair like he’s not secretly shaking inside. he’ll make a joke at your expense, wait for you to grin, and then stare too long at your teeth—all white and careless and alive. you don’t even know how good you are. how huge you are. how golden. he wants to climb you like a rope in gym class, cling to your back while you jog across the quad and pretend it’s just bro shit.
but it’s not.
it’s the way your thighs stretch denim, the way your hands are too big to fit in your pockets right, the way your voice rumbles out of your chest like it’s been fermenting in something rich and stupid and sweet. he watches you laugh and wonders if you’d still sound like that gagged. wonders if you’d giggle if he pressed your face into the grass out back and rutted against you like a fucking animal.
you make stu feel small in a way he likes.
(you're the school’s golden boy. star quarterback. poster child. that stupid letterman jacket everyone wants to touch. teachers love you, girls giggle about you, guys copy your haircut and pretend not to notice when you pass. you move through the halls like light, like the whole place bends toward you without you even trying.
and that’s what kills them both—that you don’t try. you just are.)
and oh, bill's favorite pastime? catching himself watching you strip off your jersey after practice, the fabric sticking to your skin before it peels away. his cigarette burns down to the filter, forgotten. his gaze traces the lines of your back, the sweat sliding slow between your shoulder blades. he can smell the soap, the musk, the living heat of you. it makes something violent and sacred curl inside his chest.
he tells himself it’s just curiosity. just instinct. but he wants to ruin you—wants to see what sound you’d make if he pressed his knife-flat tongue to your throat. wants to know if you’d still grin, still say man in that voice that breaks him.
and stu—stu’s worse in some ways. he plays the part, all jokes and loud laughter, he throws an arm around your shoulders and calls you “sunshine” while his fingers dig too tight into the meat of your traps. you think he’s just being goofy. (he thinks about biting you until you bleed. he thinks about dragging you behind the bleachers and dry humping your leg like a rabid mutt while you ask “wait—wait, stu, what’re we doing?” in that voice like you’re trying to understand math.) he hides his shaking hands in the motion of ruffling your hair, hides his heart pounding when you grin and say, “missed you at the party last night, dude.”
that kills him.
he laughs too loud to cover it up, voice cracking at the edges. but later, when you’re gone, he’s still thinking about it—the warmth of your skin under his arm, the smell of your sweat, the sound of your voice saying missed you.
the words rot inside him like candy in his teeth.
but that’s the thing — around you, they both feel harmless.
you knock the knives out of their hands without even knowing it.
you smile, and suddenly stu’s jokes don’t land right, billy’s glare loses its edge. you wander through their world with your head full of static, blissfully unaware of the monsters orbiting you, worshipping you like two wolves around a lamb too pretty to eat.
every part of you is a shrine to what they can’t have.
but they touch you anyway. billy’s hand on your lower back when you pass in the hall. stu’s fingers in your hair when he says hey. they want you to get used to it. conditioned. pavlovian. they want your body to recognize theirs the way a dog recognizes its leash.
they want to leash you.
and maybe—maybe someday they will.
because you trust them. and that’s the ugliest part. the most revolting. the most delicious. you don’t fear them. You don’t even know there’s anything to fear. You stand there all gleaming and naive, drinking them in with those milk-glass eyes like they're just a couple of loser friends—and they are—but also, they aren’t. They are the blades behind your back, the rot in the root cellar, the shadows licking their lips behind your bright oblivious smile.
billy will mutter “he’s so fucking dumb” under his breath every time you walk by, his tone thick with venom that doesn’t quite hide the hunger.
and stu will just grin, lean over, and whisper, “yeah, but look at him. he’s our kind of dumb.”
they can’t stop thinking about how you smell. not even in the vague, polite way boys notice each other after a game—no. billy and stu are consumed by it. you're the scent of cheap locker room soap and warm, briny skin, shampoo crusted from yesterday’s rinse, cheap-ass body spray misted half-heartedly over hours of sweat. it clings to your collar, your towel, your skin—and to them, it’s church incense, holy smoke, a drug they huff in the dark.
stu will steal your used gym shirt, keep it in a drawer beneath his porn stash like some relic, nose buried deep in the armpit seam with one hand shoved down his boxers. he moans your name into the fabric—soft, like it’s holy. like it’ll hear him.
he doesn’t cum quietly. he whines. he cries sometimes. shudders, nose still buried in cotton soaked with your ghost. and afterward? he licks the stain you left behind. swears he can still taste you.
and billy? billy doesn’t steal. he waits. waits until you’re shirtless, glistening, jersey slung over your shoulder like some idol headed to slaughter—and watches. eyes hooded, unmoving. he memorizes the way the cloth peels from your back like skin from fruit, slow and damp. he doesn’t blink. doesn’t breathe. he pictures licking the salt from your nape and tasting nothing but sun.
and you? you like them.
not in any meaningful way, of course—not in the twisted, subterranean labyrinth they've dug out of their own brains where you’re bound and naked and smiling up at them like some fucked-up cupid-struck martyr. but you say hi. you ask them how their day’s been with that dopey grin and those bambi eyes and you don’t know. you don’t know.
you don’t know that billy’s fantasies about you are violent. that he stares at the bruises on his own knuckles and imagines how they’d look on your ribs. imagines the sound you’d make if he spit in your mouth and called you a good boy. his cock aches, heavy and angry, leaking through the denim. he doesn’t stroke it. he lets it throb. unattended. unrelieved. punishment for his own obsession.
you don’t know that billy comes with a dry palm, biting his tongue until it bleeds, whispering filth to himself about pressing you down into linoleum and calling you dumb while you moan.
that he fantasizes about bruising your ribs with his hips.
that he wants you crying—sobbing—from the stretch of his cock and still looking at him with that golden, stupid trust.
you don’t know that stu fingers himself when you send a selfie from the gym, tongue out, jersey hitched up over your abs. that he whimpers and begs for nothing, pants “yes yes yes” to no one. that he’s imagined drugging you a thousand times—not to hurt you, no, never that—just to keep you still. so he could look. so he could smell every inch of you without that puppy-dog grin interrupting his worship.
they don’t know what to do with you.
━━━━━━━ †༙ ݁ᛪ༙ ━━━━━━━
the locker room reeks. a slow, percolating stew of teenage skin and wet tile, of swampy socks left too long in the corners, of crusted body wash and the bitter tang of anxiety-sweat baked into the grout. the showers moan faintly in the background, copper pipes groaning like they're sick of carrying so much water for so many boys with so many sins. fluorescent lights buzz overhead, spitting pale flickers across the misted mirrors and the mildewed grout. there's rot in the corners. there's history in the air.
and you—you—come out like it’s nothing. like you aren’t the subject of someone's slow psychotic break behind a row of lockers. like your body isn’t a siren song wrapped in flesh, trailing water droplets that map your spine like cartography for perverts. you’re all steam-washed muscle and loosened limbs, towel slung lazy around your hips as you drag yourself through the haze, oblivious to the eyes watching you through slats in silence. eyes that don't blink. eyes that have memorized the exact distance between your shoulder blades. eyes that ache.
you hum under your breath, some dumb tune that no one ever remembers the lyrics to, voice warm and half-broken with post-practice exhaustion. your hair’s still dripping, matting to your neck in thick, wet curls that cling to the curve of your throat. your skin’s gone pink from the heat—blushed, like you’ve been kissed all over by something too hot to hold. water tracks down your chest, your stomach, collecting at your navel in a trembling droplet before slipping lower.
and then—casual, thoughtless, holy—you undo your towel.
just let it fall.
not tossed, not peeled—dropped. like your body doesn’t mean anything. like it’s not a whole sermon just hanging off your bones, god’s favorite fucking sculpture wrapped in sunburn and soap scum. you reach for your gym bag with both hands, arching slightly, back flexing, ass tight and round with motion. you bend, you stretch, you breathe.
you don’t hear the breathless sound behind the lockers.
billy sees first. he’s been there since before the showers started, planted like rot, arms folded, a cigarette half-dead behind his ear, pretending he’s just avoiding class again. stu followed ten minutes later, wide-eyed, pulse rabbiting, already whispering some stupid bit about towels slipping off and “oops, whoopsie,” but even he shuts up the second you come out dripping and stupid and glorious.
billy doesn’t speak. he doesn’t move. he’s stuck. his jaw’s clenched like he’s trying to chew through his own teeth, pupils blown wide and black as oil, watching every inch of your bare, dripping body like he’s got a scalpel in his mind and he’s carving you into memory.
he’s hard. so hard it hurts, the kind of ache that has him grinding against the edge of the locker frame like he’s trying to file the need down, to scrape something off himself—but it only makes it worse. every sound you make feeds him: the towel slapping damp against tile, the ruffle of nylon from your gym bag, the meat-thick thud of your heel hitting the bench as you prop your leg up to dry.
you don’t even know how wide your stance is.
don’t even know your balls are swinging, heavy and slick, glinting in the shitty light with a bead of sweat or water caught in the curve of your taint like a jewel.
stu’s breath catches. a soft hhhk in his throat, half-laugh, half-prayer. his nails dig into the edge of the locker vent as he cranes forward, close enough to smell the soap. he’s already rutting into his fist like a dog in heat, other hand still gripping the vent slit, breath steaming the metal, mouthing the word fuckfuckfuckfuck without sound. his cock’s barely out of his jeans, but he’s stroking it like he’s not gonna last. like he shouldn’t last.
and still—you don’t know.
you dry your hair with the other towel, rough and loud, ruffling it over your head like a dog in summer, like a golden retriever who doesn’t know it’s being watched, filmed, studied. your cock bobs once when you bend.
heavy. pink. veined like a weapon.
your foreskin’s halfway back, fat head twitching like it’s just waking up.
your hole clenches when you stretch.
a soft, involuntary pulse—barely visible, but they see it. everything about you is casual. unstudied. honest. and that’s what’s so sickening.
billy just watches.
doesn’t touch himself.
he won’t. not yet. not until he can taste you. not until he can pin your wrists to the bench and force you to hold still while stu comes on your chest and billy shoves his cock in your mouth and feels how dumb you are from the inside out.
he imagines the towel doesn’t fall—it’s ripped off. by him. by stu. by both. teeth against your hipbone. blood. sweat. piss-warm water and the squeal of your back scraping tile. you grunting, dumbly, not even resisting because you think it's some joke. some prank. “haha, guys, what the hell—” you’d say, voice cracking halfway through. what the hell. like you wouldn’t get it. not even as they had you.
he imagines your legs spread, knees knocking against the locker walls, hole twitching open with every breath, every pulse, every broken whimper as you sob through stu’s mouth pressed over yours.
he wants your head canted back.
wants you crying on his cock.
wants to lick the tears off your chin and say “that’s it, good boy, open wider.”
stu’s hand speeds up. he’s whispering now, fast and breathless. mouth open, tongue wetting his lips as he stares. he wants to film it. he wants to live inside that second where the towel hits the floor forever. he wants to rewind it, over and over, watch your ass jiggle with every breath. he wants to whisper your name against your hipbone and bite. wants to mark you. something primal, something filthy. “property of stu & billy.”
you'd done it. you’d killed the last scrap of control billy and stu had between them.
and now it was only a matter of how.
you still didn’t know they were there. still humming, still towel-less, underwear half-on, forehead glistening like you’d been freshly forged in the heat of those showers. you were making the locker room yours, walking barefoot across the damp tile like a king too dumb to notice the floor's still wet with blood. Still smelling like shampoo, like cheap soap and glory, like boy.
then came the shift. the sound.
a shoe scuffed the tile—barely anything, but enough to make you turn. enough to furrow your brow, your mouth parting with a curious little “huh?” that cracked billy like a fault line.
he didn’t answer.
he lunged.
your back hit the lockers with a hollow clang, skin slapping metal, ribs flaring wide with breathless surprise. his hand hit your chest like a brand, flat and wide and mean, fingers splayed over your sternum, pressing you into the cold steel so hard your spine barked in protest. you grunted—just a noise, startled, stupid, beautiful—and blinked up at him like you couldn’t quite understand what was happening. because you couldn’t. because you were you.
“what—” you started, voice slow, confused, brow crinkling like a puppy who’s heard thunder for the first time.
stu was behind you in a flash, his hands already on your waist—both of them, tight, possessive, like he’d been waiting for permission and finally got it. his thumbs dug into the flesh just above your hipbones, slipping beneath the waistband of your boxers like they had a right to be there. he was laughing—breathless, high-pitched, half-maniac, half-orgasmic. his cheek pressed against the back of your shoulder like he was trying to merge.
“couldn’t help it, sunshine,” he coos, breath warm and sour with soda and something worse. “you were just begging for it. walking around like that. all… wet.”
your mouth opens but no sound comes out. the confusion is plain—etched across your brow in furrows, in the dumb, blinking silence of a dog trying to figure out where the ball went after a fake throw. “what—what’s goin’ on?” you ask, and it’s so guileless, so pathetically honest, it hurts.
billy’s jaw clenches. his breath hitches. that sound—that stupid, golden voice trying to make sense of this—rattles something loose inside him.
“you don’t get it,” he says, low, teeth bared. “you never fucking get it.”
your bare back is pressed against cold metal now, muscles twitching under their grip. stu’s hand is creeping—lower, around, over the jut of your hipbone like he’s casing the joint. his palm is hot, sticky with nervous sweat. he laughs, light and sing-songy, but there’s a crackle beneath it—something rabid.
“been watchin’ you for weeks, dumbass,” stu murmurs, nuzzling in close to your shoulder, letting his breath rake over your skin. “all that stretchin’ after practice, all that grinnin’ at everybody like you don’t even know what you look like. like we’re just your lil’ buddies, huh? you touch us and then forget.”
your chest is rising fast now. not fear, not yet. just the uncomfortable crush of pressure, the itch of wrongness crawling up your spine. billy hasn’t moved back an inch. his forehead nearly touches yours. You can smell the smoke baked into his hoodie, the oil in his hair, the breath that smells like metal and chewing gum ground between molars too hard.
you reach up—maybe to push, maybe just to gesture—but billy grabs your wrist, slams it back against the locker with a clang, and you flinch, not from pain, but shock.
“don’t,” he says. “just stand there. be quiet. let us look.”
his other hand slides to your chest. slow. possessive. not even trying to hide the way his fingers tremble before they settle, splayed out across your pec like he’s claiming territory. you can feel the heat in his palm. can feel the slow drag of his thumb over your nipple, and your whole body twitches—instinct, not understanding.
stu snorts behind you, grip tightening at your waist, and you feel him lean in, press his cheek to your back like you’re a warm wall. “do we look like we’re messin’ around?”
you still don’t get it.
you think this is a prank. some weird hazing, some leftover joke from the team. you think it’s about power. and maybe it is. but not the way you think.
this isn’t a shove into a locker and a towel snap to the ass.
this is them breaking. this is them worshipping. like priests at the altar of your clueless body. and you, in your radiant, naked, unthinking splendor, have no idea the communion you’re offering just by existing.
billy’s hand trails lower now, past your stomach, knuckles brushing the damp elastic of your waistband. you suck in a breath.
“fucking filthy,” he mutters. “walking around like this. like you wanted us to see.”
your mouth opens, dry. “didn’t… i didn’t mean to…”
“but you did, didn’t you?” stu breathes into your ear. “you’re the star. you’re the goddamn sun. everybody wants a piece. you just didn’t think we’d take ours.”
and now it’s starting to hit. your eyes dart between them, throat working, lips parted but no clever words coming. no playbook. no coach barking orders. no idea what this game is.
and they love that.
“ohhh, he smells so fucking good,” stu purred, nose buried against your spine like a dog nosing into filth, breath hot and wet. his voice was a syrupy thing, sticky with rot. “he does, billy. you smell that? like sweat and—fuck, what is that, irish spring?”
billy watches your eyes. watches your confusion turn to dread in slow-motion. and his hand slides up to your face—tilts your chin toward him with two fingers, forces you to look.
“you’re not gonna tell anyone,” he says, voice calm now, clinical. “because you still want us to like you. don’t you, sunshine?”
and you don’t answer. can’t. your brain’s still stalling, wheels spinning in fog.
but your body doesn’t resist.
billy’s palm at your sternum warms you from the outside in, the pressure a punctuation mark: stay. stu’s weight at your hip is punctuation reversed: come. your breath stammers between those two commands and you let it. body and will fold in the same direction, a concession as ordinary and volcanic as breathing. the world narrows to metal and steam and mouths.
your spine’s against the locker, sweat-soaked metal biting into your skin, branding you like livestock. you’re slick from the shower but somehow dirtier than ever—grimed with the oil of obsession, smeared with the ghost of all the times they watched you stretch, bend, laugh, sweat. they’re on you now, the watchers turned disciples turned dogs with their teeth on your skin.
billy moves first—of course he does—grabbing your jaw with fingers like iron, yanking your mouth to his like he’s starving. not kissing. consuming. his lips crash against yours with a heat that feels like punishment. tongue brutal, searching, shoving past your teeth like he's breaking in. he groans into you, low and guttural, like the taste of your mouth answers some ancient ache in his bones. his hips buck forward—dry, ragged, desperate—grinding into your thigh like he can’t bear another second of separation.
stu isn’t waiting.
he’s behind you, plastered flush against your back, arms snaking around your waist, hands flat and splayed across your abdomen like he's holding a fever. he noses at your neck, inhaling sharp, wet, greedy. his tongue flicks out, lapping at the sweat pooled under your ear. “taste so fucking good,” he mumbles, delirious, drunk.
he starts kissing up your neck while billy owns your mouth. kisses that feel more like feeding, mouth open, teeth scraping, spit smearing. his hands won’t stop—clutching at your hips, slipping under the band of your ruined boxers, fingernails biting into the soft meat there as he grinds against your ass, rutting through his jeans like an animal in heat.
billy breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe out a snarled, “you’re ours,” before biting at your bottom lip hard enough to sting.
you gasp, your body stiffening, but still you don’t push them off.
you don't want to.
it’s sick. it’s wrong. but something in you likes the way they touch you like you're meat, like you're sacred and profane in the same breath. like they’d rip you open just to see what god you pray to.
stu’s hands slid under now. his fingers curved into the tender crease of your thighs, and he groaned when your boxers gave up and fell the rest of the way.
“god, man…” he whined. “you’re fucking perfect. look at you. fuck. look at this cock.”
he didn’t wait for permission. he didn’t ask. he wrapped a shaking hand around your shaft and moaned, loud and wanton, like the heat of your skin was burning through his fingers. you jolted, breath hitching, back arching off the lockers as your hips tried to pull away—but billy pressed in harder, thigh wedged between your legs to hold you in place. his other hand grabbed your jaw, fingers digging into your cheek as he forced your head back.
“ah, ah, don’t move.” he was breathing hard now, his forehead resting against yours, like he couldn’t bear the space between you. “just let us have this.”
stu was on his knees. he kissed the base of your cock with soft, reverent lips, mouthing along the shaft with slow, open-mouthed licks. his tongue flicked up the underside, gathering sweat and water and the ghost of soap like it was communion wine. his grip tightened around your thighs as you shifted again, and he groaned at the weight of you, the heat, the way your cock twitched helplessly in his grip.
“ohhh, you smell so fucking good,” he gasped, tongue slipping under your balls, dragging up into the crease between your thighs. “can’t believe you smell this fuckin’ good, hiding this from us…”
billy let go of your jaw long enough to spit on his hand. then wrapped it around your cock, over stu’s hand, over the head. you gasped—high, sharp, a confused little whimper—and your knees buckled. the sound made both boys moan, low and broken. billy pumped your cock slowly, cruelly, his thumb swiping over the slit to spread the leaking precum down your shaft.
“that’s it,” he muttered, stroking you hard. “let it happen.”
you didn’t know what was happening. couldn’t name it. you just stood there, heart pounding, forehead pressed to billy’s, cock twitching between his fist and stu’s mouth, your brain empty of language. you moaned again—unintended, soft, caught halfway between pleasure and fear.
you didn’t fight.
that, in the end, was what collapsed the last, barely-threaded tether inside them both. it was never about resistance. they would’ve taken you regardless. but the stillness—your glassy-eyed confusion, your dumbstruck silence as two bodies closed around you like jaws—made it worse. made it holy. you weren’t panicked. you weren’t screaming. you just blinked, brain humming static, muscles trembling from post-practice exhaustion, forehead beaded with sweat, cock half-swollen and glistening from the heat still seeping out of your skin.
billy didn’t need you afraid. he needed you unaware. he needed you glassy and docile, glazed like some beast that wandered too deep into the temple and hadn’t realized it had been offered up for slaughter.
“get the lube,” billy rasped, voice cracked open, breath sour and hot against your cheek.
stu didn’t hesitate. didn’t even ask if billy meant his own or yours. he knew. he pulled open your gym bag like he owned it, like he had a right to it. dug through until he found the half-used bottle from your dorm room—a stupid thing you brought for post-practice massages, maybe, or late-night jack-offs when the ache in your thighs wouldn't let you sleep.
he popped it open with his teeth, eager and graceless, then knelt behind you, eyes dilated, mouth hanging open as he drank in the bare expanse of your back—your ass, flushed and muscular and damp with the soft patina of sweat.
you flinched at the first touch—just a cold glob of lube sliding between your cheeks, a single point of temperature disparity in the haze of your fever-warm skin. it made you twitch like an animal in sleep, and your thighs clenched reflexively. but you didn’t speak. you didn’t protest. not when stu’s fingers found your hole and circled lazily, reverently, as if mapping the ridges of a sacred ruin. not when he pressed inside with a slow, deliberate twist of his knuckle.
billy was kissing you now—if it could even be called that. it was a collision. teeth against teeth. tongue scraping your palate like he was trying to carve himself into your tastebuds. he kissed like a man biting through meat, and when he pulled back, a thread of spit clung to your lip like a rosary of filth. he stared at it for a second. then spit again. on your chest this time. watched it pool and run down your sternum, slick and obscene.
“fucking moaning already,” he muttered, voice cracked and guttural. his hand came up to your throat, firm but not yet constrictive, holding your head in place. “you like this. you’re fucking made for it.”
behind you, stu added a second finger, and the sound you made—choked, raw, trembling—was enough to make him laugh. not mocking. not cruel. overjoyed. it was the sound of someone hearing their favorite song in the voice of a god.
“ohhh, he’s gonna break,” stu murmured, pressing a kiss to the base of your spine. “you hear that billy? he’s gonna fuckin’ cry.”
you weren’t crying. yet. but you were close to something. your knees buckled as he stretched you wider, fingers scissoring your hole with clinical patience, your cock bobbing untouched against your belly. you gasped with each curl of his fingers, your body tensing, thighs trembling, chest heaving as if trying to breathe around the fullness building in your gut.
you never stood a chance—not against the magnitude of want that festered in their bones, nor the hunger that curdled behind their eyes like spoiled wine. you, radiant and empty-headed, offered yourself up on accident, walking barefoot into sanctified rot, humming through heat and steam with that same drowsy, post-practice grin. the gods never required a willing sacrifice—only a beautiful one. and you were beautiful. sacred. ignorant.
billy’s command was low and final, vibrating at the base of Stu’s spine like a spell.
“hold him.”
and stu obeyed—not like a boy, but like a zealot, arms winding around your ribs from behind, pressing his chest against your back, his cock smearing wet along the cleft of your ass. he held you still not because you were struggling, but because the illusion of restraint fed something in him: the fantasy that your strength could ever be a threat. he wrapped you like wire, taut and humming, fingers flexing over your sternum as if he could memorize the cadence of your heartbeat through bone.
billy unzipped himself with mechanical precision, the sound slicing through the humid air with surgical cruelty. his cock sprang free, flushed dark, the head slick with anticipation, curved like a weapon honed for sacrilege. he didn’t stroke it. didn’t admire it. just stepped into your space, hooked one of your trembling legs around his hip, and lined himself up with the soft, twitching aperture at your base—your hole, still stretched open from stu’s earlier attention, glistening with lube and nerves, fluttering like a mouth unsure whether to scream or sigh.
then he thrust—in a single, deliberate motion, cruel and perfect.
your whole body jolted like it had been struck by lightning. your mouth opened wide but no sound came out, just a staggered exhalation, a punch of breath expelled by force, as your back arched and your shoulders hit metal with a clang that echoed down the locker-lined tomb. billy drove himself in deep—to the hilt on the first go—like he had a map, like your body had always been waiting to be filled by this. the angle split you, his cock prying through the inner ring with a bruising stretch that made your knees tremble and your eyes water. your leg twitched where it hung off his hip, muscle spasming like it couldn’t comprehend the sensation.
“jesus christ,” stu breathed behind you, his voice cracked and reverent. “he took it.”
billy didn’t respond. he was snarling through his teeth, grinding his hips forward in slow, deliberate pulses, watching your face closely—watching you try to understand the heat blooming in your belly, the pressure splitting your guts, the pain curdling into something frighteningly close to pleasure.
“you feel that?” he whispered, breath brushing your lips. “you feel how fucking deep i am? that’s mine now.”
and then he moved. harder now. crueler.
the wet slap of his hips against your ass echoed with the cadence of ritual. his thrusts weren’t rhythmic—they were punitive. punishing. each one a blow to your remaining sense of self. each one an assertion: you are a vessel now. a soft, open thing. you exist to contain. “hah—guys, wait—” you gasped, hips twitching between them, “it—it feels... weird—fuck, it feels—”
“feels good, doesn’t it?” billy growled, thrusting deep and grinding on the downstroke. his hand clamped around your thigh, yanking you higher onto his cock like your body was a sheath he meant to own. “say it.”
you whimpered. you blinked up at him, pupils blown, lips trembling. your voice came out high, stunned, honest. “yeah... fuck, yeah—it feels... it feels good. don’t stop... oh, shit.”
stu held you through it, arms trembling with restraint as he pressed kisses to your neck, your shoulders, your temple—like trying to comfort a lamb being devoured alive.
“you sound so pretty, baby,” he murmured, fingers trailing down to your twitching cock, now fully hard, leaking across your stomach without ever being touched. “you’re makin’ the cutest little noises.”
he gripped it then, slow and tight, jerking you in tandem with billy’s thrusts, dragging his thumb over the head until you whimpered, overwhelmed. it felt like too much: too hot, too full, your body burning from both ends. you could barely think. all your blood had pooled between your legs, your brain gone pink with noise and friction.
“god, you’re so fucking perfect,” stu gasped. “you’re gonna cum, aren’t you, sunshine? just from billy’s cock and my hand. fuck, you’re such a slut.”
“not a slut,” you muttered, breathless, eyes fluttering. “just… just feels so good—can't—can’t think…”
billy’s hand slid up your side, fingers digging into your ribs, palm spanning the width of your chest. he fucked you with brutal deliberation, cock carving space inside you that hadn’t existed before. you could feel it, the ridge of the head catching your prostate with every stroke, electric heat flooding down your thighs.
“dumb fucking puppy. you like being filled up, don’t you? gonna cum without anyone even touching that dumb head of yours.”
stu’s grip on your cock tightened, and you cried out—needy, desperate, high-pitched. it echoed like confession.
“ohhh, fuck, he’s gonna cum,” stu gasped, rutting against your backside. “He’s gonna cum just from this. From bein’ full.”
billy pulled back and slammed in again, hard enough to lift your heel off the ground. “you better,” he hissed. “i want you to cum all over yourself. i want you to fucking leak.”
you were close. so close your vision blurred, pleasure surging in confused waves through your core, cresting toward the edge like a dam about to burst. your hole clenched around billy’s cock, pulling him in deeper, and the sound he made—low, guttural, half-feral—was the kind of noise men made when they were destroying something beautiful.
“gonna paint your guts,” he snarled. “gonna cum so deep you’ll taste it when you breathe.”
and you—you did—
you came.
with a helpless, shuddering cry, your cock spasmed in stu’s hand, thick jets striping your belly, your chest, your own lips. it was messy, obscene, the product of too much pressure and not enough care. you shook, full-body, hole clenching tight around billy’s cock in a rhythm that sent him over the edge.
he groaned—barked—hips stuttering, cock pulsing deep inside you as he filled you, you felt it flood you, hot and thick, gushing against your walls, leaking as he thrust again and again, fucking it deeper. you gasped as the pressure built inside, cum squelching out around his cock, dripping down your thighs.
stu groaned against your back, rutting faster, faster, until he couldn’t hold it either—cock sliding between your cheeks, smearing cum across your back in long, hot ropes that made your skin slick and sticky.
“shit—oh my god—” you gasped, dizzy. “it’s—there’s so much,”
billy pulled out with a wet, obscene sound, and stu immediately dropped to his knees, his mouth latching onto your hole to lick it out—groaning like he was dying, like the taste of both your bodies mingled was the only thing keeping him alive.
you moaned loud and shook, legs nearly giving out as his tongue pushed cum back inside you, flicking and swirling in the mess, chin wet, mouth sloppy.
“dude, stu—what the fuck—”
he looked up at you with cum smeared down his chin and laughed. “tastes like heaven, sunshine. you're our favorite fucktoy now.”
you should’ve collapsed.
by all laws of biology, your legs should’ve folded beneath you, your muscles should’ve trembled past usability, your mind should’ve short-circuited under the weight of sensation. but you didn’t fall. not completely. stu and billy held you upright between them like a trophy they were still carving their names into. you were leaking down your legs—thick, white streaks of seed that didn’t even belong to you, dripping warm and obscene onto the locker room tile. your hole, red and twitching, was still open, slowly dilating around the phantom of billy’s cock while stu traced idle patterns around the mess with one trembling finger.
your body was so sensitive it was vibrating, every nerve ending left raw and overexposed. and yet you were still hard. sluggish, twitching against your belly, still leaking in slow pulses, like your cock hadn’t gotten the message that you’d already cum. that your body had been filled, stretched, marked and claimed.
stu was breathing heavy against your shoulder, cock hard again, pressing slick against your inner thigh like it belonged there. his arms wrapped around your chest like a harness, holding you up, anchoring you in place. he whispered softly into your neck between kisses, filthy sweet nothings that crawled down your spine and rooted themselves in the pit of your stomach like rot.
“you’re still hard, sunshine,” he murmured, reverent and trembling, kissing your ear. “look at you. you need it, huh? that’s what you are. our sweet little dumb cockdrunk fucktoy.”
you whimpered. a low, helpless sound. your voice had gone hoarse from moaning, but there was no defiance in your eyes. just heat. just confusion. just wet lashes and parted lips and that stupid, golden gaze that made them both ache with need all over again.
billy, who hadn’t said a word since he pulled out and watched his cum trickle down the backs of your thighs, finally stepped close again. his fingers ghosted along your jaw. he stared at your mouth—still slightly open, chin glazed with sweat and spit and the faint taste of your own release from earlier.
“didn’t even go soft,” he muttered, almost like he was talking to himself. “fucking disgusting.”
then he grabbed your chin hard, tilted your head up, and spit directly into your mouth.
you gasped, not out of protest, but shock. the spit landed thick on your tongue. you swallowed. of course you did. you didn’t even hesitate. and billy groaned—groaned, low and stunned—like he hadn’t expected that to break him the way it did.
“holy fuck,” stu hissed, grinding against your back now, rutting like an animal, his cock leaving slick trails down the cum-slick cleft of your ass. “he swallowed it. what a little sick fuck, huh?”
billy didn’t answer. he was already lowering himself again, hands on your hips, parting your cheeks with practiced greed. he didn’t press inside. not yet. instead, he leaned in and spat again—this time directly onto your hole, watching it twitch and flutter at the sudden warmth.
“you want more?” he asked, voice dead quiet.
you nodded, desperate, blinking tears. “please... please, i feel empty…”
stu moaned like he’d been punched in the chest. he reached around and grabbed your cock again, smearing the mess that still clung to your belly, using your own cum to stroke you back to full, sensitive hardness.
“god, listen to him,” he whispered. “empty. gotta fill him back up. gotta stuff him til he leaks for hours.”
billy spit again. then licked—tongue flat against your hole, broad and wet and mean. you sobbed aloud, thighs trembling, spine arched in reaction. he lapped at you like a man starved, moaning into the mess he had already left inside you. his tongue breached your rim, pushing in just enough to stir the cum inside, to make you feel it shift and spill.
“oh f-fuck,” you cried, voice cracking. “It’s—it’s dripping out—oh my god—”
“yeah,” billy growled, pulling back with his lips slick and chin soaked. “let’s fix that.”
he stood, grabbed stu by the jaw, and kissed him hard, forcing the taste of you onto his tongue. stu moaned into it, clawing at billy’s chest, his other hand fumbling his cock into his fist before lining it up with your soaked, open hole.
there was no hesitation. he pushed inside and it slid—too easy, too slick, and so wrong it was right. he cried out as your body sucked him in, warmth and pressure and sin closing tight around him. your hole clenched, still twitching from aftershock, and the stretch made your knees buckle.
“fuck—stu—wait—sensitive—!”
he didn’t wait.
he started thrusting, hips snapping forward in frantic, sloppy bursts, cum from the first round already spurting back out with each motion. it was wet. loud. a filthy symphony of skin on skin, of slapping thighs and squelching friction and your voice moaning, sobbing, begging between broken gasps.
“c-can’t—too much—it’s too much—feels too good—”
“yeah?” stu panted, voice high and cracking. “gonna cum again? from getting stuffed full of our cum?”
billy was behind you again, hand stroking your jaw, his other hand sliding down to collect the mess leaking from your hole and feeding it to you, pressing his fingers past your lips. "open your mouth," he said softly.
you obeyed.
you moaned and sucked his fingers down, tongue sliding over the salt-slick filth without hesitation. your eyes glazed over.
your mouth was full—again. with the bitter heat of yourself, of billy, of stu. their seed. your seed. there was no telling whose was whose anymore. it was all slick and heavy on your tongue, salted and alive. you swallowed it like it was water, like it was necessary, like it was what you were made for. and maybe you were. billy’s fingers slipped from your lips, glistening with spit and slick, and you whimpered softly as he smeared the leftover shine across your cheek.
“look at him,” he said, and his voice was lower now. something reverent. something sick. “you’d think he was born for this.”
behind you, stu hadn’t stopped. couldn’t stop. his thrusts had gone messy, erratic, the rhythm of someone already teetering at the edge. your hole swallowed him in pulses, fluttering around his cock, slick with so many layers of mess it sounded wet when he moved—an obscene soundtrack of fluid and friction and worship.
you were gasping with every movement. the sensitivity was unbearable now, pain and pleasure braided together until you couldn’t separate them. your cock was somehow hard again—fully, twitchingly, angrily hard—smearing against your own stomach with every jolt of Stu’s hips.
you tried to speak, but the words broke apart in your throat.
“g-gonna—fuck, i’m gonna cum again,” you gasped, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “i can’t—fuck, i can’t stop—”
billy grinned like a wolf. “that’s right. don’t stop. cum again. paint the fucking floor.”
and paint the floor you did.
you came with a cry, loud and broken, legs shaking, arms limp. your cock pulsed and spurted again—your third orgasm—splattering fresh across the mess already covering your belly. you collapsed forward, mouth open, breath caught. you were empty and full all at once. your body was done, but your hole stayed open, twitching, begging, aching for more.
stu moaned high in his throat. he thrusted deep—deep, hard enough to shove the breath from your lungs—and held there, buried to the base. his fingers dug into your hips, and then he came.
you felt it. thick and hot, pumping into you in waves. you could feel the cum shift inside you, could feel it mix with billy’s. the pressure was obscene. your belly cramped. it leaked out around stu’s cock even as he held still, moaning into your shoulder, whimpering, pressing kisses to the back of your neck like this was love.
“god—so full—fuck, you’re dripping—” he panted.
when he pulled out, you sobbed. a short, sharp sound. your hole clenched around nothing, and a flood of cum followed, gushing down the back of your thighs, dripping to the tile below. billy stepped in before you could fall, catching you by the jaw again. his cock was out, hard, leaking.
“open,” he said.
you obeyed.
he stroked himself just once, twice—moaned—and came across your face.
it hit your cheek, your lips, your tongue. hot, thick, white. his hand fisted your hair and held you in place as he painted you like a canvas. his cum dripped down your chin, off your eyelashes. you didn’t close your eyes. you let it happen. you wanted it.
when he was done, he released your hair and stepped back to admire you.
“now that’s ours,” he muttered.
stu was kneeling, pressing kisses to your lower back, catching drips of cum with his tongue, shivering as he whispered, “so pretty. so good. so fucking ruined.”
you collapsed then. fully. boneless. slumped between them, wet and filthy and trembling.
cw: smut.ᐟ sick!dean.ᐟ sub!dean [kinda].ᐟ estab. relationship.ᐟ p in v, cowgirl.ᐟ pet names [baby, sweetheart].ᐟ 18+
wc: 1100
۫ ꣑ৎ bee yaps: here's to some needy, whiny, sick dean who just wants to be comforted by you and your cunt while he's exausted and comin down with something ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧
you find dean curled up on the bunkers couch, hoodie zipped up, body heavy with something that wasn't quite sickness, but close. exhaustion clings to him. puffy eyes rimmed red, dark circles bruising the pale skin beneath, and a faint sheen of sweat beading along his temple. he doesn’t even look up when you step into the room.
“dee—” you whisper, crouching down beside him. hand brushing over his hair, soft and a little damp, sticking up in tired spikes. “you’re gettin hot".
“m’fine” he grumbles, voice raspy, thick with sleep and congestion. he sniffs softly, dark lashes fluttering as he tries to open his eyes. “jus’ tired".
you press the back of your hand to his forehead and frown. “you’ve been running yourself into the ground. you need rest”.
he doesn’t argue, but nuzzles into your touch like a sleepy cat, his big body shifting toward you. you settle onto the couch beside him and tug his head into your lap, fingers threading gently through his hair. he hums low, eyes fluttering closed again.
you think maybe he’s finally drifting off, after fighting sleep for so long. until he squirms a little, hand creeping up your thigh with a lazy kind of desperation.
“baby” he murmurs, barely above a breath “need you".
“dean, you’re sick—”
“don’t care” he groans, frustrated and needy, hips giving a slow roll that drags his bulge against your leg. “can’t sleep. can’t stop thinkin’ about you".
you watch as his fingers slide beneath the hem of your shirt, trembling and warm, palm flattening over your stomach like he’s grounding himself.
“please,” he whines, low and hoarse “need you so bad. feel like shit, but you always make it better baby.”
you shift beneath him, thighs squeezing together. “dee—you’re sure?”
he nods, eyes still shut but mouth falling open with a soft whine when your hand grazes over the front of his sweats. “yeah i'm sure. please, baby. just wanna feel you”
he’s warm all over. skin flushed, lips dry and cracked from breathing through his mouth all day, his nose pink and stuffy. you kiss his temple, his cheek, his jaw, until he finally looks at you with those glassy hazy green eyes.
you slip your hand into his sweats, and he chokes out the softest moan you’ve ever heard from him . high and desperate, forehead dropping against your chest.
“so good to me sweetheart" he whimpers, teeth catching his bottom lip as you stroke him slow.
you lean down to kiss his forehead, soft and slow, like you’re trying to soothe him, but his face up at the last second and catches your lips instead.
he's clumsy at first. warm, dry and cracked lips, his mouth hot and trembling against yours. his fingers dig into your hips, trying to pull you down onto him, and you feel the desperate groan in his chest.
“jesus” you breathe, pulling back just enough to look at him “dean you need sl—”
“please" he rasps, eyes glossy and half-lidded, cheeks flushed. “need to be inside you baby. can’t think, can’t sleep, just— fuck" his voice cracks on the last word.
you shift to straddle his lap, and he whimpers like he’s in pain, head falling back against the cushion. his hands slide up under your shirt, rough palms dragging over your skin.
“so warm" he mumbles “wanna stay right here. wanna get lost in you".
you rock down against him gently, feeling the tent in his pants press against your clothed cunt. he chokes on a moan, hips stuttering beneath you. his skin is hot to the touch, fever and arousal mixing in a mess of sweat and aching need.
“you sure you’re up for this?” you ask softly, even as your fingers start to pull down the waistband of his sweats.
“i’ll feel better, swear. jus' need you around me. need you to ride me slow. feel good baby, just for a little while” was a slur of whiny words he was begging you for.
and you give it to him.
you sink down over him slow, steady and careful. but the stretch still punches a whine out of his throat, one hand fisting the back of your shirt like he’s holding on for dear life.
“so fuckin’ good to me baby".
you move in slow, lazy rolls of your hips, letting him feel all of you, unraveling more each second. little gasps and broken moans slipping from his lips.
he kisses you through it, sloppy and slow, teeth bumping yours, tongue desperate. trying to lose himself in you completely. you cup his face in both hands, brushing your thumbs over his stubbled cheeks, and he leans into it.
“feels so good” he whispers, brows furrowed. “don’t stop. wanna stay right here— wanna come with you like this".
his eyes are still closed, lashes damp, skin flushed pink with heat. he’s sweating lightly, a feverish shine at his temples, a slow drip trailing down the slope of his neck.
his lips are parted and dry, kiss-bitten and he’s holding onto your hips in a bruising strength.
you rock down again, achingly slow, feeling that creamy ring soak down his shaft. his breath stutters, his brows pinch, and a ragged moan slips from his throat.
“oh fuuck” he pants. “baby, fuck, so good— too good”
you kiss over the fever pink skin along his cheeks as you keep him right on-edge. his thighs twitch helplessly beneath you. his head digs back against the couch, adams apple bobbing, chest rising and falling with every laboured breath.
“can’t think— jus' wanna stay right here, inside you forever baby” he whimpers
your cunt clenches, fluttering tight around him, and he nearly sobs.
“you’re makin’ me crazy, sweetheart” he slurs, breath hitching. “can’t— fuck, can’t do this slow, s’too much, m'gonna—”
you hush him, kissing the corner of his mouth, tasting faint salt from a tear that's slipped down his cheek.
“come for me dee, let go” you whisper encouragingly, circling your hips, and he does.
his whole body shudders beneath with a whine, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted you as he spills his load inside your velvet warmth. his face twists up, flushed and beautiful.
you don’t stop moving, slow and steady. until his come is dripping out of you with a wet squelch. his body melting back into the couch cushions.
he blinks up at you, dazed but stated, and gives a little huff of a laugh through his nose.
“think i’m cured” he murmurs.
you smile, soft and warm, and wipe the sweat from his brow with the pad of your thumb.
open for a surprise! and by surprise i mean what i know mr. sub!dean winchester sounds like (everyone say thank you jensen!)
( mdni ! )
everyone was already aware of this video right? RIGHT ?????
anyways @mahi-wayy + @figthoughts this is for you both specifically because tumblr is a bitch and can’t be bothered to let me send videos in asks 💔 LET ME LIVEEEEE
Heyy this is literally my first time doing this, but I’ve looked everywhere for something similar .
Ok here’s the idea Sam is busy randomly researching lore (like there is no case he just want to be informed just in case)
Dean is around bothering Sam and pretty much doing anything but looking for a case.
Sam gets bored/distracted so he somehow finds himself researching how to make women squirt. Like he stumbles upon articles about it and his info hungry brain absolutely has to know more.
He researches this thoroughly until it come to the practical part of it where he realises the only one he can try this on is the reader BUT!!! No pre established relationship apart form being fellow hunters so he has to divide a plan to get her to agree , the rest u figure out🥲 idk can’t find anything remotely close to this soooooo PRETTY PLEASE 👉👈
Tyyyyyy 🫡
⋆˚꩜｡ research purposes only,
pairing. sam winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount. 1374 genre. smut!!!
warnings. explicit sexual content (fingering, squirting, dirty talk, sexual tension, consensual experimentation), language, slight awkwardness that turns into heat, sam being a curious menace, reader being teased into giving in, no pre-established relationship, praise kink
notes. this idea is so fucking insane to me lol i love it
The motel’s too quiet for your liking.
Dean’s sprawled across the other bed, boots hanging off the edge, flipping through a magazine like there’s nothing in the world worth doing. Sam’s in his chair at the little table, laptop open, brow furrowed, tapping away like he’s solving some national crisis.
You’re oiling your gun, halfway tuned out, when Dean grumbles, “Sammy, you’ve been at that for hours. We don’t even have a case.”
Sam hums distractedly. “Just… staying ahead.”
You glance over, catching the way his eyes flick across the screen. It’s not the usual newspaper headlines or cold case forums. His posture’s different—less tense, more… curious.
“Whatcha reading?” Dean asks without looking up.
Sam freezes for a fraction of a second, which already tells you it’s something interesting. “Nothing important.”
Dean snorts. “If it’s nothing important, you’re spending way too long on it.”
“Mind your business, Dean.”
Dean just shakes his head and stretches out, muttering something about coffee, grabbing his jacket, and stepping outside.
You tilt your head at Sam. “You’re hiding something.”
He shifts in his chair. “No, I’m not.”
You raise a brow. “Sam. Your ears are red.”
He exhales through his nose. “Fine. I was… reading an article. About… a topic.”
You smirk. “What topic?”
His mouth opens, closes. Then, like he decides there’s no point lying, he leans back in his chair. “It started with biology. Human sexual response.”
You blink. “You were reading porn?”
“No—” His voice is defensive, but his cheeks are pink now. “It was about female physiology. Specifically… how to make a woman… you know…”
You cross your arms, feigning indifference. “No, Sam, I don’t know. Enlighten me.”
His jaw tenses. “…squirt.”
There’s a beat of silence. You burst out laughing, and he rubs his face in his hands.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“I’m not kidding,” he mutters, but he’s smiling a little despite himself. “I was curious. And now I know the theory. Just… not the practical part.”
You watch him for a moment, something about his tone making your skin feel hot. “And you’re telling me because…?”
He meets your eyes, and you realize he’s not joking. “Because you’re the only one I trust enough to… test it with.”
Your breath catches. “That’s bold, Winchester.”
He shrugs, trying to look casual but his voice dips lower. “Research purposes only.”
You should say no. You should. But the way he’s looking at you—steady, unflinching, with that slow-building heat—it unravels something in your gut.
“…Lock the door,” you say.
His chair scrapes back. The laptop’s abandoned. He’s in front of you in two strides, towering, but careful when he takes your wrist and tugs you to stand.
“This is your call,” he murmurs, voice all gravel and sincerity. “We stop whenever you say.”
You nod, pulse hammering.
He guides you back until your knees hit the bed, then his hands are on your hips, sliding under your shirt, mapping warm skin with wide palms. His mouth brushes yours—light, testing—before deepening the kiss until your head spins.
“Need you to relax for me,” he says against your lips, easing you onto your back. His fingers work your jeans open, sliding them down, and he’s watching your face like he’s reading every reaction.
The first touch between your thighs makes you gasp. He’s slow, methodical, dragging the pads of his fingers through your slick before pressing exactly where he wants to explore.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Right… there.”
Your breath catches—sharp, startled—because the way his fingers curl, deliberate and precise, hits something inside you that makes your thighs jolt and your back arch off the bed.
Sam’s gaze is locked between your legs, his brow drawn in laser focus, lips slightly parted like he’s mapping every twitch, every gasp. His other hand is splayed on your lower stomach, anchoring you in place as though he’s testing the theory he just read about minutes ago.
“Sam—” Your voice breaks, somewhere between pleading and warning, because he’s not just touching you; he’s studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s about to solve. And God help you, it’s working.
He glances up, just long enough to meet your eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting in something halfway between reassurance and challenge. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
The pads of his fingers keep that perfect rhythm, curling up against that exact spot again and again, while his thumb presses lightly against your clit—not rubbing yet, just enough pressure to make you pulse around him.
It’s almost too much and not enough at the same time. Your hands fist in the sheets, hips trying to lift into him, but he holds you steady with a quiet, “Uh-uh. Let me.”
You nod, swallowing hard, and his thumb finally begins to move—slow circles that match the tempo of his fingers inside you. Every motion feels calculated, measured against the way your body reacts.
“God, you’re—” He cuts himself off with a low groan, eyes darting to where you’re wet and spread open for him. “—so fucking responsive.”
Your thighs start to tremble, heat blooming low in your belly, coiling tighter and tighter. You can’t decide if you want to push him away or beg him for more.
Sam must see it—must know—because he leans in close, voice dropping to a rough whisper by your ear. “I read something about this part right here…” His fingers shift just slightly, pressing up harder, and your whole body jerks. “…and how if I keep going—” another deliberate curl, another drag of his thumb— “—I can make you come so hard you won’t know where you end and I start.”
“Sam, oh—” The sound tears out of you, high and desperate.
He doesn’t slow. If anything, he doubles down, murmuring encouragements, his tone steady even as his own breathing grows heavy. The pressure in your stomach snaps suddenly, sending a rush of warmth between your legs that has you gasping and clinging to him.
But he doesn’t stop.
If anything, Sam’s fingers curl deeper, deliberate in the way they drag against that spot again and again, knuckles flexing just right. Your thighs are trembling, but he keeps you open, his big hand spread wide against your hip to hold you exactly where he wants you.
The air between you is hot, tight, like you’ve both stepped over a line that can’t be uncrossed.
"Right there," he murmurs, voice low and almost clinical — except for the rough edge beneath it, the sound of a man who’s way too turned on for his own good. "I can feel it. You’re close."
You can’t answer, not when your breath comes in short bursts and every nerve feels like it’s sparking. He experiments — changes the angle, presses harder — and the difference has you gasping his name like you’ve been holding it in for years.
Sam’s pupils are blown wide, his jaw tight with focus. "That’s it. That’s it. Don’t hold back."
The pressure builds in a way that’s unfamiliar but overwhelming, a hot, liquid coil in your belly that demands release. His hand is relentless, rhythm unshakable, his thumb brushing just enough over your clit to keep the pleasure spiraling.
Your hands fly to his shoulders, gripping like you need him to anchor you, but your hips are already moving on their own — seeking more, chasing it.
"Sam—" It’s a plea, a warning, and maybe a little bit of both.
"I know," he says, and then he leans in, voice hot against your ear. "Let go for me."
The words tip you over the edge. It hits fast and hard, the sharp wave breaking into something wetter, messier — your body giving in completely under his steady, insistent hand. You cry out, shuddering, every muscle tightening and then going loose, but he doesn’t slow until you’re shaking with overstimulation.
When he finally eases off, his fingers are slick, his breathing uneven. He looks at you like he’s just solved the last piece of some impossible puzzle.
"Guess the research paid off," he says with the faintest, cocky smirk. But his voice is still low, rough — and you know from the heat in his gaze that he’s nowhere near finished with you.
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