collection of reposts + recently rewriting my old diary’s work since i would’ve killed to have them to read as a kid (you’re welcome) and i also have plans to write some new ones (i have already) if you’d like to suggest ideas <3
Masterlist, AO3
Cas x AFAB!fem!Reader
Word count: 3.2k
Summary: Castiel rescues you from a case gone wrong, accidentally exposing his wings. When he finds out you can see them, he can't help but lose control ;)
Content: smut !! wing kink, grace kink, praise kink, soulmate au, intense making out, body worship, fingering, p in v sex, rough sex, cas loses his virginity, switch!castiel, no use of Y/N
A/N - OMG I finally got around to finishing the fic from the poll, thank you so much everyone for the support and lmk what you wanna see next 🤭
If you had known demons were behind the disappearances, you would have never shown up alone.
From the outside, the case looked like nothing more than a few rogue vampires. While you had been hunting with the Winchesters for a few years now, they were busy with some impossible end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it crisis, and you had reached your breaking point. So when an article surfaced about two victims found completely drained of blood, you were eager to leave the brothers to their research.
It hadn’t taken long after arriving in town to locate the small nest. You'd even texted Sam and Dean before heading out—just in case. But nothing could have prepared you for what you found inside. The abandoned farmhouse you’d been led to was a trap, crawling with demons. You'd walked right into it like a rookie.
Now you were bloodied and shackled in some damp basement, breathing hard through cracked ribs and a busted lip, your hands chained above your head. Each breath was agony. Your vision blurred as one of the demons approached, a sick grin on his face and a knife covered in your blood in his hand.
You closed your eyes and did the only thing you could think of.
“Castiel,” you whispered, your voice hoarse and barely audible over the sound of your own pulse. “Please. I need you.”
The air changed.
It was subtle at first—the room felt tighter, heavier—and then everything happened at once.
A blinding light tore through the darkness. The demons turned just as a flutter of wings, louder than thunder, echoed off the stone walls. You heard screams—real, agonized screams—and then silence.
When you blinked your eyes open, the room was lit only by the soft glow of celestial grace. Blood and ash coated the walls. The demons were gone, their vessels crumpled like discarded paper.
And he was standing there. Castiel. Looking untouched, terrifying, and beautiful.
But it wasn’t his face that had you breathless.
His wings stretched behind him, dark and enormous, taking up nearly the entire room. Not shadowy impressions like you'd seen in glimpses before—these were real, radiant with flecks of silver and midnight blue, as if the night sky had been carved into feathers.
You gasped. “Cas…” you murmured, your head spinning. “Your wings…”
Then everything went black.
The motel room smelled faintly of dust and cheap detergent. Your eyes fluttered open to the dim light of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the faded wallpaper. For a second, you didn’t move. The pain was gone—but the memory of it, of shackles, blood, and demon laughter, clung to your skin like smoke.
Then your senses caught up. You were clean. Your ribs didn’t hurt. You sat up slowly, half-expecting the agony to return, but it didn’t. A bottle of water sat on the nightstand, unopened.
And sitting silently in the chair across from your bed, elbows resting on his knees, was Castiel.
His hands were clasped in front of him, head slightly bowed. He looked tired—not physically, but like something heavy sat inside his chest. Still, the moment your gaze met his, his head lifted, and relief flickered through his storm-colored eyes.
“You’re awake,” he said softly.
You managed a tired smile. “Yeah. Guess you’ve been busy.”
“I healed you,” he said, his tone clinical, almost distant. “The damage was… extensive.”
“I figured,” you said, hand brushing gently over your ribs. “Thank you, Cas. Seriously.”
Something shifted in his expression. He didn’t nod or offer a typical "you’re welcome." Instead, a deep quiet settled between you, almost uncomfortable. He looked down, jaw tense, then back at you with an unreadable expression.
“Did you see them?” he hesitated, his voice rough, uncertain in a way that was so unlike him it made your stomach twist.
You blinked. “Your wings?”
He stilled.
You continued carefully. “Yes. I did. They were… Cas, they were the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”
He looked like you’d struck him. His hands unclasped, falling to his sides as he slowly stood, pacing once before facing you again—guarded, but shaken.
“I didn’t think…” he began, faltering. “I never believed I had one.”
“One what?” you asked gently, though your heart beat faster.
He swallowed. “A mate.”
You froze.
“I shouldn’t have one,” he went on, voice low and distant now, as if speaking to himself. “Not after everything I’ve done. Not after who I’ve become. I’ve always felt a pull to you, but I never let myself believe…” he trailed off, refusing to look at you. “But only a soulmate can see an angel’s true wings. Not impressions. Not shadows. Only a mate.”
You stared at him, heart in your throat. “Cas…”
“I didn’t mean for you to see them,” he said, his voice breaking under the weight of it. “But you called. And I came. And when I saw you there, bleeding, chained—” he looked away, his eyes burning. “I couldn’t stop myself.”
You were already pushing yourself up, standing on shaky legs, the sheets falling from your lap. “Cas, look at me.”
He turned, eyes meeting yours, raw and searching.
“I saw them,” you whispered, stepping close. “I saw you. And I’m still here.”
His breath caught. For a long second, he didn’t move. Then—softly, like a man who’d been wandering for centuries and had finally found home—he reached out. Not quite touching. Waiting.
You took his hand.
And the room filled with something that had nothing to do with light, sound, or heaven.
Just you.
Just him.
Just this.
The silence between you hummed with something unspoken—warm, and impossibly fragile. You still held his hand, your thumb brushing gently along the callused ridge of his knuckle. Castiel’s eyes searched your face, hesitant, as if he was balancing on the edge of a precipice.
Then, in a voice just above a whisper, he asked, “Would you… like to see them again?”
You didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”
He blinked once, slowly, as if he hadn't expected that answer so easily. Then he nodded, a small, almost nervous tilt of his head. “You should close your eyes,” he said, softer still. “They can… overwhelm. Even with you.”
Your heart fluttered. Not from fear, but from the quiet reverence in his tone.
You obeyed, lashes fluttering shut. You heard him inhale, deep and slow—and then the air shifted
You felt them before you saw anything. The beat of something ancient and holy stirring the air, brushing against your skin like a sigh. Warmth radiated from him, a divine hum that lit every nerve.
Then came the soft rustle of feathers.
“Okay,” he said, voice low and unsure. “You can look now.”
You opened your eyes slowly—and forgot how to breathe.
His wings stretched out behind him in a full, glorious display. No longer dimmed by adrenaline or divine fury, they unfolded like living art. Vast, sweeping things made of starlight and shadow. Each feather shimmered with deep sapphire and silver, like moonlight on dark water. The edges glowed faintly, kissed by heaven itself.
“Cas…” Your voice was barely a breath. “You’re incredible.”
A flicker of color rose in his cheeks. His wings twitched at the compliment—just a small fluffing of feathers, barely noticeable. You had a feeling he hadn’t been complimented nearly enough.
“I’m not,” he murmured, avoiding your gaze.
You stepped closer. “You are,” you insisted, eyes wide with wonder. “May I… can I touch them?”
His gaze lifted, startled and open. He swallowed hard, then nodded, unable to speak.
Your hand hovered near the closest wing. He didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, just watched you, tense with anticipation.
Then you touched him.
The feather beneath your hand was impossibly soft, like velvet and silk spun together. He shivered visibly. His lips parted with a breathy gasp, and a soft sound escaped him, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.
“Did I hurt you?” you whispered, pausing.
He shook his head quickly, breath shaky. “No. The opposite.”
You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest. Slowly, you ran your fingers deeper through the feathers, marveling at their texture and weight.
As you moved along the arch of his wing, he made another sound—quieter, more desperate. His hands curled into fists, his shoulders trembling.
“Cas,” you whispered, awed. “They’re so sensitive…”
His voice was raw. “They are. Our wings are… sacred. Intimate. We don’t—angels don’t let others…”
Your breath hitched. “No one has touched them before?”
He met your gaze, pupils blown wide. “No. Only you.”
The weight of his confession pressed gently against your chest.
You moved your hands lower, fingertips brushing the base of his wings—and he buckled. A groan tore from him, low and wrecked. His knees nearly gave, and he gripped your waist for balance, clinging to you like a lifeline.
“Cas…” Your voice was breathless, your eyes locked on him. “You don’t have to hold back.”
“I—” He gasped again as your fingers stroked down the length of a primary feather. “You’re going to undo me.”
“Good,” you whispered against his ear, lips ghosting his skin.
His wings trembled under your touch, every sweep of your fingers drawing out soft, helpless sounds from deep in his throat. His body pressed closer, warmth radiating off him in waves. You could feel the hard line of his arousal against your thigh—undeniable, urgent. The realization sent a jolt through you, and a slow, aching warmth pooled low in your belly—in between your legs—drawn out by the sounds he made, soft and needy and completely unguarded.
You kept your movements gentle but deliberate, respectful in your exploration, yet unable to ignore the desire coiling tighter. Each delicate stroke through his feathers made him shudder, his eyes fluttering closed, jaw slack with pleasure. The air around you shimmered, thick with grace and tension. He made another sound—low, deep in his chest—and you felt it vibrate through you.
You leaned in, your lips brushing his ear. “I want you, Cas.”
His eyes snapped open, darker, hungrier. His grace pulsed, licking at your skin like heat lightning. You stepped back, curling your fingers around his wrist, guiding him toward the bed. He followed in silence, wings half-flared, catching the light like silk.
When the backs of your knees met the mattress, you pulled him close and kissed him—softly, just enough to push him over the edge.
He surged forward, capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that was all hunger and promise. Not gentle—consuming, desperate, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the press of his lips. He cradled your face, trembling with restraint, as if you were fragile. Sacred.
You moaned, your body arching. He deepened the kiss, sliding one hand to your waist. He kissed you as if he’d waited forever—because he had.
His grace pulsed faintly along your skin, like electricity dancing over every nerve. But it was his voice, low and wrecked, that sent the deepest shiver through you.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he whispered, breath trembling against your lips. “How long I’ve wanted you?”
You managed a small sound, overwhelmed by his presence. But he wasn’t finished.
“I’ve watched you laugh… bleed… fight beside me,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then lower, lips brushing the curve of your throat. “And every time, I wanted to reach for you. To pull you into me. Never let go.”
Your fingers tangled in his hair, your breath ragged. “Then do it,” you whispered.
He froze, resting his forehead against yours, his eyes luminous, aching, meeting yours with a look that made your heart skip.
“You are everything to me,” he said, voice hoarse. “And I want you like I've never wanted anything.”
He kissed you again—slower, like he was worshipping you—and when his hands moved beneath your shirt, his grace followed, hotter and heavier. It wasn’t just desire; it was a dam breaking—a lifetime of restraint collapsing all at once.
“Then take me,” you breathed.
Clothes vanished—not torn, not stripped, just gone, dissolved by his will. You stood bare before him, and he looked at you as if you were something holy. You let your gaze travel over him—his body, his wings, his eyes wide with need—and your breath caught. “You’re beautiful,” you whispered, “Divine.”
His breath hitched, his pupils dilating. The tips of his wings twitched, then flared, reacting to the heat that surged through him. You watched his jaw flex as he fought for composure.
“You can’t say things like that,” he rasped, voice rough with need. “Not when I’m already barely holding on.”
A wicked smile ghosted across your lips as you brushed your fingers down his chest, slow and teasing. “Why not?” you murmured. “It’s true. Every part of you… breathtaking.”
His control snapped, not violently—but completely. With a low groan, he surged down, capturing your mouth again, guiding you down on the bed, his wings folding behind him, still trembling as he held himself above you.
“You say things like that,” he growled against your throat, “and I’ll never stop.”
“Then don’t,” you breathed. “I don’t want you to.”
He made a sound that was half-laugh, half-moan—utterly wrecked—and pressed himself tighter against you. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he whispered, voice barely holding together. “And if you keep looking at me like that… speaking to me that way… I’m going to worship you until you forget anything else ever existed.”
His eyes lit with his grace and a warmth rolled through you—trailing down your neck, across your chest, between your thighs. The sensation was blinding. You cried out, clutching at him as your hips lifted, desperate for more. His eyes darkened, and something wild flickered behind them.
“I want to feel all of you,” he said, voice thick with need. “I want you to feel me everywhere.”
His mouth claimed yours again, but his grace explored you—featherlight at first, teasing, then growing bolder. You gasped as it trailed down your body, warm and electric, moving lower and lower.
You cried out as his grace gathered between your thighs, pulsing in tight, rhythmic waves that made your hips buck. It was like being touched and not touched all at once—phantom hands stroking you with aching precision, vibrating against your most sensitive spot until you were writhing beneath him, your breath ragged and your fingers clutching at his shoulders.
“Cas,” you whimpered, voice trembling. “I can’t—please—”
Your plea spurred him on. His mouth dragged away from yours, panting against your cheek as his hand slid down, replacing the pulsing shimmer of his grace with something achingly real. His fingers found you slick and desperate, and he groaned at the feel of you.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, “Let me take care of you.”
His thumb circled your clit with devastating precision as two fingers slid inside you, curling just right. You cried out, arching, and he drank in the sound as if it was his salvation.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice thick and broken. “Let go for me.”
His grace didn’t fade—it intensified, wrapping around you like a second mouth, a second hand, amplifying everything. It worked in tandem with his fingers, pushing you higher and higher, until the heat in your core exploded outward, pleasure crashing through you in waves so strong your vision blurred.
You screamed his name, your body shuddering as you came, and he held you through it—his fingers slowing, his grace humming like a lullaby.
He growled—a low, primal sound—as your pleasure washed over him. His wings flared wide, radiant and wild, trembling as he fought for control. His grace pulsed harder now, answering every sound you made, every arch of your body. He kissed your throat, your shoulder, voice reverent, breathless.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured, mouth brushing your skin. “Falling apart for me.”
You were still catching your breath, your body trembling, when he pressed closer—his arousal heavy against your thigh, impossible to ignore. He cupped your cheek again, thumb brushing your lips, and he looked down as if barely holding himself together.
“I’m trying to be gentle,” he admitted, his voice strained, “but I don’t know how much longer I can.”
Your fingers slid through his hair, pulling him closer, your voice soft and steady even through the haze. “Then don’t,” you whispered. “I want you to lose control.”
His answer was a groan, and then he was moving. He shifted, settling between your thighs, the pressure of him a promise. He paused, his eyes locking onto yours, giving you time to change your mind. You arched your hips slightly, a silent invitation, and that was all the permission he needed.
He pushed into you, filling you completely, and you gasped, the sensation exquisite and overwhelming. He was large, thick, and impossibly hard, filling every inch of you. For a moment, you could only breathe, adjusting to the reality of him inside you. "You're so tight," he breathed against your ear, causing you to flutter around him.
Then he moved, a slow, deliberate thrust that stretched you open, and you cried out, fingers digging into his shoulders. He stilled again, letting you adjust, letting you feel him, and then he began to move in earnest. "Beautiful," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.
Each thrust was deeper than the last, each stroke more intense, and you met him thrust for thrust, your hips rocking against his. His heat pulsed around you, a living wave that intensified with every movement, every gasp, every moan.
He was no longer the gentle, restrained angel you knew. He was a primordial being, driven by a need that mirrored your own. He pushed you higher and higher, taking you to the edge and holding you there, until you were begging him to let go.
“Please, Cas,” you gasped, your body trembling with each stroke. “I need you…”
Your words seemed to embolden him, and he thrust even harder, faster, driving you both closer to the brink. As you felt yourself getting closer to your peak, you shifted your hands, your fingers carding their way through his feathers until you reached the base of his wings. You stroked him there, causing him to shudder, his movements faltering for a moment.
But then, with renewed intensity, he surged into you. You continued to caress his wings, your fingers dancing over the sensitive feathers, and he bucked beneath you, his control completely gone.
He roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure, as he spilled his seed deep inside you, pushing you into your climax. He continued moving with slow, gentle thrusts that soothed and comforted, drawing out the last vestiges of pleasure. He kissed your neck, your shoulder, whispering words of praise and adoration. You clung to him, your body still trembling in the afterglow.
Finally, he stilled, collapsing against you, his weight welcome. You wrapped your arms around him, and let silence settle. After a few moments, he nuzzled into your neck, his wings wrapping around you both like a warm, feathery blanket. "I love you," he whispered softly, his voice full of contentment. You snuggled closer, smiling against his skin. "I love you too," you replied, feeling completely at peace.
Summary: After Homelander is defeated, the world is scrambling to move on, but Soldier Boy is locked away in Vought Tower. That is until you free him.
Content Warning: 18+. MDNI. Soldier boy is one horny mf and only thinks about sex. Even if he should be worried about getting out of the tower. And who are you to deny him anything. Couch sex. Vaginal fingering. PIV sex. Slight cockwarming. Spanking. Squint for the breeding kink.
Word Count: 3k
A/N: I took the title from the Backstreet Boys song. Backstreet Boys > NSYNC. I said what I said and I stand by it.
@shroomshop This is for you! 🩷 I hope it is semi what you were hoping for. Sorry it took so long!
Divider credit: @cursed-carmine; Pictures from Pinterest.
AO3 Link
Sneaking into Vought Tower was fairly easy. After Butcher killed Homelander on national television, you had hoped the aftermath of the fallout would be enough of a distraction that no one would be concerned about one singular women on her own mission.
You had begged Ben to leave without talking to Homelander, but the motherfucker was just too damn stubborn. And when he didn't show at your place that night ready to leave, you knew something had happened. You just prayed it didn't cost him his life in the process. Either way, you were going to find answers.
Your first instinct was to go down to the basement, thinking Vought would want to hide the supe away. But as you entered the stairwell, you remembered Ben telling you that when Homelander had woken him up from cryo, the chamber was in his bedroom. You were operating on the hope that Ben was just in stasis rather than dead, and what were the odds that he would have had the chamber removed?
When you finally broke into Homelander's apartment, you still glanced around the space like he might show up and kill you on sight. Despite showing his true colors after losing his power, old habits died hard. Moving silently through the rooms, you entered his bedroom and your jaw dropped.
In the corner, Soldier Boy was there, eyes closed like he was just asleep. Which you supposed he was, in a way. Rushing over, you look at the controls to the chamber, hoping to figure out how to get him out. It was surprisingly user friendly, and you managed to get the door open without much difficulty.
The next part would be much harder. The man was built like a tank, and he was heavy. There was no physical way you were going to be able to move him. The restraints holding him in place would have to do until he woke up.
Your eyes traced over his body, his skin a map of scars showing everything he has survived over thick corded muscles that you knew initimately. Your fingertips graze his biceps and across his chest, unable to help yourself from touching him. You were so caught up that when he cleared his throat, it startled you, jumping back as your heart pounded against your chest.
His voice was rough from disuse. "The fuck happened?"
"Do you always wake up from cryo this angry?" You ask, stepping closer to him again. "Or do you plan on thanking the woman that just saved your life from sleeping the years away?"
Your hands cup his face as you lean up and kiss along his jaw, his beard tickling your skin as your lips finally meet his. His eyebrows raise in surprise as he kisses you back for a moment, letting your presence surround him before he mutters against your lips, "Are you going to let me out or…"
"If you are as big and strong as you say, shouldn't you be able to get out yourself?" You counter, unable to resist the urge to tease him.
His emerald green eyes flash with amusement or irritation, but knowing him, it was probably irritation. You wish he didn't look so damn attractive when he was annoyed, but when his eyes shot to yours with a promise of punishment, you couldn't be held liable for pushing his buttons further. You might be a brat, but you were a well satisfied one.
Without wasting another moment, the restraints around his wrists snap, no longer connected to the board behind him. You take a step back, undoing the straps across his body to free him as he tears the leather restraints from his wrists, shredding them like paper.
"That was the last time I'm ever going back in that damn box." He grumbles.
"You know what they say about famous last words, Ben."
His hands finally come up to your face, thumbs brushing against your jaw as he tilts your head back. He ducks his head down to fully look into your eyes, like he really wants you to hear him.
"I'm never leaving you again." He whispers, his tone soft, but the words unyielding. A promise he intended to keep until he was nothing more than dust and bones.
You grab his wrists, keeping him close as you swallow past the lump forming in your throat, nodding. "I was so scared. You didn't come home, and I thought…"
"Homelander caught me by surprise. I didn't think the bastard would stab me in the back like that. Where is he by the way? I think I need to return the favor."
"He's dead. Butcher killed him. On national tv. It was…gruesome."
Ben's brow raises in surprise. "The bastard actually did it. I'll be damned."
Then he kisses you. It is desperate, hungry, and laced with something close to relief. Your hands run up over his chest to twist around the back of his neck as you pull yourself closer. He groans in response, his hands tracing down your sides to wrap around your back. Despite your anger at him for leaving you that day, seeing him now, having him back in your arms completely assuages the anxiety and worry you had been feeling.
You melt against his body, solid and firm against your own. He starts slowly walking you backwards, murmuring against your lips. "You are wearing way too many clothes."
When your legs hit the edge of the bed, you nearly fall back. "I don't think now is the best time, Ben. We probaly should get out of Vought Tower. And it's not like I want to do it in your dead son's bed."
Ben grumbles under his breath, like he doesn't understand how you aren't ready to jump into the first bed with him like he clearly is. His hands slide down your body grabbing your ass and squeezing. The action pulls you further into him, and you wrap your arms around his neck.
"Is there anywhere in this god's damned tower you would be okay with fucking me before we leave?" He demands, clearly exasperated.
You chuckle at his annoyance. "Anywhere but this bed."
Hands sliding behind your thighs, the supe lifts you up as your legs wrap around his waist and he carries you straight to the couch before sitting down with you straddling his lap. His erection is pressing against the fabric of the white boxer briefs he has on, straining to get out and sink into you.
His lips travel across your jaw to whisper in your ear. "This better, princess?" He asks facetiously, nipping at your earlobe.
"Much better." You giggle. He starts pulling at your clothes and they threathen to tear under his impatience and strength. "Ben, unless you want me walking out of this building half naked, do you mind?"
He huffs, lips pulling off your neck where he was sucking a deep mark into your sensitive skin. He throws his hands up. "Fine. You do it then."
"With pleasure." You say, winking as you strip off your shirt and bra. You push up to your knees to pull your pants and underwear down, the motion shoving your breasts in his face. Unable to resist the temptation, he licks a strip right up the valley before his lips latch around one nipple, suckling at you. You gasp at the sensation, electricity running straight through your veins to your core.
You kick off your pants, hands flying into his hair as your nails scratch against his scalp and he groans at the feel of your fingers in his hair, the vibrations ricocheting through your body in a tidalwave of pure desire. You pull him closer as one of his hands plays with your other breast, his other hand on your hip, fingers splayed wide. Your head falls back as you moan his name, your tone a desperate whine, and he smiles against you.
"That's right, say my name. Been missin' me something fierce, haven't you?" He goads, pulling your body back down so your core is pressed against his aching cock, his underwear the only thing separating him from entering your sweet tight pussy. Using your hips, he moves your body, sliding you along the ridge of him, each pass dampening the fabric with your arousal until it is nearly translucent.
You gasp and moan as he drags you up and down his length, every movement rubbing just perfectly against your clit, and you start rocking your hips. "More. Fuck, Ben. I need more."
"How much more?" He taunts, his strength keeping you moving at the pace he wants, designed to drag out your pleasure, almost like he wants you to remember how good he makes you feel and only him. Like you could ever want anyone else, the man had ruined you long ago.
"Everything." You gasp out. "I need you."
Your nails dig into the thick muscles of his shoulders as you head drops forward, forehead pressed against his cheek, his beard softly scratching your skin, only reminding you of the feeling of his beard other, more intimate places.
"Tell me how bad you need my cock. I need to hear it. Need to know how much you missed me." He growls in your ear.
"Ben, baby, please." You whimper, knowing you are completely at his mercy. "I need to feel you inside me. I was going crazy without you."
He stills your rocking hips, one hand sliding to your core as his thick calloused fingers quickly find your clit, circling the bundle of nerves as you gasp. Pleasure rushes through you as he plays your body like he knows it better than the back of his hand, fingers dipping into your entrance to gather more of your arousal before moving back.
You kiss him fiercely, your hands running to the back of his neck, holding him still as your lips attack his. You can feel his grin as he lets you control the kiss as he drives you mad with his fingers. You nip his bottom lip with your teeth, and you can feel the change in him as his eyes flash with barely contained desire. This time when two of his fingers slide into you, your mouth drops open with a moan that he swallows, his tongue dipping inside to taste you.
"Ride 'em, doll. Show me how desperate you are for my cock."
You lift your hips, letting his fingers pull almost completely out of you before your hips roll back down, impaling yourself on his thick digits. As much as you wanted feel him inside you, you would gladly take his fingers. You would take any part of him he was willing to give you.
Clenching around his fingers you grind down, your clit rubs deliciously against the heel of his hand before lifting again to repeat the motion. His eyes greedily run over your body, your tits bouncing with each movement. The only thing that could make this better was if he was buried deep in your pussy, but he wanted you good and stretched out before then.
His fingers scissor apart, pressing against your gummy walls, feeling each and every clench of your muscles. You were getting close, panting against his neck between kisses, his name coming out in breathless whispers. But he wanted you screaming his name for anyone in this goddamned tower to hear and know who you belonged to. Who you would always belong to.
"Gonna have you screaming around my cock by the end of the night, doll." He murmured in your ear, pulling the lobe with his teeth.
"So close, Ben." You whimper.
"Come for me, sweetheart. Wanna feel you drench me."
With his permission, you combust in his arms, pleasure running through your veins that you can feel from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. Your skin buzzes, everything feeling more sensitive from the coolness in the air against your skin to the way your breasts rub against his chest. He keeps working you, his fingers rubbing against the sensitive spot inside you until you are trembling in his arms.
When he removes his fingers, you groan at the loss, but are quickly sated as he pulls his underwear down enough to release himself and impales you on his thick, veiny, reddened cock. You gasp, feeling oversensitive after your release and your nails claw down his chest, leaving red lines in their wake. You wish they would still be there tomorrow, a reminder of you on his skin, but you will just have to leave new marks tomorrow since he heals too quickly.
"God fucking damn." He groans. "Always so fucking tight for me."
"Oh my god. Oh my god. So fucking big." You babble, as you adjust to him.
"You aren't sitting on god's cock, doll."
You nod your head in agreement, feeling too blissed out to understand what he is saying.
"Who's cock is inside you?"
You whimper, acting purely on instinct as you lean forward to press your lips against his, barely hearing his question. His hand comes down, slapping your ass.
"Fuck!" You cry out, lifting up an inch before falling back down on him as his dick rubs against your g-spot perfectly. "Oh god."
His hand lands on your ass again, the sting blending together in perfect harmony with the fullness of him inside you. "Wrong answer."
"Fuck! Ben! Yours. It's yours. Your cock." You gasp.
He grins down at you, his hips bucking up, the tip kissing your cervix just perfectly. "That's much better."
You start to roll your hips, enjoying just how much the supe fills you up, your clit pressed against his groin. You swear you could spend the rest of your life perched on him just like this and die a happy woman. But when his hands return to your hips, he urges you to lift up, watching his cock glistening with your slick before he slams you back down.
You take the hint, starting to ride him, as he helps you keep a steady rhythm. He leans forward, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth and sucking down on you, his tongue circling the pebbled bud with a groan that echoes throughout your body. Your hands find their way to his hair, yanking on the soft strands to pull him impossibly closer to your body.
The heat between you builds to an inferno as you move, his fingers gripping your hips tight enough to leave marks that will turn to bruises by morning. He pulls off your breast with a pop, leaning back to watch you.
"Look so fucking good as you take my cock. My perfect little slut. Riding me like you can't get enough. Bet you would let me knock you up, wouldn't you? Do you want to full and round with my kid?"
You moan desperately, your rhythm stuttering at his words as you clench around him hard. You would. You would let him get you pregnant if he really wanted that. A physical reminder of the desperate need you have for each other.
"Fuck, doll. You like the sound of that, don't you? Letting me fill you so deep, there would be no way you weren't pregnant by the time I was done with you. Want me to come inside your pretty pussy?"
You nod, moving faster against him, chasing your orgasm as the echoes of skin slapping against skin and your panting breath is all you can hear over his words. He reaches between you, playing with your clit to try and push you over the edge faster.
"So close…so close Ben."
"Good. I want to feel you milk my cock dry as I fill you up." He growls.
His hips thrust up in time with your downward strokes before he releases inside you, painting your walls and cervix with rops of his cum with a groan of your name falling from his lips. His orgasm sets off your own as your muscles seize. He keeps thrusting up into you as you clench around him, trying to pull him deeper inside your core, like you want to have his cock imprinted inside you. You scream his name loud enough that if there were anyone on the floor, you were sure they would be aware that Soldier Boy was awake and out of cryo again.
When you both finally come down from your combined pleasure, you smile down at him, satisfied bliss clearly written across your features. He returns your smile, soft and sated, his fingers brushing a strand of hair back from your face.
"You are so fucking breathtaking. You know that?"
"Are you just saying that because I let you out of the box and let you come inside me?"
He huffs at your question. "I'm being serious."
"I'm sorry." You murmur, kissing the tip of his nose. "Please keep singing my praises."
"Too late. It's done. You ruined it." He laid back against the couch, keeping you sprawled over him, cock still buried deep inside your cunt, each residual spasm of your muscles reminding both you and him how good you are together. His fingers trail up your spine, much gentler than you expect, and you wonder if he knows the lengths you would go for him. That anywhere he wanted to go, you would follow. That he owned you, body, mind and soul so completely that you didn't feel like yourself without his presence, he was quinessential to your mental health.
He sighed, drawing your attention away from counting every freckle on his tanned chest as your cheek rested over his heart, listening to each steady beat. "Now that Homelander is gone, I suppose we don't need to go to Bogotá. Is there anywhere you want to go, doll?"
You smile, lifting your head to look him in his eyes. "As long as it is with you, we can go anywhere."
Synopsis: A case with what you thought was a cupid but was actually famine personified brings out what you’re most desperately craving for…deans love and affection.
Warnings: Full Smut, Dry humping, Virgin reader, Thigh riding, Breeding if you squint, Masturbation, Lust magic, Love confessions, Fluff, Lovey dovey, Dean deserves love.
Counts: This oneshot is 34,111 characters and 6,364 words
Like and comment for more, Enjoy!
Masterlist:
A sudden urge to be close to him had you leaning over the diner table, plates that were practically licked clean sat between you as a barrier you now crossed. “Think you guys can handle this one on your own? well, i mean at least until when i’ll inevitably have to save your damsel asses” you mocked with an adoring smile. Dean leans in with his signature cocky smirk, matching your distance that involuntarily shoots a heated wave through your body.
“I think we both know who’s ass you prefer saving..” His voice deeper than usual in his sultry tone had made you squirm under his gaze, clenching your thighs together as some sort of reprieve. Your playful flirting has been around since you’ve known him and sammy when you were kids. You’ve always loved the dyanamic between you but a large part of you can’t help but wish for more. Longing to be seen as more than just a hunter he just so happened to grow up with, for the flirting to actually be real on his end.
You wondered if maybe you met him on the road instead of when you did, that maybe he’d fall for you like you’ve so easily fallen for him. It all just felt like wishful thinking, knowing deep down he would never settle with you when he had all the most beautiful girls swooning in every bar you went to.
It was hard to watch him be so promiscuous all these years but you learned how to bottle it all down. Usually by keeping all your attention on sam instead, much to the dismay of the leering eyes of other drunk men at the bar. Yet you can’t help but torture yourself with a glance every so often as you watch him hit on these beautiful women bar after bar.
But recently he changed, ever since he was sent to hell he hasn’t had the same appetite for women like he used to. You and sam would exchange glances when you noticed how differently he acted but you knew that everything he went through was something you couldn’t imagine coping with yourself. No matter what you’d be there for him, so if he wanted to pretend like everything was normal or not, you’d be by his side.
When some of those leering eyes would ignore boundaries and try lure you somewhere private with a sleezy pickup line that could only ever work if dean used it, your knight in shining armour wouldn’t hesitate leaving whoever he was hitting on to rush to your defence. Almost getting into fights with who ever dared even breathing in your direction before he’d bringing you back to the motel.
You almost tricked yourself into thinking that maybe he liked you back a few times when he’d do things like that or be extra sweet to you. How he’d remember your favourite snacks and would automatically get them for you without you even having to ask for it when he went to pay for gas or the way he’d bring you in close when you were cold and even give you his jacket like it was nothing…it just all seemed like the ‘boyfriend things’ you saw in the movies.
Even if he did have the slightest bit of an attraction towards you, he would probably ignore it to the best of his abilities so that he didn’t ruin the lifelong friendship you both had. You couldn’t exactly blame him for it as you were doing the exact same. While that all being true you still couldn’t help but think ‘what if.’
Used to the years of yearning for him you don’t even realise anything was wrong, just assumed you were a little angst up as you get every so often. It was only when sam was using the toilet that you found the courage to bring it up to dean, about taking a break from this interrogation they were going to do in order to ‘rest.’
“Oh please…we all know i’m only here for the money maker” you reached out and grasp his chin tilting his head to the side before planting your lips in a big smooch to his cheek. Lipstick stain left on his cheek, leaving your mark as you slip out of the diner boot. Hopefully now the previously ogling waitress might get the hint to back off after seeing it, something primal in your stirs at the thought.
You left a bewildered dean in the boot who almost got whiplash at how fast he turns his head to watch your leaving form exit the diner with hypnotically swaying hips as he tried to put puzzle pieces together in his mind. Mouth still gaped he jumped at the sound of sam’s confused voice “Where’s she going?” dean tried to collect himself, acting like nothing life changing just happened. After clearing his voice, he answered bluntly “Motel. She’s tired.”
Before picking up the newspaper like a lifeline, pretending to read it while recollecting his memories to wonder if that really just so casually happened or if he imagined it like all those dreams that kept him up. All those sleepless nights where you’d have to share a bed and he was way too conscious of making you uncomfortable, even when you reached for him in your sleep he fought to stay away and not give in.
“So what attacked your face” sam pointed out as a mischievous look consumed his face after noticing the kiss mark left on his brothers cheek with a certain signature lipstick colour. Just in time the waitress walked over with the bill lacking her phone number, slamming it on the table while giving an unimpressed look toward him before going back to her duties.
“Looks like you won’t be getting another colour to match” sam snidely remarks, mocking his brother “Shut up sammy” dean grumbled out before he grabs the nearest napkin and wipes at his cheek to hide his embarrassment. Sam smiled satisfactorily as he knows both of your feelings toward each other and have tried for years now to get you both to just admit it but you’re both far too stubborn to let sam intervene.
You walked back to the motel after much convincing to dean that you were just feeling tired and only planned to take a nap while they interrogated the cupid. You were going to utilise all that time you’d be alone to relieve that unbearable ache you always get around dean. You’ve never had sex before, but only because you’ve never been interested in anyone besides dean. You could never get yourself to do anything like that without knowing the person.
So those tv characters you watched and dean were the only people you fantasised about while masturbating, although you always tried your best to not think about dean. You felt like a pervert everytime you did and would find it hard to look him in the eyes after, but sometimes you couldn’t help yourself when you were getting so close and he did something extra fine that day.
This was one of those times. You immediately shed your trousers as soon as you walked in the door. Something deep in you wants to be close to dean so you changed your shirt to one of his oversized ones he gave you, which you normally wouldn’t even think of doing but you wanted it to get comfortable. Once changed, you finally feel a slight relief to that burning ache as you could still faintly smell him on his shirt. You sprawled out on the bed with a sigh, ready to get this over with so you could be normal again.
Thankfully you had a room separate from the boys this time so there was no chance they would walk in on you. Your legs began rubbing together desperate for any friction as your hands traveled down your neck to the shape of your curves, craving to be touched anywhere and everywhere. As your hands trailed over your body in whispers of affection, you pictured who’s hands were doing it to you.
How skilled those hands of his must be, from the many reviews alone you knew how generous of a lover he was and that he could treat you the way you deserved. Your hands can’t help but play with your nipples in light brushes as you imagine his attention on them and the way he would treat your body as something to worship. It had you moaning at the idea, at his attention being all yours.
You moved the spare pillow to between your legs, needing far more friction than what you could give yourself. None of this felt like enough, it just wasn’t him. You began to move your hips in a slow grind against the pillow and whined at how better it felt. Yet you couldn’t help but think of how much better would it feel to have the real thing. It was never enough…you needed dean.
You tried to ignore those thoughts, just needing to orgasm so these depraved thoughts could let you go back to normal. You tried all morning to ignore them but they always won. This time you felt like you couldn’t control it, that you couldn’t control yourself. Something had to be wrong but you just couldn’t care to think about that when you were grinding against that pillow imagining you were on his lap.
Hearing the door close in the opposite room made you jump up, they’re back?! how long has it been?! You haven’t been able to get off this whole time. Shit. Something is definitely wrong, this feeling isn’t leaving and you don’t want dean to find out so you have to stay away from him as much as possible. Despite your previous thoughts you feel yourself moving toward the door uncaring of your more exposing appearance. Those bad feelings before make you gravitate towards dean because seeing him would make everything better. He always made you feel better.
You walk to their room and let yourself in, making three pairs of eyes flick over to you. Whatever they were talking about immediately ceased when you entered. Your appearance or rather lack thereof startled the group, as a thick tension of suspense filled the room. Secretly dean wanted to thank god himself for whatever reason you came in with just his shirt on, you were always so beautiful in his clothes. Their eyes turned to worry as you zoned in on dean, your heart fluttered when your eyes met. You have missed him so much, all you wanted was to make him feel better and that in turn would make you feel better.
Your smile lit up the room as you ran toward dean and jumped into his arms, legs wrapped around him. Shocked he almost stumbled back at the unexpected force of you but wrapped his arms around your torso to keep you steady, careful not to touch your naked thighs. “I missed you..dean” you almost cry out lips brushing against his neck before you took your opportunity to start kissing it and he almost loses composure. Unknowingly your crotch was leaving a wet mark against his shirt as you were pressed into him. Your tits rubbed against his chest in a way you were so desperate for in the other room, you needed this.
“What’s happening sweetheart?” he gained sense and pulled you back as much as he could. Seeing his face again you smiled and bit your lip making his knees go weak, while you were just perfectly content being in his arms. The first thing he noticed was how dark your lustful eyes were compared to your normal ones. Cas clarified his thoughts “I think you know dean.” He couldn’t believe it, there had to be another explanation there’s no way that you wanted him after what he had done. His confused gaze over at cas flicked back to you looking adoringly at him with arms wrapped around each other. You leaned into his ear and whispered “I want you dean, please i need you” before kissing just under it.
His body shut down when you grinded against him and let out a moan, you clawed at his neck to get as close to him as possible. He let out a sharp breath before pushing you towards the bed. Sam who had just grabbed handcuffs in preparation for what he knew they’d have to do to keep you safe had pried your hands off dean and cuffed you in place, while cas watched.
“Oh dean…i always knew you were kinky” sam visibly winced at your words as you wiggled in your handcuffs enticingly ready to be taken by his brother. They all turned around and started talking again, planning exactly how to they could kill famine. Dean used everything in him to stop thinking about the wet patch on his shirt and what that had meant. You whined in protest to their deaf ears when you realised he wasn’t going to make love to you. “Please dean, It hurts” you start to cry at the pain of being away from him “I love you…please dean, help me!” you pull at the handcuffs and start rubbing your legs together at the painful ache, arching your body off the mattress while moaning in pain.
Dean stood with a conflicted look on his face while they continued planning, he couldn’t focus while you were crying in pain for him to help you. So he caved and sat beside you on the mattress letting you spoon him, leg spread over his as you contently smiled against his chest. No longer hurting as bad you stopped crying and grounded yourself by focusing on his heartbeat. Just happy to be in his arms you don’t even bother with relieving your sexual desires just yet.
Deans pity made him not lock his handcuff as tight so that you weren’t hurt but now you could easily pry your hand out of the cuff. When they were all distracted with their plan, your hand slowly slid down and toward deans button up shirt which he looked so fucking good in. Just the sight of him could have anyone soaked and it certainly had you dripping all day. Which everyone now knows due to your mark on his shirt, just another claim you put on him.
You couldn’t even hear what they were talking about, you were so focused on dean and all the things you wanted to do to him…for him to do to you. You clench your thighs at the thought and sprung into action. Your leg that was wrapped around him slipped completely to straddle him as your freed hand gravitated toward the buttons of his shirt immediately and kissing your way down. Popping a good few open before his hand grasped yours in place in front of you both. You gawked as his chest was almost completely free like you had planned, he was so perfect. You averted your eyes to his dominant ones and melted under his gaze, You knew he liked what you did, you could literally feel it pressing against you.
God he must be massive, how could he be so perfect. It was so unfair how attractive he is, unfair how much you love him. How were you meant to control yourself when he sat so perfectly underneath you. “Sweetheart stop” he demanded which made your eyes plead with his as you whimpered out in almost tears “I’m sorry, please don’t be mad at me. I love you” his stern gaze softens as you look down at his chest in shame “It’s ok sweetheart, i’m not mad” he brings your grasped hand to his lips and delicately kisses it while looking at you in promise. Goosebumps travel through you at the contact of his lips, why is such a small thing so romantic…or maybe you only swooned because it was dean who did it.
He pulled you off his lap and back onto the side you were laying on, leaning in to lock your hand back in place. You allowed it but only because you were distracted by his pretty little face being so near yours that you could almost kis-“Hey!” sam’s voice belted across the room making you jump in deans arms as you keep forgetting there are other people in the room besides you and dean. Cas was just standing there eating burger after burger while surrounded in burger wrappers, you thought he didn’t need to eat?
Dean pulls back and leaves your side despite your protests. You discontentedly watch cas inhale his burger while dean chained sam up somewhere. When dean comes back in your heart flutters at witnessing his disheveled look once more, shirt still unbuttoned halfway. You slowly open your legs trying to entice him and at the movement his eyes can’t help but gravitate towards your seductive form. Every instinct inside of him has to fight against just giving in to both of your desires. “I’m sorry sweetheart, but i have to leave you here until i kill this gollum bitch” you sit up on your knees and try to plead with him to not leave you, but he refuses to relent.
He strode toward you until he towered over your frame, reaching toward your cheek to caress it. You instinctively lean into his palm “Trust me baby, when i make love to you…you’ll be consenting” he spoke so confidently on the matter that you couldn’t help but squirm in excitement under his gaze. You looked up at him like he hung the stars and would happily wait for him to come back and ruin you if that would make him happy. He caressed your hair out of your face leaving heated tingles where he touched that made you ache for him even more so, you leaned into his warm hand with a smile as even just his touch made you feel safe.
He softly kissed your forehead before heading out the door with a determined look on his face and cas quickly followed suit with burgers in hand. You pulled at the cuffs but you didn’t want to leave because dean said he would make love to you when it was over. You wanted to make him happy but the ache was hurting far more than you could bare as you felt desperate to be near him and feel loved, not to mention how wet you were. You were clenching around nothing, so desperate for anything as you grinded against the air with your back arching as you moaned and whimpered in pain.
Your wrists were now pulled free and bleeding, but your hands instantly began to touch yourself against deans shirt spreading the blood over it without a care before clarity hit you. You’re free. Sam bursts through the door while you were in such an exposing postion but you don’t pay him any mind as you ponder if you should stay and wait for dean like he told you to do or go find him. Sam ran out of the room making you sigh since you wanted to go with him to find dean but decided it was best for him if you were a good girl and did what he said so instead you stripped your underwear and deans shirt off before you sat on the bed in a sultry position waiting until he came back to take you like he said he would.
20 minutes go by of you teasing yourself in preparation and your famished need for dean begins to slowly disappear as your own mind comes back. What the fuck did you do?! oh my god, dean! You hastily picked up his now bloodied shirt and threw it back on before escaping to your motel room as you tried piecing together what the fuck happened and how you can explain it away. You spaced out while you cleaned and bandaged your wrists at your sink before you sat on your bed with your head in your hands. You felt disgusting and shameful for what you did to dean, he was going to hate you. All because you couldn’t control a stupid little crush.
Dean drove back to the motel with bated breath, after just being exposed by famine about how dead he feels inside. He was honestly really nervous about having another confrontation about his feelings. Especially to someone so important to him, he was scared that he could lose you if he didn’t approach this right. Insecure about how he always fucks it up and never manages to say the right thing or even find the words like how sammy always could.
He took a deep breath before exiting his car, practicing what he could say to you on the drive over he was ready to confess to you. When the door opened his eyes we’re prepared to see you still chained to the bed, but all he saw was and empty bed with smears of blood on the sheets and headboard. “SAM” dean yelled for sam to hurry as he investigated the motel for any signs of life. Sam ran in at deans panicked yell and couldn’t help but just stand there watching his brother get all worriedly angst up over your wellbeing.
“Dean she’s probably in her room by now” deans face lit like a lightball went off in his brain as he stormed into your room. His panic dropped as soon as he saw your shocked face jump up from the bed alive and well. He couldn’t stop himself from striding toward you and pulling you into his arms, his dominant hand holding your head in place against his chest as he stroked your hair in a comforting manner. Even while startled, you could tell by his demeaner that he needed this so you just let it happen…plus it doenst hurt that you love when he holds you like this, like you were something so precious to him. His heart slowed down to match yours before he pulled back to see your reaction, making your hands slide from his neck to his chest to see him better.
“I love you, sweetheart.” he spoke with such conviction that your heart melted and you fought yourself mentally on if this was a cruel dream or reality. The devotion his eyes spoke alone was enough to make you believe him. You knew him, more than anyone and you knew he would never say it if he didn’t mean it. A lovesick smile spread across your face as you looked adoringly up at him like you had before and whispered back “I love you dean, i’ve always loved you.” He grasped your cheek and leaned down to crash his lips onto yours in a passionate kiss, like if he didn’t do it in that second the world could very well end.
You were so consumed by him that the apocalypse could very well be happening right now but you wouldn’t care because you were in deans loving arms, being kissed like he needed you to breathe. His lips pressing into yours so softly yet deep in skilled strokes of his tongue. Somehow knowing exactly what you wanted, what you’ve been craving this whole day…or more accurately all these years. You didn’t have much for comparison but god you never wanted to stop kissing him if this is what it felt like.
He felt ecstatic, like what famine said wasn’t true because he wasn’t dead inside when you were what made him feel alive. You made him feel like enough and if anything, tonight showed him how he really couldn’t survive another day without the person he loves more than anything. He pulled away but kept holding your cheek as he pecked kisses on your lips with each confession “I love how stubborn you are. I love how much better of a hunter you are than us.”
You giggle at his exaggeration and affection midway of his speech and he can’t help the growing smile on his face as he pulls your body closer and continues “I love your laugh and how your smile lights up the room, especially when it’s because of me. I love flirting with you. I love how we always get each other, i know you better than i know myself” you both laugh at how weirdly true it was. ”I love how violent you get when you see injustice. I love how you kick me in your sleep if i don’t cuddle you back” you interrupted him once more with a playful shove to his arm before stating “Well now you’re just listing my violent tendencies.”
He joyfully laughs down at you while subconsciously thinking to himself about how much he loves your playful dynamic. “Well sweetheart, those just so happen to be my favourite things i love about you” Your heart automatically squeezed each time he said it. You knew how hard this all was for him but for some reason you felt safe enough to him to unashamedly confess. This may just be the horniest you’ve ever felt, including 20 minutes ago when you were panting for dean to fuck you. You needed him. Your hand seductively trails down his chest as you breathily let out “Yeah? well you should see some of my other tendencies.”
His grip tightened against your hips as his beautiful green eyes became blown out at your boldness. For the first time he knew that your flirting was real and he reacted instantly to it how he always wished he could. He lifted you up and this time kept you steady by holding your naked thighs and ass. Now higher than him you grasp his face kissed down into him in an intense kiss full of promise of what will come next. He pulls away for a breath, looking up so desperately at you and reply’s “Show me.”
He walks you both toward the bed and gently throws you onto it. You clench your thighs at the view of him looking over you in this position, the knowledge of what you were about to do and how good he looks doing it makes a carnal need for him wash over you as you feel heated butterflies travel through your body to the place you needed him most. He hastily unbuttoned his shirt and you sit back and joyfully watch the show as he frees himself from the fabric. His toned abs were all for your viewing, usually you would have to discreetly look when he came out of a shower or something but now this was all for you. He was all yours.
You sit up on your knees and reach out to him, fingers lazily caressing his godlike figure as you paint a photo of his figure in your mind so you can always have it in the back of your mind as motivation. You look up into his eyes as he softly looks at you completely vulnerable and full of devotion. You smile up at him making him smile back before you grab him by the belt and pulled him forward ontop of you. You instantly roll over so you straddled him making you both get déjà vu.
He felt so caught off guard that he laughed up at your teasing smile, hands finding your hips to keep you in place exactly where he wanted. He suddenly went silent when you grinded your hips in a back and forth motion. God you were finally having him under you like how you always imagined with your pillow. He was already semi hard throughout the day especially when you were around so the friction you shared was most needed.
You moaned into the air as your head fell back after making him groan. Fuck you loved the sound of him and he also thought that of you. Ever since you moaned in his ear earlier he hasn’t stopped replaying the interaction in his mind whenever he had a second to think. Letting his dominant side take over he sat up so you were chest to chest and held your hips tighter in his grasp, guiding your hips in a steady motion. The way he was taking control of your own body had you soaking his trousers. His dominant hand moved up your hips to your back making it lift the bloodied shirt of his to show him your exposed pussy. He instantly groaned at the view, he knew that wetness he felt had to be from the bare source itself, You were in his shirt with no underwear this whole time? this had to be a wet dream.
He kissed you fervently before muttering against your lips “You been this wet for me all day sweetheart?” You instantly bit your lip to hold back a frustrated whine and nodded in confirmation before leaning back in for a kiss. He pecked you a few times tentatively before deeply stating “Im sorry you had to go through that baby, you want me to make you feel better?” You grinded yourself harder against him at his words, feeling yourself get closer to the orgasm you’ve been after all day. He flips you over so that you were laying on your back as he hovered over you, his right leg sitting between your legs.
“Words baby” he reiterated. You writhed underneath him looking for any bit of him, you were no better than famished you. “Please fuck me dean” the desperation dripping from your voice has dean close his eyes for a moment to compose himself. When he opens them it sends a shiver through your body at how dark his lustful eyes have gotten. He begins to kiss your neck in a gentle yet firm touch, his hands pulling up the hem of your top until he pulls it completely over your head and carelessly throws it behind him. You now lay stark naked and willing for him.
He continues his trail down your neck while attentively listening to the elicit sounds that parted from your lips until he stops at your tits, his hands reach for them and began to skillfully knead at them. He brushes over your hardened nipples sending those heated butterflies down with each flick. He’d whisper “So beautiful” and other soft compliments against your skin every so often. Almost worshipping your body. Your moans helped him further your pleasure by knowing exactly what made you tick. When he brought his mouth down to aide his hands, you almost came right there. “You like that?” he said so gruffly and you could only moan back in response. Absentmindedly grinding against his thigh between your legs.
Your body was arching off the mattress into his, just so consumed in his pleasure. You began to grab at his hair, bringing him closer as you feel the world collapse around you when you came against his soaked thigh. You panted and pulled him up by the hair towards your lips and passionately kiss the love of your life. His hand moved down to your clit and rubbed it in circular motions while you kissed, drawing out the last of your overstimulated moans.
You whined as he pulled away, shedding his trousers and underwear he sprang free. You finally get a good look at him, you could tell he was big when he was pressed against you but not this beautiful. You were almost drawn to it, wanting that pretty tip in your mouth as a thank you for being so perfect. You began to move toward it but he climbed over you and stopped the thought as he already had plans for you. His length was now pressed against your naked torso and the feeling was so intense and felt so real, you were about to fuck the man you’ve loved since you were a kid. You reached up to his neck and played with his hair for a moment, knowing he loved when you’d do that. “Dean, i love you so much but please stop teasing and fuck me” at your demand he lined himself up with your pussy but just before he made contact he broke the silence, knowing you’ve never done this before “Your sure about this baby?”
Impatiently your legs wrapped around his torso and pulled him against you, just like that his bare cock pushed passed your clenching walls. His head fell forward like he was doing everything in his power to control himself as he moaned at the feeling of how tight you were, like you were perfectly made for him. Your arms wrapped around him bringing him close as you whimpered in pain and pleasure. He held himself up by his non dominant arm like it was nothing while he used the other hand to gently move the hair out of your face so he could fully see how beautiful you were underneath him. He kissed your face in affectionate pecks while you adjusted for him, trailing down your neck once more but this time leaving a hickey or two in his wake.
You experimentally grinded against his shaft drawing a moan from both of you, he breathed heavily against your neck “You’re killing me sweetheart” until he gained the ability to not immediately cum at your touch. He looked into your eyes one last time for your consent before slowly pumping in and out. You gripped him like he was your vice. You couldn’t help but pant, whine and moan at each and every bit of attention he gave you. He kept kissing your exposed chest as he expertly thrusted into you before chasing after your lips until you breathed moans into each others kiss.
The bed was creaking in time with your tandem thrusting. The noise added extra tension to the room as the sounds of what you were doing together could be heard many rooms over. It all felt so sinful but your act of love was anything but. You felt that build up and tried to warn him but you couldn’t put your thoughts into words when he had you like this. He knew you, he could tell what you wanted to say without saying it. You were clenching him so tight that he could feel how close you were “I know sweetheart, such a good girl for me” he muttered against your lips as he shifted your thigh higher up his hip and began slamming into you at a harder pace, fingers finding their way to your clit to give you that extra push. He grunts rambles out as he slams his cock into you “Wanted to do this for so long, bet you’ve been dreaming of this too sweetheart. Wanted me to treat you real good huh?”
You saw stars behind your eyes, this all just feels so right. You made incoherent noises as he pulled such a powerful orgasm out of you that it made you twitch against him. He kept his pace, making sure your orgasm was long before slowing to release himself inside of you. He pistoned his cum deep inside you not wanting much to spill out and you loved every moment. The feeling of being so full of him was like nothing you’ve ever experienced. Collapsing ontop of you, you both collected your breaths for a moment. You absentmindedly played with his hair before finding each others loving eyes when you were less dazed. While still inside you he kissed you so lovingly it felt like it you were in a blissful romance movie, but maybe that was the post sex haze that was talking.
The way your hair fell across the pillows was angelic, he was glad you had a room to yourself so you both didn’t have to feel pressured to leave this moment incase of interruptions. You kissed him once more before turning you guys over but made sure he was still sheathed inside you. You lay your head on his shoulder and ran your fingers in chaotic patterns along his chest. He pulled you closer and pressed kisses to the top of your head while admiringly brushing your hair through his fingers and out of your face. The solace you both had in each others arms felt magical…just not in the bad magic way like before. This time you were both unequivocally consenting and in love with each other.
You shift your head to look up at him, you were both beaming in happiness and couldn’t stop smiling. Neither of you had felt so whole before, like each other were the missing piece of the puzzle called ‘your soul’. Dean broke the silence first “That was..-“ he didn’t get to finish his thought before you interrupted “Yeah…it sure was one hell of a first time…so…you’ve been dreaming about me?” deans face dropped for a second as he looked caught out. While you may not be able to form coherent sentences while being fucked, you sure could listen to his every word. You giggle at his response, god he’s such a dork but he’s your dork.
“More importantly we’re exclusive now right?” he tries to change the topic out of embarrassment like you weren’t literally laying naked on top of him with his dick still inside you. You nodded and sat up to fully straddle him. Your hand against his chest to emphasise your point as you looked down at him “Now that i have you, i refuse to let you go. You’re all mine now dean winchester.” a thrill went through him at your words as he grinned at your possessiveness because he felt the exact same about you. His hands started to move your hips back and forth, sliding his dick in and out of you like second nature but you carefully grasp his hands and bring them up over his head with a grin of your own. You were going to be the one taking the lead for the second round and he was exactly where he wanted to be.
Note: I haven’t finished the show yet but i saw the premise for this episode and HAD to write it. My lore is that i used to write fics but never posted any when i was a kid and now recently i’ve started rewriting old work or writing new ones like this whenever i can because Ai is pissing me off and i feel like we need human creativity more than ever. Anyways, i hope you liked reading it!!
Fuck Ai and please don’t put my work into Ai.
Thanks for reading, please like and comment if liked it and want more. You can send requests if you want me to write something 💕✨
Summary: Watching your husband defend you at a Vought party turns you on so much that you need him to fuck you now.
Word count: 6k
Warnings: +18 MDNI. SMUT (unprotected p in v, public sex—they’re in a bathroom, m!receiving oral), established public relationship, good husband!ben, FLUFF but angsty at the end ngl, homelander and the deep existing is a warning as a whole.
a/n: this is heavily inspired by “Thank Goodness” from Wicked. great musical. watch it pls.
Vought would forever be your heaven turned hell.
You still remembered the excited tears you spilled when you were accepted into The Seven, the happy squeals at the news that you would do most of Vought’s propaganda, and the butterflies in your stomach when Soldier Boy asked you out.
But those happy memories were tainted by your cruel coworkers at The Seven, the humiliating, pervy stuff the marketing team had you do almost every week, and the pit in your stomach when Vought found out about your relationship with Ben and turned you into America’s sweethearts.
Homelander was people’s favorite, their savior, their perfect hero… but Ben and you were the greatest symbol of love, the goal everyone desired to reach.
The perfect, happy couple.
Your discreet dates turned to extremely photographed walks in the park; Ben’s soft kisses started being scripted for the fans to go crazy; and Vought even reached the point of forcing your wedding to be at Madison Square Garden with a whole audience full of celebrities and millionaires.
Yet despite everything, Ben and you kept your genuine, profound love behind doors. They could take away what was supposed to be the most special day of your life, but they would never watch Ben and you dancing in your kitchen at one in the morning, or listen to the sweet promises he whispered in your ear every night as he hold you gently against his chest, or catch a glimpse of how devoted your husband really was to you…
Vought’s anniversary was one of the biggest events of the year, so of course everyone was expecting America’s couple to arrive hand in hand, kissing on the red carpet and waving at fans.
Your gaze was lost in the tinted window, the only surface that separated the cruel world from your precious life.
Ben noticed your frown and kissed your temple. “You look beautiful, doll.”
The car turned right, nearing Vought’s tower and making you clutch the car seat.
Ben placed an arm around you. “We will only be there for around two or three hours. Then we will… eat some of your favorite food.”
You looked up at him. “McDonalds?”
He smiled softly and nodded. “We’ll get a twenty McNuggets combo and finish that awful reality show you love at home.”
“Love Island?” Your hand searched for his and squeezed it. “How did you know there is a new season?”
Ben rolled his eyes. “Because you’ve talked about it every day for the past two weeks?”
You giggled and kissed his nose. “Did I?”
He caressed your cheek before diving down to your lips. You pulled back. “Careful with the lipstick!”
Ben sighed but forced a smile. Right, you had to look perfect for the cameras. For the fans. For the entire world.
The limousine stopped at Vought’s tower, right at the start of the red carpet.
Ben grunted at the sight of the multitude. “They could be normal and watch from their televisions or from that small square you all carry.”
He was a phone hater.
As he was about to open the door, you grasped his wrist hard. “W-wait!”
Ben turned to you, fully concerned. “What’s wrong?”
The worried frown decorating his handsome face made your stomach drop. Sometimes you couldn’t believe you were dating such a beautiful man.
“I love you.” You gulped and caressed his arm. “Just… needed to say it.”
He felt a pang in his chest, those three words always causing his heart to race. Ben kissed your forehead before murmuring, “I love you too, princess.”
You took a deep breath, steeling yourself and clutching your tiny purse. Ben huffed as he finally pushed the door open. The second he stepped out into the cold night air, thousands of flashes bombarded him. It seemed as if everyone had been expecting this moment.
Ben got out first, waved casually at the cameras, and turned to you, offering a hand. You made a show of just showing your manicured hand first. Your recognizable diamond ring made fans scream.
Your husband helped you out of the limousine, gently holding your waist as he closed the door behind you. The flashes seemed to duplicate in your presence.
“Y/N! Y/N!”
”Soldier Boy, over here!”
“We love you!”
You chuckled charmingly as you waved and sent kisses. “We love you too!”
Vought was a vicious company and you felt used most of the time, but you couldn’t deny you loved these moments, these showers of attention and love. There were people crying at the sight of you, dressed with your superhero suit, wearing shirts with your face… Most of them had probably camped for hours outside of the tower just to get a glimpse of you.
How could you ever let go of this level of stardom?
Ben’s big hand caressing your waist brought you back to reality. While you were smiling and posing for the cameras, his green eyes were focused on you. Still getting giddy by his devoted stare, your cheeks turned red.
“What is it?” you asked with a shy smile.
He shook his head and pulled you closer to his side. “Nothing.”
Ben sighed and finally posed for the cameras too. He knew that even though he was one of the first superheroes, you were the people’s favorite. Their Princess Diana. He could pretend people were excited for him, but deep down he knew the popular one was you.
And, honestly, he didn’t mind it, you deserved all the adoration and love. But he still felt a bit territorial and protective when people got too close.
He came from a different time. Sharing you with the world was something he would never get used to or be okay with. You were his wife, his woman… but Vought had gotten their hands on you before him, so now you were a superhero, a model, a socialite, an actress, an icon, and anything they wanted you to become.
Ben grew up in a different society, one that made him an angry, explosive mess. A society that taught him that he was destined for greatness and fame. But when he met you, he turned into a completely different person. The simple idea of hurting you, of treating you like an object, or of disrespecting you caused a shiver to run down his spine. He didn’t understand how people could look at you and exploit you.
You… beautiful, sweet, caring you.
He never hid that he would kill for you. He would destroy everything and everyone in Vought if you asked for it. But this was the life you had wished for…
As a security guard led you through the red carpet to the tower’s lobby, a paparazzi managed to jump over everyone and approached you with his blinding flashes.
“Y/N, Soldier Boy! When will you be back to Keeping Up with The Seven—”
“Back the fuck off!” Ben yelled, quickly getting in front of you to shove the man away.
More Vought security guards swarmed over and dragged the paparazzi away.
You had a hand on your chest and one on Ben’s arm, slightly paralyzed by how they were treating the man. Well, he could’ve been dangerous, but it still left a bittersweet feeling.
“Are you okay?” Ben whispered and cradled your face.
“Y-yeah, I’m fine,” you mumbled, forcing a smile. “Thank you.”
Ben kissed your temple and you could already see the tweets: “Oh, he saved her! He is such a great husband! I need a man like Soldier Boy!”
“Let’s go inside. It’s getting cold,” he said, reaching for your hand to lead you to the lobby’s elevator. “Last thing I need is to play nurse again.”
“Wait!” You stopped and took a quick, impulsive decision.
Bunching up your gown, you ran towards the fans and signed pictures, took selfies, and even kissed a puppy. You could feel your husband’s worried eyes on your back but you didn’t care. These people literally made you the most followed person on every social media platform.
”Y/N, how is Soldier Boy in bed?!” a brave fan asked.
Normally, you would’ve ignored her, but she was recording you directly to the face and you never lost a chance for a viral video.
You chuckled and pretended to be shy. “Y’all are crazy! But between us… there is one big reason I didn’t hesitate saying yes to that ring, girl.”
Everyone screamed excitedly at your answer. Oh, thank goodness Ben hated social media and would never see that video.
He looked serious as you walked back to him with an apologetic smile. “You almost gave me a heart attack,” he muttered before placing an arm around you. Then he whispered in your ear, “Don’t fucking do that again, okay?”
You forced a smile and pinched his cheek. “You’re peachy today, aren’t you?”
Ben smirked at your annoyed tone. “And you’re bratty today.” His hand wandered to your lower back, not quite reaching your butt. “What happened to my good girl?”
“Don’t start,” you mumbled.
He would always tease you in the worst moments. At least this time you weren’t in the middle of a combat… and it wouldn’t end in you giving him a blowjob on an abandoned rooftop… again.
The elevator ride was swift but nerve-wracking. Now that the fans’ part was over, came the worst part of the night: dealing with your peers.
The event’s salon was all marble and glass with Vought’s logo everywhere. It was packed with wealthy businessmen, celebrities, superheroes, and more big names.
Ben glared at the crowd with disdain, not trying to hide his dislike.
Not even half a step in, people noticed you two. Everyone tried to start a conversation with you as Ben dragged you across the crowd to the bar. You faked smiles and shook hands, trying not to be as rude as your husband.
As soon as you reached an empty spot, Ben placed an arm around you to create a wall between people and you. “Enough talk. The lady’s thirsty.”
You leaned on the bar and looked up at him. “You could’ve greeted the president.”
Ben grimaced. “Why would I do that?” He ordered a glass of whiskey for himself and a margarita for you.
You were in the middle of a joke when a different type of piercing eyes met yours. Not adoring in the slightest. A stare full of cold, hard jealousy and hatred.
Ben noticed the sudden tension in your body and followed your gaze. He went stiff too at Homelander’s attention.
He grumbled and turned back to you. “What does that bastard want now?”
You gulped. “I don’t know, but he’s coming this way.”
Ben grunted, taking a long sip of his drink. He had never tolerated Homelander, but his disdain grew when the supe made obvious his disapproval of your relationship, laced with his dislike for you.
“Father,” Homelander greeted him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He glared at you. “You look lovely tonight, Y/N.”
”She does,” Ben mumbled, his arms snaking around your waist to engulf your body. “Most beautiful woman in every room.”
Homelander sneered but quickly masked it with a fake smile. “What happened to your suits? Laundry day?”
Apart from your status and beauty, Soldier Boy and you stuck out like a thumb for your lack of superhero uniforms. Vought knew that pictures of everyone’s favorite supes with dashing outfits would be trending, so they sent a green tuxedo for Ben and an emerald gown for you.
You placed your hands on your husband’s shoulders and joked, “I think the dress code memo got lost in the mail.”
Ben smirked. “Seems like it, honey.”
Homelander’s eyes wandered down your body for a little too long before they snapped to Ben. “Then my multiple meeting invitations must have gotten lost too, huh?”
Ben kissed your cheek, making a show of not looking at his son. “Mhm, most likely.” He bit your jaw playfully. “I’m never really in the mood for leaving our bed.”
You blushed and giggled at his sexual innuendo. “Honey!”
Homelander’s deep, long sigh was a call for their attention. “So… I heard you’re giving this year’s speech.”
Ben noticed your stillness and swiftly caressed your back. You muttered, “Yeah, I will.”
The blond supe scoffed and muttered, “That’s so weird since I’m the one that always does it.”
Your husband was starting to lose his peanut-size patience. “Sometimes we don’t get chosen and we have to suck it up and move on, don’t we?”
Homelander stared at him quietly for a long second, then patted his father’s back and faked a big, predatory smile. “Have fun, you two.”
And he stormed away like an irritated child, his cape flowing behind him. You felt your soul coming back to your body.
“You know he won’t hurt you, right?” Ben whispered. “Boy’s too needy for my approval that he won’t ever lay a hand on you.”
You gulped, your eyes still on Homelander’s back. “Maybe not him, but he has an army of idiots following his every order.”
Ben sighed and pecked your lips. “Don’t think about that right now. Last thing you need is more stress tonight.”
A second margarita was delivered by the bartender, who gave Ben a flirty smile. He didn’t look at her as he grabbed the glass. “You’re drinking too fast.”
You rolled your eyes. “Can you blame me?”
Ben sipped the margarita and grimaced. “This tastes like a gasoline store’s lemonade, honey. How can you drink this shit?”
Playing with his tie, you jokingly replied, “Are you saying I have bad taste?”
He huffed and cockily arched an eyebrow. “I mean, clearly you don’t since I’m your husband.”
You snickered and kissed his cheek. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
Ben grabbed your wrist as you reached for your purse. He looked at you with wide eyes. “Don’t leave me alone,” he mumbled. “Honey…”
You frowned at your antisocial husband. “I’ll be right back. Go talk—”
”Nooo,” he whined, looking around to make sure no one could hear him. Various people were still staring at them in awe. “They will come to me like vultures. I’m too sober for this.”
“I told you to do a line with me in the car and you refused like the boring bitch you’re becoming.”
He clenched his jaw. “I’m trying to be more responsible… and I mentally scheduled that line for midnight.”
You shrugged and freed yourself from his hold. “Too late. I’ll do another one and come back.”
”Don’t finish the bag,” he called weakly as you walked away to the main hallways.
The second you were far enough from him, people started to approach him like nervous, sorta-scared fans. He posed for pictures with a stoic face, mentally cursing you for leaving him alone so early.
Being good at playing the sweet celebrity card also meant knowing how to avoid crowds. You knew Vought Tower all too well, so naturally, you went to the farthest bathrooms.
You swung the door open to the posh women’s restroom and checked every stall. “Empty,” you sang and excitedly took out your bag of coke.
It was boring doing it without Ben, but he had recently started using weed to relax. You weren’t complaining much; more coke for you.
You did the line, wiped away all evidence from the counter, and washed your hands. Faint music from the party reached your ears as the bathroom’s door opened. You barely glanced up as a hooded person came in.
Not caring much, you dried your hands and started fixing the lip combo that your husband’s kisses had messed up.
The figure stepped closer, leaning against the wall near you. They still hadn’t said anything, just stared at you with an unsettling intensity.
You side-eyed them. “Hi?”
They pushed the hood back and revealed your least favorite person, The Deep. “‘Sup,” he greeted you with a smirk.
You sighed and continued with your makeup. “Didn’t you read the sign on the door?”
He looked you up and down. “Mid dress, by the way. Are you on a mission to be a flop all year?”
Ignoring his words, you muttered, “What do you want?”
The Deep and you had never gotten well. He tried to hit on you at the start, but after humiliating him a couple of times in front of the team, he placed you on his enemies’ list. So you were absolutely sure he wasn’t there to gossip or giggle with you.
“I heard you’re giving tonight’s Vought speech,” he said between gritted teeth. “Who did you fuck to get that, huh?”
”Let’s see…” You bit your lip, pretending to be deep in thought as you counted with your fingers. “The executives from the twentieth floor, Noir, the lobby guy, all the marketing team and, yeah, basically everyone… except an octopus.”
His hands turned to fists as his face turned pink. “Watch your mouth.”
You smirked, always happy to rile him up. “I didn’t need to move a finger to get tonight’s speech. I’m the most famous Supe. What did you expect?”
The Deep’s jaw dropped. He seemed genuinely shocked for about ten seconds. “Are you serious? Like, seriously serious, dude?” He gestured to himself. “I am the most famous Supe in the whole world. Have you seen me? I’m handsome, rich—”
“Add comedian to the list,” you interrupted him with a sarcastic smirk.
He placed a hand on his hip. “I’m the fucking Deep, sweetheart. I have endorsements with Wendy’s and Old Navy. I’ve been in magazines. Meanwhile, you…” He scoffed. “You’re nothing without Soldier Boy. You’re just a hot housewife and a slutty puppet.”
You could feel your powers trembling inside you from the rage. He was completely wrong and just pushing your buttons, but you weren’t known for your patience.
“I’m the most followed person on Instagram and I’ve been on Vogue. Lie to yourself all you want. Nothing will change the fact that people love me while they just tolerate you.”
The Deep’s nostrils flared. “Love you? I haven’t seen you on most of this year’s red carpets, though.”
You couldn’t believe you were arguing with him about something that stupid. “I’m invited to everything, fried fish. I just prefer to spend time with my husband and loved ones… something you obviously don’t have.”
He inhaled as your words hit him. “Love…” He let out a fake chuckle. “You think that’s some kind of flex? Love only makes you weak.”
The drugs were starting to affect your system. You placed your makeup in your purse. “You think I’m weak?”
The Deep looked down at you with condescending confidence. “Sure do. Without powers, you’re nothing but a good pair of tits and—”
You raised one of your arms to send him flying across the bathroom. He crashed into the wall, his body slamming against it hard enough to crack the paint.
The Deep groaned as he slid down to the floor. “You little…” he whimpered, struggling to breathe. “Little bitch. I’ll get—”
Not wishing to listen to his pathetic rambling anymore, you walked out of the bathroom. Your heart was pounding like crazy and it definitely wasn’t from the coke.
You weren’t an idiot; you knew where The Deep and you had been standing: in the perfect, water-full place for him to use his powers. So you had no other option than to attack first and hard.
Ben was still in the bar, clutching his whiskey while surrounded by people. The second you re-entered the party, as if pulled by nature, his eyes found yours. But the relieved smile didn’t make it to his face.
Something was wrong; he noticed instantly.
Without hesitation, Ben excused himself from the group and walked straight to you. He gently grabbed your arm and studied your face. “You okay, princess?”
You tried to force a smile, but it wavered. “Hi. Yes, don’t worry.”
He squinted his eyes, noticing the tension in your expression and the slight flush in your cheeks. “What happened?”
Your hands found his shoulders. “Honey, you don’t wanna know.” You kissed his cheek. “I’m fine.”
Ben frowned, clearly not believing you. He had heard that lying tone from your stubborn mouth before. “Tell me,” he insisted. His hands cupped your face as he whispered, “You’re upset, doll.”
His firm (not angry… never angry at you) voice pulled your heartstrings. You gulped and mumbled, “The Deep appeared randomly, said some shitty things and we ended up fighting.”
Ben’s face darkened, his ears turning deaf to every voice but yours. “What did he say?”
“It’s not impor—”
“What did he say, Y/N?” he cut you off.
You sighed, stressed. “Classic Deep stuff, Ben. Called me a slut and—”
“That motherfucker…” he growled under his breath.
Without another word, Ben let go of you and marched out of the party. He knew which bathroom you usually took for coke breaks, so he didn’t look back as he planned many ways to make The Deep regret ever speaking to you.
“Ben, stop,” you muttered, following behind him and trying not to trip on your heels. “C’mon, let’s go back—”
The ladies’ room door opened as The Deep walked out, limping. He noticed your angry husband walking towards him and quickly scurried back inside.
Ben kicked the door open and wasted no second in throwing Deep to the ground. Just in case the sea boy tried anything, you used your telekinesis to control all the pipes in the room.
Ben grasped Deep’s collar and slammed him against the floor. “Who do you think you are, huh?”
”I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Deep cried.
Your husband punched him hard enough to draw blood and screamed to his face, “I should kill you for even daring to speak to my girl.”
Deep was sobbing now. “I won’t do it again. I swear!”
Ben wanted to throw more punches, but he couldn’t kill Deep tonight, so he just kicked him in the balls.
“You’re pathetic.” He pulled him up and threw him out the door. “Get the fuck off this party.”
You let your guard down as silence filled the bathroom. Ben sighed and washed his bloody hands on the sink. The sight caused your thighs to press together… and he noticed.
Ben closed the tap and smirked at you. “Really? Now?”
You bit your bottom lip and shrugged. “That was… something.”
The sexual tension was thick as you just stared at each other. Then, impulsively, you held onto his shoulders as his hands propped you up to wrap your legs around his waist. He pressed you to the wall and attacked your mouth hungrily and carelessly.
Bunching up your dress, Ben held you with one hand and wasted no time to move your panties with the other. He smirked against your lips. “So wet already. Did watching me beat that idiot turn you on?”
You clutched his shoulders at the feeling of his fingers teasing your entrance. “Y-yes. Fuck. You look so hot when you defend me.”
Ben snorted and pulled his hand back. “That’s why you’re always dripping for me like a damn fountain.”
You twitched your hips, desperate for contact. “Ben…”
But he gently lowered you to the ground. “I think I deserve a thank-you gift for tonight, right, princess?”
Despite the lust clouding your mind, you understood his words and quickly got on your knees. Ben helped you unclasp his belt as your trembling hands tried to push it all down.
Once his boxers freed his painfully hard cock, you looked up at him. “Did beating Deep turn you on?” you joked.
Ben rolled his eyes and grasped your hair in a makeshift ponytail. “Honey, I’ve been hard since you came out of our room in that dress.”
You smirked and grabbed his cock. There was no time for slowness, so you opened your mouth wide and took as much as you could. Ben groaned loudly and tightened his grip. You held onto his strong thighs and moved as fast and deep as his big size could let you.
Sucking Ben off had always been a challenge, but in the last six months, you had gotten on the mission of trying to deepthroat him. It was inhumanly possible, but now you could at least reach the middle without suffocating to death.
Ben looked down at you lustfully as you pleased him with devotion. “Just like that, princess. You’re doing so good.”
You pulled back until his tip reached your tongue, dived in until your jaw hurt, then repeated the cycle. Ben had to use all his willpower to not come right there and make you swallow it all. Seeing you do your best effort to please him, in a public bathroom at a party, was too much for him.
“Such a pretty mouth. So perfect,” he groaned. “But I need to come inside that pussy, baby. Get up.”
Disappointed by the interruption, you pulled away from his cock and stood up with wobbly knees. “I was almost reaching the base.”
Ben kissed your forehead. "I know, sweetheart. You were doing great, and we’ll continue that at home.”
He took off his jacket and placed it next to the sink. You bit your lip at the sight of his firm muscles pressing through his white shirt. You pulled your husband by his tie and kissed him passionately. His arms wrapped around your waist as he pressed his hard-on against you.
“Need you so bad, doll,” he mumbled. “Please.”
You pecked his lips and pointed to your discarded purse on the floor. “Grab a condom.”
Ben pouted and caressed your waist. “Baby... c’mon. I need to feel you,” he begged. He kissed your jaw and neck, looking for your weak spot. “Need to feel my wife coming as I fill her up.”
You moaned as he kissed you right below your ear. You had gotten back to birth control for this exact reason: Ben's infinite need to fuck you raw.
“Alright,” you muttered. “Just because you look so handsome tonight.”
Ben propped you up and aligned himself to your entrance. “Only ‘cause of that?”
You gasped at the warm feeling of his tip. “And... because you are the best husband ever?”
Ben pushed in just a centimeter. “Try again.”
You hated how cocky he could get during sex, but you couldn’t lie that he was an expert at making you desperate.
“And because I love when your cock fills me up— Oh!”
Ben slammed into you swiftly, thanks to how wet you were.
You whined and slapped his shoulder. “That hurt!”
He pouted mockingly. “Sorry. Too big?” He pulled back until the tip was almost slipping out of you. “Thought you could handle it by now, honey.”
He pushed in half-way slowly and elicited a moan out of you. “I c-can. I've had bigger,” you whimpered.
Ben scoffed, knowing you were lying but still getting a little jealous. He held you firmly by the thighs, got you off the wall and started pounding into you. Your husband could have placed you on the counter, but he wanted to show you how he can fuck you while only using his strong arms as support.
And, fuck, it turned you on badly.
You placed your arms around his neck and moaned uncontrollably as Ben manhandled you into him. His effort grunts against your lips were making your pussy clench.
“Fuck, fuck, baby…” you moaned. “Yes, right there!”
He bit your lip and squeezed your left thigh. “You feel so good, doll. Best pussy I’ve had.”
You smirked, realizing your previous comment about other men had struck a nerve. “Yeah? That’s why you married me?”
Ben nodded as he sped up. “Can’t let other men touch you. You’re mine forever, princess.”
You messily pushed down your cleavage, needing him to kiss you everywhere. The moment your breasts spilled out of the dress, your husband lowered his lips to your nipples. You threw your head back at the feeling of his tongue encircling them. “Oh, God!”
Ben squeezed your thighs hard to get your attention back. “Eyes on me. Say you're mine.”
“I’m yours,” you moaned. “F-forever. I’m never leaving you.”
Ben smirked as he noticed you were entering a submissive headspace. “Bet you would let me lock you home to keep you like my personal whore.”
You whined and nodded. “Y-yes.”
“No other job but letting me fuck you dumb.”
Your pussy clenching hard around his cock was answer enough. He grunted and drove rougher into you. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”
“Y/N? Are you here—?”
You two barely registered when the bathroom door was opened by a stressed-looking Ashley. She froze at the sinful sight. Her eyes lowered to where your bodies connected and she smirked. “Damn.”
You looked to your right and frowned. “Oh, hi. You need s-something?”
Ben shifted you up to leave hickeys around your breasts.
Ashley blinked and struggled to look into your eyes. “Uhm... It’s time for your speech. Everybody is waiting.”
You moaned as Ben sucked your left nipple. “Gimme t-three.”
“Five,” Ben grunted.
Ashley nodded, took one last glimpse at his enormous size splitting you open, and left in a hurry. Now she understood why you had married him after just a year of dating…
Ben held you in one arm, finding a comfortable position to keep fucking you without support, and rubbed your clit with his free hand. “Come for me. I can tell you’re close.”
You arched your back and kissed his face messily. “D-don’t stop. Right t-there.”
Ben rubbed you in a practiced way as he searched for your lips. “Come around me like the good girl you are.”
You whimpered, trembling as the waves of pleasure hit you. Your vision turned blurry and your lower body shook as Ben kept pounding into you. “Just like that, doll. Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up.”
You nodded pathetically. “I love you. Come where you deserve to.”
Ben smirked, your words squeezing his heart, and kissed you softly. “Love you too, baby.” He let out a loud grunt as he let go deep inside you. “Fuck!”
You rested your forehead on his shoulder when he finally stopped moving. “Holy shit…”
Ben walked to the sink counter and gently placed you on it. Both of you whined as he pulled out, his cum dripping out of you and staining your dress.
"Shit!" Ben looked around for napkins, then took a quick decision and sank two fingers into you.
You whimpered at the overstimulation. “Ben, no. I have to go.”
“I know,” he muttered and reached for paper towels with his free hand. “Sorry for not wanting your dress to get ruined.”
He slowly pulled away his fingers and replaced them with the napkins. He cleaned you gently and readjusted your underwear. “There you go.”
You were still panting as your husband put on his jacket and picked up your purse. Realization sinked in and you slowly turned to look at your reflection.
You were a fucked mess.
You groaned and stood up. “How am I gonna give a speech looking like this?”
Ben frowned and readjusted your cleavage. “You look gorgeous.”
“I don’t! Give me my purse,” you whined.
With napkins and water, you tried to fix your makeup while Ben helped with your hair.
Ashley knocked. “It’s been ten minutes!”
Your husband started cursing her, but you stopped him. “I’m ready!”
Your reflection wasn’t as perfect as before, but you looked acceptable.
Sensing your insecurity, Ben hugged you from behind and kissed your cheek. “You’re still the most beautiful woman at this party.”
You smiled lovingly at him. “Only this party?”
He huffed and playfully squeezed one of your breasts. “Saying ‘in the world’ was too corny.”
You teasingly pressed your back to his front before freeing yourself. “Let’s go before Ashley offers a threesome.”
Ben grimaced at the thought and followed you out.
Like the woman had said, everyone was waiting around the main stage. Cameras and lights were pointing at the microphone stand.
“Remember,” Ashley whispered. “Read the teleprompter. Don’t improvise. Orders from the high-ups.”
You reached the side of the stage with Ben holding your hand. Even though you were the speech deliverer, Ben had to enter with you to remind people that he was a supportive, perfect husband.
He squeezed your hand. “Don’t overthink it. Just another day at the job.”
You forced a smile. “Mhm.”
“And now, some words from our dear Y/N!”
The crowd went crazy as you two entered. Ben walked you to the microphone, kissed your temple, and stood a few steps to your left. The teleprompter behind the camera started running.
You smiled perfectly and read, “Hello, everyone! Hope you’re having a great night. I sure am and it’s all thanks to Vought. Let’s give them a round of applause!”
Everyone followed your order like a trained flock.
“Fellow Americans, as terrifying as the Starlighters’ actions have become recently, let us put aside our panic for tonight and celebrate our wonderful Vought.”
People applauded again. You took off the microphone and walked around the stage as you discreetly kept reading.
“I speak for all Supes when I say that we couldn’t be happier. This year we’ve done so much together to fight evilness, and it’s all from the goodness of our hearts and our wishes to help all of you.” You point at the camera. “And we’ll keep doing it with a wide smile. Because thanks to Vought, we are living our dreams. For example, me. Thanks to Vought I found the love of my life.”
You followed the teleprompter’s orders to smile at Ben and leave three seconds of silence for cheers. He just smiled politely to the camera. You walked to him and placed a hand on his chest as his arm found his usual spot around your waist.
“Thanks to Vought, I found my other half, my perfect, thoughtful, kind, most handsome husband. And—” you gulped as you tried to not let the next words affect you. “And maybe we will get our perfect finale soon by…” You touched your belly. “Expanding the family.”
Ben's smile wavered, but people were too excited to notice. He soothed your waist discreetly as he cursed Vought and whoever wrote the teleprompter’s script.
A while ago, you both had agreed to avoid having children while being Vought’s trained dolls. Ben would rather die than have his kids be Vought's products too. But if they had constructed your wedding as a big marketing show and had made you say this in front of millions of viewers... they were definitely brewing some plans for your love story’s next chapter.
You kept talking but not really processing the words as you used all your energy into not crying.
“... and that’s why my Soldier Boy and I are so thankful for Vought. Right, dear?”
He cleared his throat and replied to the mic, “Of course, honey.”
'FAMILY-FRIENDLY KISS' said the prompter. Ben hesitantly leaned down to kiss you. People were eating it up with cheers and hoots.
But you two... you knew what this kiss represented; it was the seal of it. The signature to your contract. And the speech was a wake-up call to both. You could miss red carpets and events; could go to the beach and the mountains; could try to have a normal married life, but at the end of your day, Vought was the one in control.
Vought was the one making decisions, and if they wanted you dead, alive, or pushing babies... you would obey.
“I love you,” Ben whispered for your ears only. Three words that were a promise: that no matter what Vought did, he would always be by your side.
You smiled weakly and intertwined your fingers. “I love you too.”
He kissed your hand, not for reactions, but so you could know how much you mean to him.
Ben wouldn’t react to Vought’s silent threats; he wouldn't destroy the party and run away. He was planning his next move quietly because he was determined to not let that sad spark remain in your eyes.
He would find a way to save you from Vought. This was the end of being nothing but their products.
Many women would kill to share a bed with a man that looks like Dean. You are not one of those women.
Warnings/tags: one bed trope, smut, forced proximity, enemies-to-fuckers, teasing, little bit of biting, hate sex, pinch of cock warming.
Part 2!
Dean threw scissors. He had to share the bed with you.
He always throws scissors. He never learns not to, either. The annoying thing is that Dean's not stupid. He's the opposite, frustratingly enough. He's observant, good with his hands and the first to call bullshit. His ignorance lies with his tractability. Dean's tensile. Flexible. His dad's moulded him. John's created a new and improved version of himself; a disciplined hunter that shoots first, asks questions never.
Dean's got his dad's drawbacks too, though.
Sam might not call him out on it, fraternal loyalties and all that, but you've got no such inclination. You call it how you see it, and how you see it is that Dean's an irresponsible, inconsiderate asshole so absorbed in his own skewed principles that it'll get him killed one day.
It's safe to say you're not his biggest fan. The feelings mutual.
In Dean's eyes, you can never be right. He thinks you're soft and petulant. Not quick enough on the draw. He doesn't have to say it, but you know he doesn't trust you to have his six for no other reason but that you're a girl, because shouldn't you be doing girly things, like crocheting, or baking, or walking barefoot on a patio knocked up with baby number four?
Sam insists otherwise, stresses that Dean doesn't really think that, it's just leftover John he's yet to shake. In a way, you agree, and you almost feel bad for him, but then you catch Dean gawping at some waitress' chest and any sympathy you might have had vanishes.
Worst of all? He's a bed hog.
"Move over, Dean!" You hiss, blindly kicking out a leg to push him back over the unspoken boundary you've created down the middle of the bed.
Your foot connects with the jut of his hip and he grumbles, "Christ, you've got some bedside manner, don't you, sweetheart?"
He shuffles infinitesimally. You're still clinging to the edge of the mattress. It's hot. Very, extremely hot. There's desert as far as the eye can see and the A.C only works sporadically, but even then, the air it coughs out isn't enough to make a dent in the Arizonian heat. Your attire isn't helping either. You'd planned to sleep in some thin vest and underwear, but Dean's eyes kept darting down to your nipples through the sheer fabric, so you didn't dare forego proper trousers.
Dean's got no shame; he flung everything off save for some flatteringly hugging boxers the moment you'd finished brushing your teeth. You hate how he's, objectively, incredibly attractive. He really is. Those glinting eyes the colour of jade framed with dark, thick lashes. That rakish smile. His capable hands. How he's the furthest thing from belt-shy.
You can't not know that's he's got a big dick. From the rave reviews given by one night stands, to the unwanted eyefuls you get when you catch him off guard, you've lived alongside Dean long enough to become regrettably well-acquainted with all his nooks and crannies. And you hate that you're ultimately still a hot-blooded woman, because you get all red in the face and twitchy between the thighs every time you catch a glimpse of him in the nude.
"Stop squirmin' so much. M'tryna sleep." Dean snaps over his shoulder, and you can see the impatient downturn of his brow even in the shadows. Your nostrils flare, but you don't respond, simply curl further in on yourself while sweating bullets.
He groans when you switch to lie on your side again, "Seriously, woman! What's the matter?"
"What's the matter?" You parrot, incredulous, "The matter is, Dean, that it's like I'm trying to sleep in a sauna! I'm boiling!"
You wriggle onto your back and fan your face with your hand. It doesn't help much. The bed creeks as Dean turns over, eyes narrowed as he regards you. He's looking rather scathingly at your pyjamas.
"Yeah, no shit, you're wearing too much."
That stops you. Self-conscious, you fold your arms over your chest and glare upwards at the static ceiling fan, "That's not the point."
"You're right, it's not the point. It's the problem. Lemme fix it," He's moving before you can open your mouth to respond. Dean's nimble fingers dive beneath the hem of your pyjama bottoms and manage to yank them down halfway before you're scrambling upright, "Don't be so fuckin' frigid. It's just legs. I've seen 'em before."
You slap his prying hands away until he relents, throwing them up in defeat. Your chest's heaving with outrage. Partly because he's right, partly because of his audacity. The trousers pool around your knees and your fingers flex around the waistline, debating whether you should stick it out or just give in.
"You've got a nice ass. Don't hide it." You can hear the amusement in Dean's voice, the tail-end of a smirk visible in the smattering of moonlight bleeding through the blinds.
You suck in a sharp inhale, "You're disgusting."
"And you're gonna overheat. It's only a big deal if you make it one." He shrugs, and for once, you can't find the words to argue with him.
Cautiously, you shuffle the rest of your trousers down, accusatory eyes on Dean the entire time. He's feigning interest in something behind you, but you can sense he's watching. You immediately turn your back on him and squeeze your eyes shut, wishing sleep will swoop in and save you from this mortifying situation. Sleep is a cruel mistress, however, because you've never felt more awake in your life.
You're very aware of the fact that Dean's in arms-reach and even more aware of the fact that he's chosen to remain lying facing your back. You feel tension coiling in your shoulders. Coiling elsewhere too.
You can feel a traitorous puddle of wetness pooling in your underwear. Shame laced with arousal blares deep within your abdomen, sending even more heat crawling up your body. You hate when Dean manhandles you, but your cunt loves it. You can still vividly recall a time when he threw you over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes after some argument you've long since forgotten. You'd thumped his back and howled, face contorted with rage, but between your legs, you were drenched straight through.
It only makes you fidget more. Everything's uncomfortable. Your vest is scratchy, your underwear is sticking to you and you're so fucking warm. Your teeth are clenched as you, as unobtrusively as you can manage, dip a hand down to readjust your underwear. You're appalled at the state of yourself and your arm flies into your side like you've been burned.
"You're squirming again." Dean's voice makes you jump. He sounds tired, tenor all raspy and gravelly in a way that has your chest exploding with nerves.
You're as still as stone at his observation, "I'm getting comfy."
"Liar," He murmurs. You deliver a stern look over your shoulder, but it falters as you see just how close he's sidled up to your side of the bed. Close enough that you can see his face is cleaved with mischief, "You're horny," He asserts, grinning, "Hot and bothered. I can see it."
Any meaningful response gets caught in your throat. You settle on scowling at him, "Just because you're always horny doesn't mean everyone else is."
"No, it doesn't," Dean hums affirmatively and his tongue flicks out to swipe over his lips. You watch the gesture, transfixed, before catching yourself and forcing your cheek back against your pillow, away from him, "But you are right now. If you're not, why won't you look at me properly?"
"Because I don't want to." You riposte. It's flimsy.
Dean laughs. Silence falls next, and you think you've convinced him, until you feel the unmistakable warmth of his bare chest connect with your back. His hand surfs languorously over your hip, down the slope of your stomach that sucks in under his touch, and splays out just underneath your ribcage. His nose brushes the shell of your ear.
"So you won't mind me doing this?" He mumbles, so brazen and cocksure that it has your fingers crooking into your palms. Dean's thumb swipes the underside of your breast. It has your breaths come in sharper bursts, "Or this?"
Stiffly, you shake your head, because you don't trust yourself to speak. You're overflowing with a heady fusion of fury and lust. You can't tell which emotion is strong, so you remain stagnant, a bundle of tension.
Dean presses his hand to your stomach to guide your ass to sit squarely against his lap. The quiver of his cock against you is undeniable, "How about this? This- Is this all good for you?"
"It's nothing." You chime in feebly. You can feel another arrogant smile taking over his lips as he nuzzles into the back of your head. He nips your ear, and it takes you by surprise, causing you to jerk. The gesture makes his cock, still bound by those flimsy excuse for boxers, slide against your hip.
He grunts, and it's right by your ear, sending a shiver skittering down your spine, "Shit, well, good for you, sweetheart. I'm hard enough to break a fuckin' rock."
You don't need a reminder, but Dean rolls his hips up against you again, keeping you pinned to him with a firm hand on your abdomen for good measure anyways. His forehead flattens to your shoulder, and you can feel the heat emanating off of him. Circling his forearm across the width of your stomach, Dean grinds himself into your lower back, his lips dotting sedate pecks down the sweep of your neck.
If you weren't antsy before, you sure were now. It was torture feeling the slow drag of his clothed dick against your back. There's a niggling voice scolding you inside your head as, mindlessly, you bend to his will, head slanting back to grant Dean access to the expanse of your throat. His other hand is slithering underneath you to grip your chin, tipping it even further as his teeth graze the tendon bulging in your neck.
Your hand flies to brace yourself against his arm, "Oh, bite me, asshole."
"Yeah? That an invitation?" He croons, sucking an obscene, wet kiss into the sensitive skin. Dean's index and middle finger pushes harder at your jaw until he can watch your throat bob as you swallow uncertainly, "I wanna. Always wanna. You're fuckin' gorgeous, you know that? Even when you're mouthing off," He cuts himself off with a low chuckle before correcting himself, "Especially when you're mouthing off."
He bites down. Only lightly, not enough to break the skin. Just a pinch that leaves the faint indent of his teeth in your skin. You whine when he traces the outline with his tongue. Dean relinquishes his grip on your chin to glide his hand down your throat, down your sternum to catch a handful of your breasts. He's unrestrained. There's no shame in the way his thumb draws tormenting circles around your nipple. It's like he knew, in some way, that this outcome was only inevitable.
And if that's so, you might as well enjoy yourself. You reach around, delving between the two of you to palm at his bulge. It catches him off guard enough that his grip on your breast tautens. Dean pulls himself back together enough to rut into the crude fist you make around him.
"God, if Sammy knew about this-"
"Don't talk about your brother while I've got my hand down your pants. Don't make this weird." You rebuke, plunging your hand past his boxers to grip him properly. His puffs of breath become shallower in your ear as you ghost the head of his cock.
Dean sucks his teeth, "Yes, ma'am."
Because this isn't weird. It's really not. It's hardly sex with Dean if you don't kiss him and don't look at him. That makes it just sex, which makes it totally acceptable. Totally palatable. You repeat that manta in your head as you snatch the hand that's pawing at your chest and shove it down to cup between your legs. He's grinning into your shoulder when his fingers find the messy slickness of your cunt.
"This for me?" He slithers one finger to rest, unmoving, atop your fluttering clit. He's full of it. You sniff, recalcitrant, pretending a fresh wave of wetness hadn't leaked into your underwear at his measly touch.
"Not really."
Dean snickers, mumbling in your ear, "Think it's for me."
He gives your clit one unsatisfying tweak and his hands disappear from you. There's a rustling that confuses you before you see his boxers pinging across the room, landing with a soft thud. Your own underwear soon lies abandoned on top of his.
Dean ventures to flip you one your back, at his mercy, but before he can straddle you, you wrangle him back down. He makes a pitiful little noise and clutches at your hip, trying to tempt you sideways, but you peel his fingers off. You remain facing the door, back to him, and throw a glimpse over your shoulder.
"It doesn't count if I can't see you and don't kiss you." You clarify. His eyebrows raise, skeptical.
"I don't think it works that way."
"It's gonna have to work that way unless you want to jerk yourself off, alone, in the bathroom."
Dean complies with haste. He sculpts himself to the arch of your back, face nestling to the nape of your neck. He nudges your legs apart just far enough to kiss the tip of his cock against your entrance. His length delivers taunting undulations to your cunt, smearing your already sticky thighs further. You extend a hand behind you to smooth over his cheek. It's hot to the touch.
He worms his fingers to ghost over your lower stomach, "Gonna be all up in here soon."
Your lips twitch in amusement, "Don't flatter yourself."
In reprisal, Dean shunts the first few inches of him with little forewarning. Your teeth bite down into your lower lip to stifle a yelp. The last thing you need is his ego growing larger than it already is. He shushes you, and the sound is patronising. His thumb begins to massage rotations around your clit. It works magic in alleviating the sting of your walls fighting to accommodate him.
"What's wrong?" Dean simpers, setting a dilatory pace as you adjust. His lips enfold over the faded mark left by his teeth earlier and he sucks it in a way you just know will leave a garish purple bruise, "Can't take it? Where's all that attitude you always give me gone, huh?"
"I'd rather you used your dick instead of acting like one." You mutter, spurring him closer with a hand to the back of his head. Your nails claw at his scalp when he takes the liberty of giving your clit another punitive tweak.
Dean slows to a halt. He's about half-way, and you've passed the point of it aching to the point of leaving a shiny ring around the run of his cock, "Yeah. Yeah, you're right, sweetheart. I should just rip the band-aid off."
He uses the hand that had been toying with your cunt to tug you flush to him, and in effect, buries himself to the hilt inside of you. Dean dabs open-mouthed kisses over the slant of your shoulder. It alleviates the initial throb of his cock being burrowed in the deepest region of you. You won't give him the satisfaction of telling him, but it really does he feel like he's wedged in your lower stomach. Tears prickle your lash line.
"Fuck." You manage, winded. Dean caresses the angle of your jaw with the tip of his nose.
"Yeah, fuck," He echoes, tone still haughty but now with a new shaky undertone. With how close he is, you can feel each and every one of his muscles vellicate, "Wish I'd done this sooner. We coulda avoided a whole lot of hassle."
You, for one of the first times in your life, nod in agreement. He, frankly, could've probably suggested anything and you'd be hard pressed to dissent when he's this deep inside you. His jaw is strained as he leverages himself against your hip to slide his cock in and out, all tentative as he figures out his flow. Dean finds one soon enough that has your eyelids drooping and toes curling.
The bed frame whimpers. Its screech is only rivalled by the inarguable noise of skin on skin and raspy moans. Like the rest of him, he's loud in bed. Loud in your ear. And, like the rest of him, you want to hate it so much that you go the wrong way and end up loving it. His hand swamping your hip is nearly blanched at the knuckle.
Dean's head lowers itself against your shoulder blade, "You're killing me, woman."
It's a whisper. Almost inaudible over the clamour you're creating, but you hear it nonetheless. With a grin, you bend your neck to brush your lips over his forehead. His head jolts up so fast, it almost connects with your nose. Dean's lashes bat wildly.
"Fuck you, you won't kiss me but you'll do that?" He criticises, a pretty furrow dawning between his brows and his rhythm falters. You tickle your nose down the bridge of his, mouth so alluring close to consuming his, until you snap your head back with thinly concealed glee.
"Have to earn it." You decide with a sigh. You're talking out your ass, but you feel you need some sort of arbitrary boundary for your own sake. A boundary to mitigate things.
Dean huffs, "Earn it," He chews it over, bitter, and drives into your cunt in more purposeful strides. You gasp, fisting the pillow for succour, "I'll fuckin' earn it. I'll earn it til I can kiss you whenever the fuck I like."
You're undecided on whether that sounds like the best idea ever or a recipe for disaster. He's lost his swagger now, though. Dean's fingers are clumsy as they stumble their way over your side and down between your thighs. You're both shaking like live wires when the snap of his hips begin to crumble in steadiness, the cracks of desperation showing in his cavalier armour.
He sounds heavenly as he cums. He groans in your ear, muffled by your hair, and it's truly guttural. Filthy. It's what jostles you over the edge, that alongside the subtle pulse of his cock relaxing inside you and the dogged swipes he rubs to your clit. It rips something formidable from you and you wouldn't be surprised if it turned out the room opposite heard.
Dean retreats his hand to distend over your ribs. Not pulling you in, just idling there. As though recuperating. He doesn't appear to have the energy to pull out, and you don't really want him to. It's still sweltering in the room, but charged with the intimate warmth of sex. It's a fuzzy warmth now. Less unbearable.
"I threw it on purpose, by the way."
"Mhm?"
His chin fits beautifully in the crook of your neck. A roughish smile upturns his lips, "Scissors. I threw scissors on purpose so I could share the bed with you."
You roll your eyes. At least he's learned, "Typical."
★ Plot: When Castiel falls from Heaven you find him and take him in, teaching him a world he never dreamed he could be a part of, let alone love, but will it stay sunshine and roses when Sam and Dean come back for him?
★ Director: @ashbohog
★ Run Time: 6.2k
★ Rating: Explicit/16+
★ Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, smut - consent heavy, riding, softer sex, creampie - emotional vulnerability, slice of life, fluff, probably more I can't think of?
★ Commentary: Okay now THIS is a fic. Goddamn, longest one-shot I've ever written lol, I hope you like it! (please be nice to me this took five months lol)
꧁ Read my rules and send a request! ꧂
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You used to work with Sam and Dean at least once a month, helping them out of whatever mess they got themselves into. When you retired, you weren't sure if they'd be able to manage, but they seemed to do alright, at least that's what you heard from your bi-weekly phone calls with Sam, just making sure none of them had gone off the deep end. Again.
You were checking the slow-cooker, soup cooking away, the smell filling your house nicely. It wasn't much but it was cozy and comfortable, a luxurious mansion compared to the motel rooms you were used to. You decided to head out and get some groceries while your food slowly boiled up for the next couple of hours.
You were at your local supermarket, scanning the shelves for any ingredients that looked interesting when out of the corner of your eye, you spotted a man just outside glass doors. He looked oddly familiar so you walked back out of the store, abandoning your apples and flour just before the exit.
When you got outside, you got a good look at him. He was missing his signature coat and he looked pretty rough around the edges, but that was the Winchesters' Angel alright.
"Castiel?"
He looked up like the sound of his own name was foreign to him, his brows furrowing just like they always did, until he recognized you, murmuring your name with a rougher voice than usual.
You crouched down, eye to eye with him "What are you doing here? What happened to you?"
He looked down like he was ashamed that you were seeing him like this.
"I fell"
"From where?"
"Heaven"
"Oh, baby" You cooed, reaching out, slow enough not to spook him "Where are the boys?"
"Kansas"
"So what're you doing here?"
"I have no way to get there, I was trying to find enough money to pay for the bus, but it's not as easy as I thought it would be"
"Here" You reached into your pocket but before you could pull your hand out, he stopped you.
"I couldn't take-"
"Sweetie, I'm not gonna give you money"
"You're not?"
"No" You smiled just a little, sympathetic and soft, before extending the energy bar in your palm "You look hungry. You can get hungry now, right?"
"Yes" His eyes stayed glued to your palm "Very"
He took the bar eagerly, the first piece of food he'd had in days that he didn't have to scavenge for.
"Are you hurt?"
"Not substantially. I think"
"Can you stand?"
"Yes"
You grabbed his hand, guiding him up.
"It'd take hours to get to Kansas and you're in pretty rough shape. I have some room at my place if you'd li-"
"Yes please"
You smiled, a huff of a laugh coming out with it. He followed you to your car like a little puppy, hand never leaving yours until you had to drive. You cranked up the heat on the drive home, noticing the little shake around his shoulders.
When you got inside, you saw him in proper lighting, the shabby clothes, the fresh cut on his cheek, covered in grime. You brought him to your kitchen table, checking on the soup and giving him a bowl full.
"Here, it's not much but it's probably better for you than an energy bar. Have as much as you like"
He muttered a quick thank you before inhaling the soup, spoon be damned. While he was occupied, you headed to the bathroom, running a hot bath and grabbing a towel. You threw it on the back of a chair and positioned it in front of the fireplace before coming back to the kitchen.
The former Angel was helping himself to a third bowl when you appeared behind him.
"Hey, it's not goin' anywhere" You spoke softly, placing the bowl back on the counter, cupping his face in your palms "Let me take a look"
"At what?"
"You" You laughed lightly, missing his very direct take on things since you'd last seen him.
You inspected his face, only finding muck and that little cut, a strange wave of relief washing over you. You'd worried for him before, but only ever briefly. When he'd copped a rough hit, but he always got back up again. You weren't so sure that he would now, and that was a whole, awful new level of worry.
"Are you hurt anywhere else?"
"My shoulder, it burns. Like someone is still stabbing me"
"Still?"
"It was shallow"
You rolled your eyes with a little smirk, hoping it might mask a portion of your concern, turning your attention back to tending to him. Your fingers drifted down, catching on the slashed open hoodie sleeve coated in red.
"Well it isn't pretty, why don't you get cleaned up and I'll take a better look at it?"
"How do I-"
"I ran a bath, just hop in and let it all melt away"
He nodded like you'd given him direct orders, trailing behind you as you led him to the bathroom.
"Call out when you're ready to get out, 'kay?"
He nodded again and you could see the droop to his eyes. You went back to the kitchen, tidying up, having some soup for yourself. Eventually, you heard a weak voice call your name and it sent a little crack through your heart. Your eyes found him, barely able to keep himself up when you noticed the muck still on his face, blood and dirt, his hair still shaggy and mussed up. Not in its usual way.
"I- can you- help me? Please?"
Your heart broke for him again and again, the way his tone lowered, not in any way you'd heard before. That sad, wet puppy look on his face.
"Yeah, 'f course"
You stepped inside, slowly kneeling beside the bathtub, lowering yourself down to his level.
"You have a lot of different soaps" His eyes flicked over to the little shelf beside him "I- don't know what to use"
"Do you want me to tell you, or do you want help?"
"Help. Please" He couldn't meet your gaze, he was an Angel, reduced to this "Everything hurts"
You weren't sure how to respond to someone experiencing aching muscles and bones for the first time, so you just reached over and grabbed your honey shampoo.
"I think you'll like this one" You hummed, flipping open the cap and squeezing some out "It's shampoo, you put that on your hair, rinse it off, then do the same with conditioner"
"That seems counterintuitive"
"Kinda, but it makes your hair real soft"
"Your has always seemed that way"
You were caught off guard by the subtle compliment, by the fact that he'd noticed something about you. You threaded your fingers through his hair, working the shampoo in gently, giving his scalp a soft little massage while you were at it.
Neither of you were expecting the little groan he let out at your touch, but you couldn't help smiling when you heard it.
"I'm sorry I- I don't understand why I did that"
"It's normal, Sweetie. Lost of people do it, just means you're enjoying this"
"I am. Thank you"
"You're welcome, but you don't have to keep saying thank you" You place a hand over his forehead, stopping the water from flowing into his eyes as you rinsed out the shampoo "I'm happy to do this for you, God knows you've saved my life, least I can do is give you a warm place to stay and some soap lessons"
"You've done far more than that, and it means a lot to me. So, thank you"
"You're welcome, Castiel"
He let his eyes flutter shut as he leaned into your touch, something felt off but comforting at hearing his name again.
You finished up, taking your time until the water started to lose its heat. You leaned in close, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek, tone soft, light.
"Back in a sec"
As he watched you push off your knees and head out the door, he wished you wouldn't. He wished you'd just stay with him until the world felt less harsh.
You grabbed the towel from in front of the fire, nice and toasty, and headed back to the bathroom. Smiling softly, you hated that he felt like this, but you were so happy you were the one he trusted to take care of him.
When you came through the door holding the towel, he understood, sort of, standing immediately. You barely let your eyes flick down before you turned to face the wall swiftly, handing the towel to him behind your back.
"Uh, Castiel?" You let slip a small, awkward laugh "Little human lesson for you, generally people wait until there's no one around to be that, disrobed"
"I'm sorry. Humans are meant to be ashamed of their bodies, I should partake in this behavior now. I've- made you uncomfortable" He said it more as a statement than a question, observing your reaction over anything else.
"All covered up?" You asked, suppressing your grin at his little discovery of human behaviour, it was always cute when that happened.
"Yes"
You turned and he had the towel wrapped around his waist. Your eyes widened just a little, surprised that that was what was under the trench coat, not really getting a proper look before. Some part of you wished you hadn't now. The other part wanted to beat the first part with a blunt instrument.
"Is this, correct? I've seen this on TV an-"
"You watch TV?"
"Sometimes"
"Huh, an Angel watching soaps, who woulda thought"
He looked down at your words when you realised which one you'd said.
"Oh shit, I'm so sorry, I didn't think, I-"
"It's okay. This is new to you. It's still new to me"
You walked over, raising your hand to tilt his chin up, making him look you in the eye.
"It's okay. Whatever you're feeling right now, it's okay. And it'll all be okay"
"How do you know?"
"'Cause I'll make it be okay. I can be very threatening you know" You joked, hoping to lift his spirits the slightest bit.
"I know" He smiled, just the tiniest bit, it made you feel like you'd won a whole battle.
"Good, now sit, looks like I have some sewing to do"
"My clothes are-"
"Shredded. But not what I meant" You motioned to the cut on his arm "It might not be hospital grade, but from what you told me on the drive here, I don't think hospitals would be that safe right now"
"No, they wouldn't"
You grabbed your first aid kit, cleaning up around each wound before patching them up. He winced at the needle, something you'd never seen him do before, understandable sure, but strange nonetheless.
"There" You tapped his chest lightly, far away from any newly forming bruises "Good as new"
"I was never new"
"It's an expression. I'll teach you about those later, now you look like you could use a rest"
"Yes, I think I need to sleep"
"Welcome to being human, we're always chasin' it"
You helped him to your room, trying to distract your mind from wandering to the one place it shouldn't when you had your arm around his waist, fingers splayed against his skin. You rifled through your drawers, handing him some sweatpants. You couldn't find any damn t-shirts, today was meant to be laundry day.
You moved just outside to change into your pyjamas and when you came back in, he was barely standing by the bed, you could tell he was about five minutes away from falling straight into it. You tried not to, but you couldn't stop your eyes from drifting down to the waistband of those old sweatpants, how low it rode on his hips. You saw the little hollows of his hip bones, perfectly, awfully grip-able.
"Well what're you waiting for?"
Cas paused, eyes on the ground.
"I've seen on TV that when two people share a bed it can be, uncomfortable. Socially"
"As long as no one makes a move, I think we'll be fine"
"What kind of move? I haven't slept much before but I believe I roll over on occasion"
You let a little laugh slip "Sweetie, just get in. You look like you're barely alive"
"I feel that way too"
You squeezed his hand softly, pulled the covers back and slipped into the other side of the bed. Castiel let out a heavy sigh as his back stretched out flat against the mattress, a feeling he had never experienced quite like this before.
"Good?"
"Indescribably"
You chuckled under your breath "And to think, I got this on sale"
He turned to face you, his expression tired and soft in ways you hadn't thought possible before tonight.
"Thank you, you didn't have to be this kind, I appreciate it"
"Anytime" You smiled "Besides, things were starting to get boring around here anyways"
He let out a breathy laugh, just slightly before falling silent again, a vulnerable lilt to his voice.
"There's something else I've seen on TV. Sometimes, when someone's hurt, someone that cares for them, holds them"
"Yeah?" You shuffled closer, a dangerous shake in your voice but you had to do it "Good thing I care about you then"
You opened your arms up and he gingerly got closer, careful, trying to do it 'right'. Your arms closed around his back, nudging his face against your neck. He let out a breath, relaxing into you.
You tried to think about anything other than his body pressed against yours, the worn material of the pants doing little to nothing to cover the bulge you felt pressed into your thigh.
Your hands smoothed over his back, soft and warm and just too much.
He let out an airy little sound, high, broken, and you pulled your hands away, moving back to look into his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Cas, are you okay? Did I hurt you?"
"N-no" He could barely hold eye contact, feeling disgusting to think of you in this way "It- was nice"
"You sure? I can stop if-"
"Please don't"
"Oh. Oh- you-"
He nodded, swallowing hard "I know I shouldn't-"
"I never said that"
"But-"
"Ang- Castiel" You corrected yourself, bringing your hand up to cradle his jaw "You're human now, it's okay to feel human things"
"But I've never- it's so much. I haven't felt anything like this before"
"I know, baby. You just- you have to find your way of dealing with it. It's not easy, but it's another thing about being human"
"Could you- would you help me? Please?"
Your throat closed for a moment, breath gone.
"I- Cas, are you sure?"
"Yes" He nodded, eyes certain "I want to know every part of the human experience, and I trust you"
"O-okay"
"Are you not comfortable? I won't be upset if-"
"Cas, I-" You took a breath "I'm okay. I want this, you. I want you, Castiel"
He moved closer, lips against yours in a second. No one had ever wanted him before, not for him, just what he could do for them.
You used your other hand to guide his palms to your hips, smiling against him at how hesitant his touch was.
"It's okay, baby, you're not gonna hurt me"
His hands slid up, ducking under your shirt, fingers cool against your skin. He pressed closer to you, voice low and wrecked already.
"Off, please"
You shuffled, half sitting up, moving to straddle him when you stopped, looking down with care.
"Ready?"
"Yes" He breathed out, nodding at the same time.
You slid your shorts off, throwing one leg over his lap, fingers under the hem of your shirt before you discarded it too, Castiel's eyes fixated on you.
He'd seen humans for thousands of years, but actually feeling you? That was a whole other world.
You reached down, sliding the sweatpants past his thighs, a soft little sound falling from your lips at the size of him, bobbing up against his stomach, precum beading at the tip.
You took a breath, bringing yourself back.
"I'm gonna touch you now, that okay?"
"Yes" He muttered, chest working "Very"
You wrapped your hand around the base, a quiet moan coming from him. You pumped him slowly a few times, precum pouring from the tip.
You locked eyes with him as you lifted your hips, lining him up to your entrance. You passed the wet head through your folds, gathering your slick before inching in.
His hands shot to your hips, needing something to hold onto, an anchor. Your jaw grew slack the further down you sunk, his cock stretching you out perfectly, hitting deep when you reached the base.
You stopped, adjusting, giving Castiel enough time to get used to the feeling.
You felt a hand on your back, pushing you down instantly, his forehead pressed to yours, heavy breaths fanning across your lips.
"You-you okay, baby?" You asked, eyes squeezed shut, desperate to move.
He swallowed hard, just barely moving his head against yours, signaling you to continue.
You rolled your hips shakily, grinding down against him, his jaw dropping around a silent moan.
You gradually picked up your pace, face still hovering over his, seeing those pretty blue eyes get wetter and wetter.
You started to push off his chest gently, moving to ride him. His hands entwined with yours as you used him for stability, your skin slapping against his with each of your bounces.
You felt his grip tighten, chest heaving.
"Too-too much" He sucked in a breath, finding them to be in short supply.
You slowed down carefully, thumb brushing the little drop falling down his cheek, cradling his jaw in one hand.
"It's okay Cas, we can stop if you want to"
"No, please, just- slower"
"Okay" You hummed, a small smile gracing your lips, making him feel more than he would have imagined something so simple could "We'll go slow"
You dragged your hips along his, walls fluttering around his cock as he grazed your cervix with each of your movements.
You built him up steadily, letting him feel everything, your heat wrapped around him, unlike any other feeling on Earth or in Heaven.
Cas sucked in a breath through his teeth, neck glistening with sweat, looking positively bite able.
He let a little sound slip at the feeling of your mouth on him, the surprise not at all unwelcome.
Your teeth grazed over his neck, muscles drawn tight, just right for you to nibble on, tongue laving over the spot in an instant.
"I-" He stuttered, voice strained "I think I-"
"Y'gonna cum, baby?"
"Yes"
You gave him a few more deep rolls of your hips before grinding all the way down, your cunt squeezing around him like a vice.
He called your name as hot ropes of cum shot inside you, filling you perfectly. His cock twitched more and more with each pulse of your walls, milking him dry.
You leaned down to kiss him through his panting, tongue slipping past his lips, running over his teeth with a wolfish grin.
"That feel good, Castiel?" You smirked, still pressed up against him, feeling his cum beginning to leak out of you.
"I-I love you"
You stilled, relief and worry contradicting each other in your mind. You cleared your throat, sitting up, moving to get up before his hands found your thighs, puppy dog eyes looking up into yours.
"Was that wrong?" He asked, absolutely precious, breaths beginning to slow back to normal.
"No, I just uhm, I don't want to get my hopes up"
"How would you do that?"
"Because, you're-you're kinda vulnerable right now and you might- sometimes when people feel things, intensely, especially for the first time, they get things mixed up in their heads"
"What does that mean?"
"It means that by morning, or even in a few hours, you might not be as happy as you are now and I just- I can't risk too much on that"
"You're afraid I don't truly love you?"
"Yeah, yes, I just- I don't wanna make a fool of myself when you realize it was just the moment talking, not you"
"I have been sure of very little since becoming human, but I'm sure of you" He tilted your head back over to face him, eyes holding onto yours "I love you, but I understand your hesitancy. I will wait for the morning to tell you again, and I will wait for as long as you need to believe me"
You clenched your jaw, pushing down your emotions, pushing his chest back until he laid down again, laying your body over his.
"Thank you, Castiel" You pressed a soft, gentle little kiss to his lips, moving onto your side with him, keeping him inside you as his head rested on your chest, voice almost gone "Thank you"
His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, not used to the feeling or the fuzzy warmth floating around his head. He nestled into your neck, a small smile pressed against your skin, finally finding faith again with you.
You woke up to an unfamiliar but not at all unwelcome warmth, along with tangled limbs and quiet snoring. You looked down to see Castiel's face nuzzled against your chest, rising and falling with your breathing. You pressed a feather-light kiss to his forehead, arms curling around him just a little tighter.
You weren't sure how long it took for him to wake up but even if it had taken days, you never would've moved an inch, dreading the thought of him waking up alone. His eyes fluttered open slowly, blue hues finding you, still there. He looked up like he was watching the world, barely moving away, just enough to see you properly.
"G'morning, baby"
"Good morning" His voice was a little croaky and deep from lack of use and entirely perfect.
Your hands smoothed over his back in similar motions to the night before as you continued to lay there together, neither of you daring to speak and break a moment so tender and precious. New to both of you.
"I still love you" His voice was so quiet you barely heard it, scared in a way he'd never been before.
"Hm?"
"Last night, you worried I-"
"I remember"
"Well, I still love you. Possibly more. I don't expect you to say it back, but I'd like you to believe me"
"I do, baby" You tucked his head into the crook of your neck, moreso hiding your face than his.
"I'm sorry" He muttered, feeling a few drops land on his skin "I didn't mean to upset you, I-"
"I love you too, Castiel"
"You do?"
You nodded, failing to fight back your tears, nails digging into the muscles of his back just a little, clinging onto him.
"Why-why are you crying? I thought love was supposed to be good. Is it- because I fell? I-"
"Shut up, Cas" You silenced him with your lips pressed against his, your kiss reaching his soul, finally letting him feel a connection he'd only ever watched others have.
You pressed your forehead to his as you pulled away, not wanting the moment to end just yet.
"It will never be because you fell. You're still my Angel whether you have wings or not, and you're more pure and full of light than anyone I've met, before and now"
He didn't respond, simply taking a much needed breath, suppressing the lump in his throat.
You stayed wrapped in each other's arms, holding onto the soft morning neither of you had ever had before.
"I-" He started, hesitant "I don't know what to do"
"You don't have to do anything right now, Castiel. Just focus on getting better, then we can figure it all out together"
"Thank you, I truly appreciate your kindness and generosity, but I meant now. Are we supposed to get up?"
You giggled lightly "Yeah, if you like. Or we can stay here"
"Here is good"
You pressed another kiss to his forehead, situating yourself again.
"Here it is then"
You did eventually get up, slowly rising. You headed downstairs first, rummaging through the fridge, finding some bacon and eggs. When Castiel walked down the stairs, those same old sweatpants riding dangerously low on his hips, the smell drifted over to him and he let out a soft, content sound, relieved to know where his next meal was coming from.
You glanced over at him, spotting the extra little bruise on his neck, fingertips grazing over it lightly.
"'m sorry, baby"
"For what?"
"This" You turned him to face the mirror, curling around him from behind "Guess I got a little carried away. Been thinking about this for too long"
"You've thought of biting me?"
"It's not a proper bite" You grumbled, light "I've thought about you, Angel"
His eyes darted away, still guilty.
"You're my Angel, Cas. I'll tell you again and again. But if you don't like the nickname, I'll stop using it"
"I- I'm not sure"
"That's okay" You pressed a kiss of the reddish purple mark "We can come up with something new if you like, just for you"
"Yes" He straightened a little, eyes meeting yours in the mirror "I'd like that"
"Alright then, what are you thinking of?"
"I- don't know. What do humans call each other?"
"Lots of things. Baby, Sweetheart-"
"That's you"
"Hm?"
"You have the kindest heart I've known. Yours should be Sweetheart"
"Damn it, Cas, you're gonna make me cry again. I don't usually do that"
"I'm sorry-"
"It's okay, honey, I just-"
"I like that one"
"What? Honey?"
"Yes. I miss the bees"
"Hm, what about Honeybee then? A little more special, for you"
"I like it" He smiled, a welcome sight.
"Alright Honeybee, whaddya say we get you some breakfast, hm?"
"I'd like that even more, I haven't tried eggs yet"
"Well then you are in for a treat, c'mon"
You guided him over to the kitchen counter, seating him at a stool as you cooked.
"Thank you" He hummed softly, watching you intently.
"You're welcome, Cas, but you haven't even tried it yet"
"Not just the food, for everything"
"Well then you're very welcome, but you really don't have to keep saying thank you, it's the least I can do, you did bring me back from the dead a few times"
"You never died, you were merely close"
"Yeah, I'd say bleeding out in an alley is pretty close" You laughed lightly, but he didn't join you, looking down and to the side again instead "Hey, what's wrong? I'm sorry, did I say something-"
"No. You're perfect. I just- I'm not of any use to you anymore. If someone were to attack-"
"If someone attacked, then I'd protect you, happily" You reassured him.
"But you shouldn't have to, if I had my Grace-"
"Enough 'if's, okay? If you had your Grace you'd be off sittin' on a cloud, or whatever you do when you mysteriously disappear to Heaven. And if you had your Grace, you never would've been able to taste my cooking" You grinned, serving his meal up.
"It is very tasty, thank you"
You grinned, pressing a chaste kiss to his temple "You're welcome, now eat up, while it's still hot. Besides, it's not like I'm not getting anything out of this, I've wanted you for as long as I can remember knowing you"
"Really?"
"Sure have, you're catch, Honeybee"
He smiled, returning to his toast, a comfortable kind of happy.
You shared your meals in an easy silence, spending the rest of the day doing small, human-y things. Teaching them to Castiel.
You started off easy, doing the dishes after you ate, showing him how to use the TV, which he was surprisingly good at, even the DVD player. You did a load of washing and you may or may not have shared a shower while you waited for it to dry, finally getting Cas into a decent set of clothes.
Though you'd miss him in just the sweatpants. Dearly.
Your days unfolded similarly for a while. Teaching Cas new things, spending all of your time together, showing him all kinds of new foods. You fell into a comfortable, domestic routine, Cas even did the dishes when you cooked, after seeing it as some small gesture to repay another on a sitcom.
Nights were spent in each other's arms, teaching him all manner of other things under tangled sheets.
You got used to your soft, sweet little life. Until the Winchesters turned up at your doorstep.
You texted Dean the day after Cas arrived, letting him know he was safe, but it took them a while to come see you, something about not being able to have Cas around, he could get hurt? It sounded like a load of crap because they were avoiding something, but it wasn't your place to say, you learned that the hard way.
The knock on your door startled you, prompting you to hide Castiel behind you and grab your gun. The second you opened the door, Dean pushed through, big smiles and all, Sam in tow.
Dean stopped, looking Cas up and down, seeing him in your baggy purple hoodie.
"Dude"
"Hello Dean"
"What the hell happened?" He laughed, pulling Cas into a rough hug "You- I think you're whipped"
"We have a whip upsta-"
"Honeybee!" You chimed in, clearly he forgot your 'what we can say around company and what we can't' lesson.
"Honeybee?"
"Yes, it's my pet name" He answered proudly.
"You have a- hold on"
"I think he's starting to get it" Sam mumbled to you.
"Yep, just give him a sec"
"You-"
"Almost there"
"And-"
"Here we go"
"What the hell?!"
"Honestly?" Sam started "He got there quicker than I thought he would"
"Me too, you got him doing Sudoku or something?"
"I tried, he said it looked too much like math"
"Eh, fair"
"Guys!" Dean interrupted, still computing "You and Cas- are living together? Like, properly?"
"Oh my g-" You rolled your eyes, pulling Cas into a kiss, his hands sliding up your back.
You were pretty sure the sound Dean made was only audible to dogs.
"You two- I- what?! You guys kiss?!"
"We also have sexual intercourse"
You couldn't help but laugh at Cas' monotone and Dean's face, possibly scarred for life.
"You fuck?!"
"Multiple times a day"
"Cas, baby, that's enough" You patted his arm, guiding him to the couch as you fought to regain your composure.
"Multiple-" Dean babbled to himself, his brain working over time.
"Let it go, man" Sam clapped a hand on his shoulder "Just- accept it"
"But I-"
"So" Sam started, desperate to change the subject "You two seem- happy"
"Well yeah if I was gettin' some multiple-"
Sam clamped a hand down over his brother's mouth, yanking it back after a second.
"Dude! Did you just lick me?!"
"Got your hand away, didn't it?"
"Boys!" You called, stopping them immediately "God how I missed you two"
They both looked down, like kids in trouble.
"Why don't you catch up with Cas while I finish off dinner?"
"Ooh, dinner?" Dean's eyes lit up, he always inhaled your cooking.
"Yep, pot roast"
"I love you"
You saw Cas narrow his eyes the slightest bit from his spot on the couch, far too adorable.
You walked over, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head before heading off to the kitchen.
"So- you two, huh?" Sam said, surprisingly awkward.
"Yes" Castiel smiled, content.
"When- how- I'm happy for you. And so is Dean. Right Dean?"
"Huh?" Dean's attention was elsewhere, trying to see how close you were to serving up.
Sam elbowed him, bringing him back to the room.
"You're happy for Cas, right?"
"Yeah, real happy. D'you know when dinner is?"
"Soon"
Dean huffed, a little pouty, right as you called out to them, everything plated up and on the table.
"Holy-"
"Enjo-" Before you could finish, he was digging in.
You all made polite conversation over dinner, secretly dreading why they were here now, if they needed Cas, what he'd do if they asked him to go.
Sam was the one to say it.
"So, buddy. We sorta came here for a reason"
"Yes?" Cas looked up from his bowl, avoiding Dean on his third.
"We um, we were kinda wondering, when are you coming back?"
"Back where?"
"To the bunker, with us. Y'know, home"
Cas' gaze flicked to you and you stood, feeling your stomach drop.
You pressed a soft kiss to his lips, staring into those pretty blue eyes.
"Do whatever you think is right, Honeybee. Don't worry about me"
Before he could respond, you went back to the kitchen, leaving him to make his decision without the added weight of your presence in the room.
It took longer than you hoped, so you started doing the dishes. Washing away each little speck, like Castiel always does. Your heart melted a little when he started doing it, wanting to repay you in the slightest for everything you'd done for him.
You knew he'd go. He had to. He was the Angel who saved the world, even if he wasn't an Angel anymore. Sam and Dean had been with him through everything, this thing he had with you had just been going on for a few months, you had no right to expect him to give everything else up for you.
Little drops fell into the water in the sink, mingling together before your blurring eyes.
You wiped your hands off quickly, fingers digging into the dish cloth, holding it tight as you turned to face the cabinets, trying to get yourself together.
Castiel heard sharp, laboured breaths as he entered the kitchen, rushing to your side immediately.
"Is something wrong? Did you cut yourself? I-"
"Just- stay tonight. Please" Your head fell to his shoulder, arms curling around him "Just give me one more night"
"Do you- do you want me to leave?" He stopped, still in your embrace "I understand, I-"
"Never, Cas. I- aren't you going with Sam and Dean?"
"No"
"What?"
"Unless you want me to leave, I don't intend on going back with them"
"But I thought- didn't you want-"
"I want you" He pulled back to look you in the eyes, brushing your tears away "I told you, I love you. And I will keep telling you. That won't change, ever"
"S-so you're staying? Really?"
"For as long as you'll let me"
You pulled him in tight, holding him against your chest, no intentions of letting go.
"You uh- you guys have your big dramatic feelings moment yet?" Dean poked his head through the door, like your emotions might actually attack him.
Idiot.
"You're safe, you're not gonna catch emotional intelligence" You sniffled, a little laugh breaking through.
They both came in, a little distant, feeling like they just tried to break up the best relationship they'd seen anyone have.
"You're not evil" You sighed, knowing them pretty well by now "Besides, it didn't work. We're fine"
Sam let out a little sigh of relief, Dean pretended to never have been worried in the first place.
"So" The feelings fearing one started "Guess we'd better head out then"
"When I have a handmade pie ready to put in the oven? What a shame" You faux pouted, knowing you'd get him with that.
"Pie? You made pie? What kind of pie?"
"Oh, just cherry. You probably won't even want any-"
"Move over woman, where's the pie?!"
Sam rolled his eyes, he really had to try and teach his brother some manners. Some day.
You went to the fridge, handing it to Dean to do the honours, sliding it into the oven with such loving care.
Dean watched it with a level of intensity that rivalled Cas' usual stares, an impressive feat indeed.
"You don't need to stare at it like it'll be your last" You laughed, pulling him away from the oven door.
"W- It won't?"
"Oh god I forgot how stupid you are" You cooed sweetly, pressing a kiss to his cheek "Sweetie, I'm in love with your best friend. If we weren't already family, we sure as hell are now"
"Yeah?"
"Of course, baby" You brought him into a hug, motioning for Sam to join behind his back.
He waved a hand, trying to be polite and let you and Dean have your moment, until you tugged him in anyways, soon relishing in the warm feeling.
"You're my boys, now more than ever. And soon enough you're gonna get sick of the two of us coming down for weekly game nights"
"Games?" Castiel asked, a little intrigued "Like the game we play when you're the babysi-"
"Not that game"
"I think I'm gonna be sick" Dean mumbled.
"Oh, so you don't want any pie?"
"I didn't say that!"
"Sure" You grinned, happy with your misshapen little family and your fallen Angel.
Taglist for all of my Supernatural writing - 50 - Part 1
Summary: Dean jerks off while you pretend to sleep.
Content warning: Reader gives Dean a massage, explicit language, male masturbation, handjobs, spitting, cum eating, she calls him good boy one time
wc: 1.8k
“That feels- fuck- that feels amazing.”
Dean bows his head, leaning back into your hands, as they knead the knotted muscles of his shoulders. The lotion you’d smeared across the expanse of his upper back and arms makes his skin look dewy. Your hands glide along the contours of his body, looking so small in comparison to his figure.
He lifts his head, letting it fall back to rest against your shoulder as your fingers dig into the lean, striated muscle of his pectorals. His eyes are closed.
“You really are an angel, sweetness.” He drawls slowly. “Y’too good to me.”
“Shh,” You coo softly, hands now caressing the slope of his neck. “Just relax,”
“‘F’I relax any more, I’m gonna pass out.”
You pretty much feel the same way. It’d been an action packed few days, allowing minimal time for rest, and now you’re both heavily fatigued. Your body feels much older than it is. After showering and brushing your teeth, giving some attention to your needy man is the last thing on your to-do list before knocking out for a good ten hours. You can hardly keep your eyelids open, but every one of Dean’s appreciative moans convinces you to continue.
“That’s okay,” You assure him gently, purposefully grazing your lips against the shell of his ear. His spine straightens at the touch of your lips, shuddering slightly. “We’ll finish here. Then we can sleep,” You press a firmer kiss just behind his ear, smiling to yourself as he stiffens at the contact, groaning deeply as your fingers continue to massage his flesh.
Truthfully, you’re tired, but the game you’re playing with him is entertaining enough to turn what was supposed to be a quick five minute massage into a twenty minute one. Since the moment you’d laid your hands on his bare skin, he’d been growing harder and harder, and now, you were having fun pretending to be oblivious to the very noticeable bulge in his sweatpants.
“Don’t wanna sleep.” He argues, the slightest bit of petulance creeping into his tone. He turns to face you, regarding you with bleary, sleepy green eyes. “Want you.”
You peck his very pretty, pouty lips, finishing your massage with a little squeeze around his waist. Standing to go wash the residual lotion from your hands, Dean turns to watch you.
“No happy ending?” He jokes halfheartedly, but his eyes glimmer as he looks at you from under his lashes, exposing that underneath the guise of humor, he really is asking.
“M’sorry, handsome,” You murmur apologetically. “I’m dead on my feet.”
“‘Least let me return the favor,” He suggests, as you’re sliding underneath the sheets, wearing only one of his shirts and your panties.
“Tomorrow,” Your cheek is already on your pillow.
He slides under the blankets behind you, molding his chest to the shape of your back, fitting snugly, like an old weathered baseball glove. Eyes closed, you sigh at the comfort of his body against you. He slings a thick, heavy arm around your hips, guiding your ass back to press securely against his crotch. You bite back a smile at his less than covert attempts to entice you, shifting his hips so that the undeniable outline of his engorged cock is nestled right against your core.
You stay still, committed to the act that you’re unaffected by any of his antics, but you’re growing hot underneath the covers. You’d already been turned on by just rubbing his body, were wet the instant you noticed his boner, and now, as he subtly creates friction between your bodies, you suddenly aren’t so tired.
“Baby,” He complains in your ear, hands sliding from your hips, to your waist, then teasing just below your breasts. “Y’gotta gimme something here. Feels like I’ve been waitin’ to get you alone for weeks-”
“-It’s only been a few days.” You say without turning to look at him.
“Exactly-”
“I think you’ll live if I make you wait until tomorrow,” You say.
You only haven’t ended his misery because you want to see how far you can push him, and it turns you on when he begs. Plus, his sweet, desperate disposition is something private, saved only for you, in moments when you’re alone. In the quiet moments with you, he’s a very different man than he pretends to be with everyone else.
“Cruel woman,” He sighs. You get the sense that he might be giving up, as his arm returns around your hips.
“Thought you said I was an angel," You tease
"That was when you were being nice to me."
You huff. "I'll be nicer after I sleep.'
You relax against him, and even though you’re doggedly tired, his erection is still probing you between your thighs, stoking heat in your lower belly that’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Still, you keep yourself still in his arms, and squeeze your eyes tightly shut any time he shifts against you. He moves occasionally, readjusting his grip on you, repositioning his body, but stays quiet.
“Baby?” Dean whispers gently, several minutes later. Or maybe it’s been an hour. “Baby, you awake?
You’d been dozing, but at the sound of his voice, you rouse. You don’t answer because you’re intrigued by the diffidence in his tone.
Dean’s arm tightens around you, using his grip on you to once again create friction between your bodies. His breathing strikingly deepens, and every so often, he groans weakly. If the movement of him sliding against you wasn’t enough to have you pulsing between your legs, his noises would do the job. He sounds almost ashamed. It’s clear he’s trying to be quiet, but he’s doing a poor job of concealing his arousal.
You feel him wedge a hand between his groin and your ass, rubbing himself through his pants. You want to look, but part of you believes he would stop if he realized you were awake. You wonder if the front of his sweats are wet yet, if he’s gritting his teeth or if he’s open mouth panting. Heat radiates from his chest, and you feel the instant he breaks out in a sweat from his ministrations.
Very carefully, as to not wake you, he lifts his arm off your body and rolls onto his back. You fight to keep your own breathing even, to keep yourself from squeezing your thighs together, as you hear him start to jerk off.
It begins quietly, with the soft, barely audible evidence of him letting saliva fall from his mouth onto his palm. Then he wraps a hand around himself, and you hear the spread of moisture as he begins pumping his fist up and down. The sound of his hand beating his cock is largely overpowered by his breathing and the moans he’s failing to swallow, until he seems to lose control of himself and really starts pumping himself hard and fast.
You picture him, holding his stiff member in one hand, playing with his balls with the other. Picture him rubbing at the head of his cock until he can’t take it, mimicking the way you always torture him with special attention to his most sensitive spots.
“Just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” You scold in a quiet voice, turning towards him.
Dean startles with a grunt, his hand flying away from his cock, as if it wasn’t obvious what he’d been doing with it resting against his lower belly. He looks away from you, then back, bowing his head shamefully.
“D-didn’t-” He clears his throat. “Didn’t mean to wake you, princess.”
You roll onto your side beside him, placing a hand on the bit of his thigh exposed from where his sweats had been hastily pushed down.
When you don’t say anything, he keeps stammering. “I’m sorry-”
“Shh,” You whisper gently, grazing his thigh with the points of your nails. You suppress a smirk at the way the muscle of his leg jumps at your teasing touch, his cock bobbing untouched. “Keep going, big boy.”
He hesitates, so you wrap one of your smaller hands around the base of his cock. He immediately gasps, his head lolling back against the headboard. He begins panting again as he watches you bring your lips just above the head of him. You let a substantial string of saliva slip from your lips, onto his aching tip, smiling as he moans above you.
His jaw falls open when you start twisting your fist around him, spreading the lubricant generously from tip to base, so that he’s nice and wet.
“Keep going, baby,” You encourage, lifting yourself enough to take his face in your hands. You peck his lips, ending the kiss with a little sharp bite to his bottom lip that has him groaning and chasing after your lips when you pull back.
“Keep going-” He repeats, as if dazed.
“Yeah,” You say with a smile, caressing his jaw. “You wanna cum, don’t you?”
“Yeah-” He agrees, letting you take his hand. You bring his hand back between his legs, and you greedily watch as he grips himself, and then starts moving.
“How bad do y’wanna come, Dean?” You whisper sensually, maintaining eye contact with him in the dark. His breath fans across your lips, his eyelids heavy from the degree of his lust.
“Bad- so fuckin’ bad-” He rasps and it sounds like a plea.
“I bet,” You purr, letting your hands roam across his neck and shoulders. “Been such a good boy, waiting so well. I know you tried, baby.”
He grits his teeth, hand moving in a blur as he jerks himself, chest heaving. “I did- Tried to ignore it. For you-”
“It’s okay, baby. Know you need it real bad.”
He nods, expression broken as he keeps going.
“Can’t even handle my hands on you without getting hard,” You muse lovingly. “S’a little bit pathetic, right?”
“Fuck-” He groans, voice strangled. “I know-”
"And jerking off while your girlfriend is right next to you...is that pathetic, baby?"
"Yes-" He chokes out.
“You sound close,” You whisper. “Are you close, baby? Gonna make yourself cum? Wishing you were inside me instead?”
“Wanna make you feel good,” He mumbles. “God-M’so close.”
“Cum for me, Dean,” You beg, sliding back down level with his lap. “Wanna see how much cum you have for me,”
He begins shuddering, groaning from deep in his chest. He tells you he’s coming and it sounds like he’s panicked. You manage to get your plump lips around the head of him, your tongue immediately flooded with the heady taste of him. You suck at him for barely a second before he begins spurting into your mouth, the jets of his cum steadily hitting the back of your throat. He’s gripping your hair harshly, and you might register the pain of it, if you weren’t concentrating on swallowing burst after burst of his spend.
You swallow it all, then lick his cockhead clean until he’s jumping at the simple touch of your hot tongue. You lick your lips clean next and then nestle yourself back under his arm, while he's still sweaty and panting.
“That should hold you off until the morning, right?” You ask playfully.
“Yeah, I’d say so.”
You both make yourselves comfortable in the bed and fall asleep within five minutes flat.
summary : Not only the truth ferments in wine, doubts concerning your love life also do. Your birthday grows closer with each passing day, and during a drunken night with yours friends you realise something: you never had your first kiss. And you're the only one.
request pairing legolas x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
content warning : friends to lovers, alcohol consumption, drunkenness, drunken kissing, probably very indulgent but hey it's fun
author’s note : this one shot is an anon request :p i'm so so so sorry for the huge amount of time this has taken to write, truly! but i like this one and i think it's mainly because i took my time writing it and did not push,, things are going a bit crazy with uni so i'm kinda slow :(
➢ nini’s masterlist
➢ read on ao3
This is dumb. It really is, you don’t even know why you worry about this. You’re not a teenager anymore, an adult woman shouldn’t care about such trifling things. It was just a joke your friends had uttered, something innocent, said on the cusp of drunkenness. Elvish wine frayed the usual composed attitude of its drinkers, allowed them to be less wise, more frivolous. It was something quite common amongst younger elves such as you were; customs did not prevent you from having fun from times to times.
It was just a joke, yet it lingered in your mind still by morning-come. You groaned in your bed, annoyed, and shut yours lids as tightly as you could, until coloured dots clouded your vision. It was supposed to be a fun night —a girls’ night, as you had learnt it was called in human kingdoms, instead it had left you confused over something you never thought of.
You liked drinking wine with your friends because it allowed you less reserve on intimate matters, you could laugh more easily, talk about taboo things without it being embarrassing. You hated wine because it twisted words together without link while still managing for your mind to give them a sense. A made up sense, needless to say.
Tayrn’s room was dimly lit, candles burned in the corners, the wax beginning to reach its end given how long you had spent here. There was an easy atmosphere about the room, filled with laughers and knowing smiles, though the bottles of wine sitting on the bedside table were mainly responsible of it. Their content still burned your throat slightly, a delicious taste of berries and fruits you were growing too fond of tonight. The colour draped the seam of yours lips, a bruising purple that also coated the flat of your tongue.
On the large bed in the centre of the room, sat down or sprawled across the green silk covers, were a group of five girls; all idly murmuring secrets in the dead of night.
Lying on your side, your fingers deftly braided in your friend’s hair, although not as efficiently as you normally would. A comfortable haze dizzied your mind a little, made your vision swim each time you turned your head too swiftly. The hem of your gown had raked up until the high of your knees, and the plunge of your cleavage revealed more skin than average. None of you cared about the state you were all in, for all that mattered, you could have been naked in front of each other and it wouldn’t have made a lot of difference.
Upon looking at you, one would have spotted the pleased twinkle in your eyes in an instant. This distinct glimmer characteristic of the effects of liquor. Now, you had came down from the fit of laughter one of the girls had thrown you in earlier, and you were listening to Neve and Tihala whisper about things you did not quite catch, too busy weaving Alwyn’s hair. However, the subject of their discussion seemed quite entertaining, for they kept on stifling chuckles and swatting each other’s arm.
A flicker of affection passed in your eyes. Perhaps there was something going on between these two…
“What are you whispering about? It seems fun,“ Tayrn’s voice rises, an underline of confidence about it and a smirk on her lips.
Her gaze crosses yours and you smile too, a bit delirious. Neve and Tihala look at each other, it seems the latter bats pleading eyes for her friend not to reveal too much. It is fruitless, Neve had always been one for a little gossip, and even more if it was harmless to divulge it.
“Tihala was just telling me how her first kiss had been Leigh,“ she says with a devilish smirk. She knows Tihala is such a good sport she won’t hold her too accountable for embarrassing her; it’s just a memory of her youth, after all.
“This brute of a guard?“ it seems the conversation roused Alwyn from her beauty sleep.
“We were only three hundred years old!“ the culprit tries to defend herself. In vain, for soon enough you all end up laughing hysterically and she cannot help but join too.
“Was he as insufferable as a child?“ you manage to ask through deep breaths to calm yourself down.
Tihala is now as red as the volcano on top of Mount Doom, and she shakes her head frantically as an answer. When she looks away to feign vexation, Neve drapes her arm around her shoulders to bring her into her chest, amused smile on her lips. The two of them jest, but Tayrn keeps sending you knowing looks to which you can only agree. Had it been only the two of them, the two elves would have kissed.
Alwyn speaks again through the dying laughing fit, lazy grin adorning her face and eyes still closed. You keep on braiding her hair meticulously with patterns of friendship.
“You are one to laugh Neve, I do remember your first kiss being Olweiin. The elf was so stressed he threw up all his liquor right after.“
Another fit of laughter rings against the walls of the room; it is possible you can be heard laughing all the way to the men’s quarters. You have to pause and catch your breath multiple times, given how hilarious the information is to you. The corners of your eyes wrinkle with joy, the alcohol spins in your head and makes everything more merry than it should be. It is good to be here, with this fuzzy warmth that spreads from your chest to your belly.
Neve’s pale carnation has turned a deep shade of dusty red and she averts her gaze from the four of you as best as she can, arms crossed against her chest like it’s a shield against embarrassment.
“My first kiss was a girl, but I don’t remember her much, we were only younglings and she went for the Grey Havens when orcs multiplied across the country,“ Alwyn continues.
It serves to tame the giggling.
“Mine was Gwingon, and we are still partners to this day, so I don’t have a lot of fun stories to share, I’m afraid,“ now it’s Tayrn’s turn to share her experience.
Neve rolls her eyes playfully at the mention of the elf —everybody knows she does not like him much. “A late bloomer you are,“ she teases.
“Not really, we have been together for centuries now.“
The information lands easily about the room and a quiet settles. It’s comfortable at first, while you still busy yourself with your friend’s hair, but then you soon feel it is becoming overwhelming. Someone coughs from the back of her throat, another stifles a giggle, one whistles to fill the quiet. It all makes it worse. The impromptu noises emphasise the silence and the gaps in the atmosphere. The wind outside hitting against the window is more chilling than it should be in the warmth of the interior.
In the back of your neck, your skin starts to prickle and burn as if little needles pointed at it. You feel your stomach twitch and twist at the feeling, it tries to warn you of something you are still unaware of. Gingerly, you lift your gaze from the head of hair they are fixed upon, only to be met by four pair of eyes staring at you. The smile on the lips of your friends tells you nothing you like.
The four girls watch you attentively, sending knowing glances to each other as you feel yourself grow red. Oh. They are waiting for you to add your share to the stories. The pressing looks try to coax you into talking, but the amused grins they share say they have already made up their minds on your love life. They think you won’t talk because you try to keep it a secret, yet it is evident to them.
“It’s alright, you don’t have to talk,“ Neve says. “We can guess who was your first kiss.“
You frown. How can you tell them they would be wrong no matter the name they utter as their guess? How can you confess you’ve never had your first kiss? It had never crossed your mind, but now you feel the weight of the fact settles unwelcome in your stomach. Everyone had their first kiss but you. Boy or girl, there was someone they could reminisce on in candid moments like this; you had no one. No first kiss to share, no first love, no name to blush about but cast as irrelevant because it had been years. And it had never been a problem to you before. You had never thought about it in this light: that maybe there was a problem with you. After all, who doesn’t know what a kiss feels like after thousands of years on earth? Nobody. You were the only one, the anomaly. A black sheep unworthy of it.
An elf’s judgment is usually never so harsh and fast, but you cannot help yourself. The composure of your kin frays at the edges under the influence of elvish wine, your mind swims like it hides a tempest as your thoughts rush. You cannot tell them the truth, it would be too embarrassing. Made wary of their judgment by alcohol, you try to think about a safe name to put in your lie. None comes to your mind. If you say someone they know, they will ask questions and probably tease him about it and the truth will be revealed; if you say a name they do not know, they will also ask questions and your drunken mind will lose itself in confusion trying to make up a story.
Tihala’s soft voice cuts your train of thoughts. She speaks with her usual softness, as if she tries to reassure you of your predicament but only achieve to bury you further in it.
“Don’t listen to her. I would be careful too if the prince was my first kiss.“
The prince.
Legolas.
They think Legolas was your first kiss. The thought claws like a beast at your guts and weights against your ribs life fire catching. You look around you to perhaps find that you heard it wrong, but it’s not the case: your friends nod.
You try to push the image away, but it proves to be futile. You don’t have to close your eyes for your mind to impose upon you images of your best friend, of all the situations in which he could have kissed you but chose not to. During your endless walks in the forest, or when he helped you study for the guard’s contest for hours without end in your room. You had known each other all your life, so much that he was an inherent part of it. You couldn’t remember a time without the prince by your side, when his smiles didn’t make you dizzy and dumb. For as far as your memory went, he had been here.
He was your best friend, he had always been, why were you suddenly wondering about how warm could his lips be, or which shade of pink could they turn into once bitten? You shake your head and blame it upon the alcohol, though your heart beats something different. Saying you had never imagined the prince kissing you would be a lie, but it was years ago; you had grown past it.
“Legolas was not… He is not…“ you trip upon your own words; pathetic. “We never kissed.“
Suddenly, the girls look at you like you are either the best or worse liar they have ever met. But upon seeing the distressed look in your eyes, Alwyn is the first to realise you’re far from lying.
“But are you two not courting? He follows you everywhere,“ she says.
“I wouldn’t have guessed the prince was such a prude. He seems like the opposite, being this handsome,“ Neve adds with the delicacy she always has —which is none.
“If a boy was giving me the eyes he gives you, I would assume he is far too smitten for plain courting!“ Tihala reckons, and the opinions of the girls do not stop flowing until Tayrn saves you. She had always been the most sensible of you all.
“It does not matter. They are only best friends, that is great too.“
“Who was your first kiss then?“
Neve’s question turns the subject away from Legolas, but not from the idea of kissing. You cannot grow redder than you already are, but if you could you would. Not having kissed anybody is not a shame… is it? Patience and soul-consuming love was not frowned upon in your culture, on the contrary, it was expected. Younger elves had their experiences, but was it so bad if you pretended you were only waiting for the right one? Waiting for the right one when you were almost two thousand years old… what an obvious lie.
“I never had my first kiss…“ you manage to murmur, so low that your friends have to stop their giggling and moving to catch what you are saying.
The answer hangs in the air for some time. Did Legolas have his first kiss? You imagine he had; Neve was right, he was handsome, and lots of girls had been hovering around him when you were still teenagers. Somehow, you do not recall him courting any of them. Some would say he had eyes for only you, you would simply say his duties as a prince took most of his time and he had no mind to pay to a partner.
The same awkward quiet as before drags on, punctuated by the disbelieved blinking of your friends. Even Alwyn has opened her eyes from her spot in your laps. Perhaps they heard wrong, is what they all try to convince themselves with before Neve blesses you with her ever-so-gentle remarks.
“You never kissed? But your two thousandth birthday is in a week?!“
You try not to crack up a nervous laugh at her indignation. As if a kiss before being two thousand was a rite of passage. It is not… is it? The way in which Neve reacts sure is funny at first, but it quickly puts you in a far more embarrassing place. So you were weird.
Neve was not one to hold her tongue, everyone knew it, but she was not one to lie either. She was genuinely surprised by your lack of experience. You twist the fact in your mind, try to find something that would make it make sense. There must be a reason for you never kissing anybody, right? Your own reserve, an unaware purity of your mind, a lack of interest for love. Nothing sounds right, nothing feels right. You thought it was common occurrence for people not to have any experience in the field of love at your age, you were still young, but it seemed tonight you had been mistaken and were the only oddity in these Halls.
Tayrn notices you’ve turned silent, and you have that far away veil in your eyes that dulls them, the one cast upon you when you are deep in thoughts or overthinking. Clearly, you’re overthinking this; and Neve doesn’t help.
“Neve, I don’t think kissing Olweiin drunk counts as a first kiss, you should not swagger so much,“ she gently scolds to try and help you out of the situation.
Oddly enough, it is not Tayrn who gets you out of it but Tihala. While the two girls bicker over Neve’s own kissing experience, the blonde lets herself fall on her back on the bed after having drowned her umpteenth glass of the night. Her lithe frame bounces on the mattress once; it’s enough to cut the small argument.
“How do you think the prince kisses?“ she asks, twirling a lock of hair around her finger dreamingly.
The smile that adorns her face while thinking of Legolas clearly does not please Neve, who wrinkles in a dubious frown.
“What do you mean?“
“Do you think him a good kisser?“
“I think he kisses like a prince… It would be a royal kiss, probably; perfect like every princely thing he undertakes,“ Alwyn replies before her grumpy friend can send a snarky remark. Her eyes are closed again, you can see her orbs move under the translucent skin of her lids.
She is right, you know Legolas best and if you reflect upon it —not that it takes much reflection because you had already pictured the event in your head countless times you are too unwilling to confess to, you think his kiss would in fact be the one of a prince. You imagine Legolas kisses like the embodiment of elven nature: calm, reverent, composed, and sure of himself. He would kiss like he knows his way around you already, like he had your every trigger figured in a glance. It would be slow, consuming, and oh-so warm. But you know something some don’t: that Legolas can also be proud and hungry. Hungry for battle, hungry for victory, hungry for recognition.
You think Legolas can bite too. He can teeth at what he wants and grab flesh until it bruises yet still be asked for more. The prince can be hurried, teasing, but you wonder if he can snap.
Your eyes fly open to stop the thought from going further. Above you, the roof is still the same and you are still lying down on the same bed, in the same night. It was just a joke. You had all drank too much, the girls had probably already forgotten about all this. But not you. Obviously not you, since it kept you awake at night and tossing in your bed. You kick the sheets off of your body, as if the cold air of your room could do anything against intrusive thoughts, and set on closing your eyes again.
You were not going to let a matter so trifle as kissing ruin your second millennium’s birthday. Especially since it was already partially ruined by the fact that Legolas couldn’t be here. Princely duties had called him West some weeks ago, and he was not to return until maybe another week or so. You definitely were not going to have your first kiss that day.
Feasts like this one are not often thrown in the Elvenking’s Halls, but Thranduil likes you especially and it is not everyday you turn two thousand. Earning the good graces of the king is something very few have the privilege of, you owe it to your everlasting friendship with his son. Had he not known you since your tender infancy and had Legolas not always preached in your favour, perhaps the king would have kept his aloof attitude with you. Except he has not, and feels exceptionally tender towards you today. Thranduil still remembers the day Legolas turned two thousand, and how the boy had been glad you were here to share his joy and hang at his arm all night. Today Legolas is not here, and despite your best efforts, your disappointment shows on your face.
Now that everyone had greeted you and wished you many more happy and healthy years to live, they had all turned to their own party. The centre of the feast was now left to the side like scarps at the market. Your friends were already caught up in a fit of laughter with other guards from the realm, but you had no mind for wine or jokes. The buzzing of voices around you felt dull, meaningless; the lights decorating the Hall without warmth; and the excellent food tasteless. Everyone was gathered for you and still you found the way to be sorrowful. Growing a year older didn’t mean much for elves, but millennia were a landmark. It felt like the world was closing around you, like despite your longevity time was running short. Had you passed the quarter of your life? or maybe half this mark? Were the fields beyond the sea going to call you soon?
Doubtful, but still enough to lurk in the back of your head. You never brooded with Legolas, you wished he could have been there to cheer you up. His sole presence was relief enough, sometimes you did not need more than sitting beside him in the quiet to feel better. His calm could spread onto you like magic, his beating heart show yours what rhythm was best when he made you feel his pulse on the inside of his wrist. But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride; as far as you know, it is not the case yet.
An unmistakable presence steps beside you while you observe the Halls. The king’s stature is like no other, you don’t even have to look at him to know he is here and he is royal. You shift your gaze towards him and nod in reverence, though he does not look at you. Thranduil reads the room with a watchful eye, until it lands on you to take you in. He smiles something amused to himself knowingly; you mistake it for his regal aura glowing further. Though it is a dimmed glow the wood-king carries, it holds the strengths of his power and the iron nerves he rules with. Thranduil does not bend, he never has.
“I see my son influences you even in your choices regarding fashion,“ he notes with the hint of a smirk. Legolas does something quite similar when he means to tease you. Over the years, you have found many resemblance between father and son.
“He cannot influence me if he is not here, your liege.“
“You’re a bright girl, you will find he can.”
Once again, the king is right as you look down at your gown. The dress is not as extravagant as you imagine Thranduil would have given his wife back when she was still here, and it emphasises the differences between the king and his son. If the ellon has pointed it out to you, it’s because it is Legolas’s favourite. He knows it because a father cannot not notice the fondness of his son for something so simple as a garment when he gives you eyes that say he could marry you each time you wear it. Frankly, everyone has noticed. Everyone but you.
Legolas could defend himself by saying it is the blue velvet of the gown that pleases him, or the silver patterns embroidered along the collar and sleeves which were particularly fine and delicate, but everyone would have known it was a lie. You could have worn a hessian dress and it would have been the same to him. Deep down, in a part of him that was not so hidden as it was in you, he knew perfectly well he liked the dress to a reasonable amount at first, and then worshiped it like it was the most precious of fabrics in all Arda as soon as you wore it. He liked the dress, but he liked you best, so when the two were reunited his instincts screamed only to follow you around, to make you laugh, to admire you, and to comply to everything you would have him do.
You did not know it, but you had the prince wrapped so tight around your little finger he could have been the laughing stock of the guard had he not been their superior.
“How do you like your evening?“ Thranduil asked, though he did not seem genuinely curious but rather inclined to receive praises.
The king was of such a nature: he liked having his skills praised in laudatory encomiums. He liked it even more when his generosity was bestowed upon a grateful subject such as you were; his son was not an imbecile, he would not have chosen a foolish girl.
You bow your gratitude once; custom of the elven court. “I am eternally grateful.“
The king dismisses it with a wave of the hand like it’s nothing. “No need child. It is a mere gathering, nothing extravagant.“
You hold back a chuckle at his assertion. It is an obvious lie in front of the opulence of the Halls, but you overlook it to please him. There is nothing cheap in the mouldings of the ceiling and stones, in the lavishness of the buffet, or the overall decorum of the room: every guest is wearing their best attire. Such a high assembly of elves would have blinded the human eye, for the glow it radiated of was mystical, almost divine. Were they not used to the legends of the early days of their world, which were full of elves of the fairest kind, they would have mistaken it for halos, for holiness. The atmosphere is easy, coated by songs made slick by the wine. It is said that elves know how to sing and write melodies by their first year.
When the king pivots to face you, his eyes do not land on your features but behind you, past your shoulder. Whatever he sees there manages to pull the corner of his lips upward, and he smoothly takes his leave from you. You stand staring at his back that draws away in the crowd like his sole aura splits it in half to let him pass, thinking the king had been of good company.
You are about to further despair in the loss of good society when a hand falls on your shoulder, assured like it belongs here. You turn you head towards it, expecting to find Tayrn or Alwyn, but the moment your gaze lands on the person standing beside you, you have to do a double-take to make sure you’re not dreaming. It’s golden hair that catches your eye first, then the pale complexion of skin and a chiseled jaw. You spin so fast it makes your head reel and you almost trip on your own feet, which makes the boy in front of you huff a laugh. You’re afraid he’d vanish with a single wrong beat of your heart.
“Legolas!“
Here he is in all his glory, with that smile you suspect he reserves you and eyes that shimmer like you bewitch him. Because you do. Legolas takes you in and a spell is cast on him; a spell you are the sole cause and cure of. It’s been weeks he has not seen you and now you show up in that dress he would get on his knees for. The prince would kiss and worship the ground you walk on only to feel the velvet of it between his fingers. It suits you like a dream awakened, like a curse. It’s like there’s too much of you he would like to ingrain in his mind but too little time to do so, and already you smile at him and it tears his attention away from the gown. Have you ever been so beautiful?
There’s a pinkish hue on your cheeks, testimony of the shock you feel seeing him here, and your eyes are wide open. You want to reach out for him, to fall in his arm because this might be the greatest surprise of the evening, to laugh uncontrollably because you do not feel down anymore. Of course, you do none of it; propriety forbids it. If you want to act friendlier with the prince, you will have to wait for you to be alone.
“I thought you were not to return before weeks!“ you exclaim, the force of your smile hurting your cheeks.
Legolas smirks something soft, yet teasing. “I could not miss the most important day of the millennium, could I?“
“I thought you would. Royals duties matter more than a silly birthday of mine.“
“I care not for royal duties,“ when it comes to you, he holds back from saying. “You know it.“
You nod once, knowing it would be no use arguing with Legolas once he is set on something. He seems set on the fact that your birthday —that you, are of the utmost importance.
“Would you like to escape for a bit?“ the prince suggests.
There’s instant relief in your eyes and it makes him chuckle.
“Please.“
It’s like the wind carries you away, and in an instant you are far from the noise of the party and disappearing deep in the dimly lit corridors. The music reaches your ears muffled, the sole of your shoes on the floor echos gently against the stone walls and you glide your fingertips along the surface of one; it’s cold to the touch and serves to ground you. Following you, you can hear the faint swooshing of your dress sliding on the ground. Legolas guides you through the maze that is his home, his hand has slipped to yours in the process. It’s bigger than your own, his palm covers yours easily and his thumb rests soundly on the back of your hand, radiating a warmth that seems to spread right to your belly. It makes you giddy, sends you heart beat in your temples. Or maybe it’s his scent that does; it wraps around the two of you like the evening’s dew, fresh yet obviously warm with pine-trees and musk.
The prince lets go of your hand to sneak in the cellar a moment, then comes back with a bottle of wine you should not have hold of. But he is the prince, what can his father do if he discovers his son has stolen a single bottle to share with the star of the evening? Probably not much besides scolding him.
He does not take your hand again and there’s a coldness that remains with the loss. In minutes, you’re slipping inside his room like a secret and already taking your usual seat on the floor of his balcony. This kind of thing is not unusual for you, but this time it feels different. Because he sits down next to you and offers you the first sip of the stolen liquor; because he came back for you; because you snuck away from a party like teenagers. But most likely because his intense blue eyes stare when your lips glisten with the red robe of the wine, and you catch none of it though it hangs in the atmosphere because you are too deep in your mirth to pay such close attention to details.
Every ounce of sadness you had once felt is gone, now you only laugh and talk without meaning for it to end while the prince listens diligently. The wall dents uncomfortably in your back, you shift to relieve the dull discomfort and it takes you closer to him. As the night unfolds, wine flows and soon clouds your judgment. Everything seems more easy, less important. Your laughter rings sharper, his eyes half-lid and his smile softens. Above you, a starry sky is lit but Legolas pays no mind to it, you shine brighter in his eyes.
It takes not half the bottle for both of you to feel a little too warmth; as if the air has closed in on you under a hot afternoon sun in the summertime. Legolas’s shirt ends up unbuttoned down his neck, the strap of your dress slips down your shoulder carelessly; you both notice it but say nothing. Legolas’s gaze drifts down the length of your shoulder, yours takes the slope of his neck while you continue to tell a story you have probably told twice at this rate.
One way or another, the wall feels too hard against your back, and your sense of manners is not so distinguished anymore as to prevent you from choosing the comfortable shoulder of your best friend as a better rest place. Your head falls on it softly as you pass him back the bottle, and his fingers that carelessly brush yours make your heart jolt. Sure, alcohol sets a daze upon you, but those unnecessary touches were definitely intended.
Slowly, the conversation hushes until it dies in the back of a throat; yours or his, none of you can say. The silence washes over you, comfortable, different. Legolas feels warm under you, your knees brush, the tip of his ears is red. The bottle is set aside, almost finished, and you find that dwelling here is the best birthday party you could have asked for. Everything is so easy around the prince, like the world favours him so it refuses to put any hardship on his path. You know it is false, but it feels like it. And you feel favoured too to be the one sharing moments like this with him.
But then, breaking the magic like a curse, something that had settled in the back of your mind crawls back upfront. You’re two thousand, the night will soon end, and you still have not had your first kiss.
You feel your stomach lurch at the thought. Helped by the wine, it’s like you will have wasted your life if you do not kiss someone by morning-come. Your heart starts to spiral out of control, you feel like you are doomed to an eternity without love, but then the breeze rises and brings back to you that specific scent. Him. Pinewood and musk, lilies of the valley and clean sheets, crisp smell of water in the shade on an afternoon in the spring.
If he kissed you, how would it feel? How does he kiss? Is it reverent, is it hurried, is it shy? Is he a fast learner?
“Legolas?“ you ask. He hums and glances at you.
You straighten from his shoulder, where the subtle weight of you still lingers in the wrinkles of his clothes.
“Do you know humans have a custom where they offer gifts during birthdays?“ Legolas hums again in reply. “Have you ever kissed someone?“
Now the correlation between the two sentences is null. The prince frowns, a small wrinkle between his brows. He turns to look at you fully, takes his time to analyse the blush on your cheeks, the pout on your lips and how crimson they look after all this wine. His own mind swims a little, with you and with the alcohol.
“Yes, I have,“ he replies, voice low because he does not feel like bringing it to an upper tone.
Of course he has. You bet she was as pretty as him and kissing like a goddess. You bet he thinks about her sometimes.
“Would you be my first kiss?“
Astonished silence.
It wasn’t supposed to come out that way. You had prepared it in your mind, it was supposed to be more subtle, maybe even alluring. Now he knows you never kissed someone and you look desperate. Heat rushes in the back of your neck, your skin prickles and you want to slap yourself. Stupid elf. Stupid self-control that doesn’t work with him. Stupid handsome prince.
Legolas looks at you with eyes wide open, it’s like the blue in them means to swallow you whole. His lips part, they close again as he thinks, a hundred thoughts a second crossing his mind. You’re here, dashing in that dress, flushed and growing shy, and you ask him to kiss you. The only problem is you’re drunk. He is too, but much less than you are. Legolas still has some sense, which you seem to have lost altogether. Damn all propriety, he would smash his lips to yours right this moment and show you how good he can be for you if only you were sober. If only it would not ruin your friendship. You do not know what you’re asking, he thinks you will regret it by dawn.
It takes a few seconds for you to start panicking when he doesn’t answer. Clearly, the dumbfounded look on his face says it all, and you’re afraid soon enough it will turn into disgust. You can already picture him excusing himself to leave, and then avoiding your path until you’re eventually nothing more than strangers to each other. Strangers with an old, crooked from of affection, but strangers nonetheless. So you take the matter into your own hands and raise to your feet first.
The motion makes your head spin and your legs wobble dangerously; Legolas reaches a hand to your waist in case you would fall.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what has taken me, it’s just- it’s the wine… Forget about it,“ the words come out in a confused blurb, but if Legolas understands something as clear as day, it’s your next sentence. “I’ll just ask someone else, I’m sorry.“
I’ll just ask someone else.
His blood loops in his veins, the words rush in his mind like they are the only ones he knows, and it’s only his body reacting by instinct when he shoots a hand to wrap around your wrist the second you move away. You turn to him, gaze lowering to where your bodies connect, and he tugs gently at your arm to invite you down to his level again. Wind blows around you, dried leaves on the balcony’s ground from the canopy above swirl at your feet.
“I’ll be your first kiss,“ he says. “You should not kiss someone you do not know.“
You should not kiss someone who’s not me.
You follow his tugs and sit back on your knees in front of him, heart hammering in your chest. You grow even redder if possible, and you feel your heart everywhere in your body, like it has swelled to take up all the space and never give you a second of break.
But as soon as you lock eyes with the prince, his blue gaze sucks you in like a tunnel, and it’s like the world around vanishes in pitch black so you only see him. You bite your lips frantically, look at every inch of his face because you do not know where to set your eyes, and he reaches a hand to your cheek to pull your lips from between your teeth with his thumb. The movement freezes you, you try to calm yourself, in vain. Your fists bunch the fabric of your dress in your laps.
This is happening. This is actually happening to you. There’s a fire in your stomach that builds with anticipation.
“How- what should I do? How is it supposed to go? Do I close my eyes?“ you ask a ton of questions to ease your stress, but it does the opposite and Legolas holds back a chuckle. You see it in the way his cheeks hollow when he bites them and his smile widens.
“Don’t think about it too much. Just let me take care of it,“ he charms.
He is already taking care of it. You see him lean in slowly, until you can feel his breath crash over your lips, and he scrutinises you attentively as he does so in case you wish to back down. Next to his ear, there is a wild strand of hair that sticks out from his flawless look. It makes him look the tiniest bit disheveled; you tuck it back in place to give yourself courage. Your fingers linger on the shell of his ear, it makes Legolas hold back a shiver.
Next thing you know, there is two different kind of warmth upon you: his hands that cover your own in your laps, and his lips delicately pressed to yours. The former grounds you, the latter drive you insane in the softest of ways. It’s like there’s fireworks in your belly, or dozens of butterflies emerging from their cocoon. You see him close his eyes in the kiss so you mimic it and plunge yourself in darkness too. You can feel his eyelashes brush your cheeks, his hair tingle in your neck.
It’s the softest thing you’ve ever felt, like you’re in another dimension. Part of you thinks that’s what a kiss feels like, the other knows it’s what a kiss with Legolas feels like. He doesn’t move and neither do you, you just stay pressed to each other like that for a while, both trying to calm the twisting of your guts.
Legolas is the first to part. He does it gently, slowly moving back though his lips still graze yours so you know it’s ending. You keep your eyes closed all the way until his warmth properly leaves, and then you allow yourself to open your eyes. When you do, he is the first thing you see, and it doesn’t help you stay composed. His cheeks are dusted with pink, his lips pout with the remnant of the kiss —even if it was more of a lingering peck. It’s like his pupil tries to swallow the iris, and the small edge of his eye that is still blue has turned a significantly darker colour.
Blessed with elven hearing, you can hear the way his breathing frays just like yours, or the loud thumping of his heart. Such a loud noise could even be spotted by dwarves, you think. In front of you, Legolas observes you like a relic, searches for any frown on your face, a single trace of regret, of disgust. None comes, you feel all but disgusted. In fact, it’s the opposite. You feel delirious with joy, with the feeling of him and the need to have it again like a drug, like a praise of the Dark Lord.
“Can you do it again?“ you murmur before you can double-think what you’re asking.
But you don’t have time to take it back or apologise, already Legolas is leaning back your way and sliding a hand to your cheek to keep you in place. He hovers over your lips and stares at them so blatantly it’s almost amusing how much he yearns for it. Legolas covets so visibly it makes you less timid about your own bluntness.
“I’ll give you a proper kiss, this time,“ he breathes against you.
You don’t know what is a ‘proper kiss‘ before he captures your mouth and the gentle force of it makes you part your lips just a little. Your jaw relaxes of its own will, your hand reaches for his sleeve to hold on to and he tastes so clearly of berries and the sweet remnant of wine coating his tongue. It’s less hesitant now, more open-mouthed and eager to consume. You don’t even brood about what to do, the right gaps to turn your lips into just come naturally, without any effort. You think it cannot get better. Except it does when he wraps his arm around you to bring you closer and you stumble over him in the mess. It tears a chuckles out of you in the kiss, which gives the prince liberty enough to hook your lower lip in between his teeth.
When you part, he is leaned back with his hand supporting behind him, and your own hand supports your weight with a grip on his leg, while you hold on to his shoulder with the other. It’s a glorious disarray of limbs and of laughters as you chuckle when you chase back for his lips, earning yourself a dodge from the elf-prince who buries his nose in your hair.
“Don’t be greedy,“ he lightly scolds, callused fingers grazing up and down your back in a tender motion.
You groan. “Can I not be greedy on my birthday?“
“I think it’s already midnight past that day.“
You smile at his stubbornness. You were right, Legolas could be as eager as he could make you beg. You were both a king’s jester for each other, sport to your hearts’ content.
“At least I had my first kiss before fully turning two thousand.“
“I would have given it to you sooner, had you told me,“ his voice rasps, while he presses his fingertips on your thigh to feel the velvet fabric of your dress. It’s like he maps it, creates a mental pattern of its cut to remember it at night when he’ll bury his face in his pillow, plagued by images of you.
“It was uh… a recent concern of mine.“
Your eyes avert when he straightens up and tries to catch them, and it’s like he reads your mind.
“I believe I have some girls to thank for this…“ Legolas teases and your roll your eyes, pushing yourself further into his chest.
“Focus on me first,“ you plead, fingers grazing his jaw to hold it delicately.
The touch rewires him, the tone of your voice makes him lose his mind way more than he ought to. There’s a grasp on him you don’t know, yet have in your bare hands.
“Anything you want…“
All the gods of righteousness in this world can be damned when he dips into your neck and there’s a fever that follows his lips on the skin there.
✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist✦
✦summary: soldier boy never liked soft things, until he met you. suddenly, there's nothing more important in the world✦
✦warnings/tags: Soldier Boy x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (he's a hundred), angst, switching pov between ben and reader, softer!ben, canon divergance, pining, plot to earn the smut (dirty talk, posessiveness, teasing, praise and degredation kink, size kink, dry humping, body worship, dom!Ben, nipple play, finger sucking, begging, manhandling, oral f!reciving, pussy spanking, overstimulation, clit abuse, creampie, monster dick ben, rough sex, this man is a sex god fr fr, edging, dumbification, dacryphilia, hyperspermia, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11k✦
✦author's note: request! i love that old man✦
Butcher said he knew a librarian, and Soldier Boy snorted.
“You think some moldy, four-eyed broad is going to help us fix this? Some gal who’s never gotten her hands dirty in her life?”
“I think we’re runnin’ outta options,” Butcher said, shooting Soldier Boy a look of challenge. “You got better ideas, I’m all ears. ‘Till then, we’re goin’ to see my girl.”
Soldier Boy had opened his mouth, ready to suggest many better ideas—he was full of them, a real strategic genius—when Hughie cleared his throat from his side. He had a hand up, like he was going to touch Soldier Boy’s shoulder, but thought better at the last second.
“She’s- You’ll like her, I think,” Hughie twitched, struggling to hold Soldier Boy’s gaze, but still trying. He’d never say it, but Soldier Boy admired the weed, twitchy kid’s tiny balls, for not giving up and running to the hills. Bravery wasn’t exactly in the cocksucker’s favor. “You’ll like her a lot more than us.”
That almost made Soldier Boy laugh. “That ain’t gonna be hard, kid.”
But screw him north, south, and to Tinseltown, the cocksucker was right.
They walked into the library, and the first thing Soldier Boy noticed was that it was warm and cool all at once. Like stepping into a building made of springtime. Sunlight poured in, but there was a soft hum in the background from the fans. The furniture was cozy, but everything was perfectly clean. Butcher called out a name, lazily bouncing on his feet, and an angelic voice called back.
“Be right there!”
Butcher smirked. Hughie shifted nervously, shooting Soldier Boy looks like he’d explode in this little fairy book house. He wouldn’t. Place wasn’t worth wasting his bomb on anyways.
Then you floated into view, and Soldier Boy felt the ground under his feet shift. You weren’t a molding, self-important, four-eyed bitch. If this was a fairy book house, you were a fairy. If you had the voice of an angel, it was because you were an angle, and the world twisted itself to give you everything you needed. The sunlight bended, hitting you like some scene from those romance movies he’d always refused to shoot. You floated more than walked. You smiled like you knew everything, and it didn’t even piss him off.
Soldier Boy hadn’t been a teenager in almost a hundred years, but suddenly he remembered. How it felt for his face to heat and his cock to twitch and his heart to race under his palms. He kicked himself silently, gritting his jaw and standing a little taller. He was a grown fucking man. An American icon. A hero. He wasn’t going to tip over his fucking feet like some kid, especially not for some pretty girl that probably looked down on him. On everyone. The smart ones always did.
They were also the most fun to get in bed. They got bratty, then stupid when he fucked them nice and slow. All the mocking and sass draining out of their pussy, onto Soldier Boy’s hands and cock. Sharp eyes go dazed and sneers fall into open, shocked lips.
You’ve got those sharp eyes, as you take their little group in. They’re like a hawk, picking them apart with a single look. A hawk in a doll’s body. A sexy, smart little doll.
But there’s no sneer. Even as you glare at Butcher, you’re more pouting than anything else. Solider Boy wonders if you’d pout while begging for him, or just get defiant and bitchy. He’d love to find out.
“You’re getting blood on the carpet,” you tell Butcher, and he shrugs.
“Ain’t you worried about where I’m leakin’ the blood from, love-“
“No.” You cross your arms, lifting you chin. “You’re going to clean it up.”
Butcher’s shoulders curve slightly. Like a scolded fucking child. “C’mon, I got other shit to be workin’ on-“
“Then you shouldn’t have dragged blood on my carpet.”
“But- I got work I needed ya for-“
“Hughie can tell me about it.” You offer Hughie a small smile, and he waves in return.
Soldier Boy stands a little taller. Maybe you just haven’t noticed him yet.
“Clean,” you snap at Butcher, turning on your heels and marching back between the shelves.
Butcher looks at Hughie and Soldier Boy, like they’re supposed to save him from this shit. Hughie gives him an apologetic smile, and follows you into the back. Soldier Boy grins, clapping Butcher on the shoulder before following.
“You didn’t tell me she was a firecracker-“
“She ain’t a firecracker,” Butcher muttered, rolling up his sleeves and glaring around the entryway for whatever people use to clean things. “She’s a fuckin’ problem.”
Soldier Boy smirked, looking back to where you disappeared. “Even fuckin’ better.”
Butcher snorted, giving Soldier Boy a strange, half-amused look. “Good luck with that one, Gov. Don’t blow the fuckin’ job.”
Soldier Boy flipped him off. He’d never blown the job over a woman before—not even an ethereal, enchanting one—and he’s not about to start now. He stood in the corner of your little office, while Hughie asked you questions about books and chemicals and other, smartass shit that Soldier Boy’s never bothered with. He always had people like you on payroll, to give him those answers when he needed them, but usually he didn’t. You punch anything hard enough, it breaks. And he was pretty fucking good at punching.
He said that, at one point. Hughie sighed like he was in physical pain—kid was fucking dramatic—and you just gave him a curious tilt of your head.
“You’re good at punching?”
“I’ m the fuckin’ best.” Soldier Boy pushed off the wall, crossing over to the desk. “Could show you sometimes. Teach you how to defend yourself.”
“Hm.”
You looked him up and down, and Soldier Boy found himself puffing out his chest and flexing his arms. He’d dealt with hard to get girls before. They always cave, when he chases long enough. When he gives them a bit of a show, and promises them it’ll be worth their time.
“What would I be defending myself against?” You asked, soft and sweet. Your voice was like honey. Soldier Boy wanted to get trapped in it, like a fly.
“There are evil people out there,” he drawled, leaning over the desk.
You didn’t lean away, but you blink, and Soldier Boy hears your heartbeat skip. Any reaction is a good one. Meant he was doing something to your body, and that was the first step in getting his foot through the door.
“But I’m here to protect you,” Soldier Boy winked, and stuck out a hand. That was his favorite line. It always fucking worked. “Soldier Boy, doll. Pleasure to meet you.”
Usually, that line made women of all ages and makes swoon. They’d bat their lashes and giggle if they were easy, roll their eyes and flush if they were hard, get starry-eyed if they were innocent, or twirl their hair of they were just as sinful as Soldier Boy himself. But you looked him up and down, and your heartbeat was at a steady baseline. You watched him like you were trying to read him. Like he had thoughts written over his face, and you were skimming through them. Through him.
“I know,” you said, taking his hand and shaking once. Your fingers weren’t trembling. Your smile was kind, but controlled. “Nice to meet you.”
Soldier Boy blinked, hand still hanging in the air as you turned back to your computer. He’d felt an unsteady heartbeat under his fingers, when you’d touched. But it wasn’t yours. It was his. He wasn’t fucking nervous. His mouth was oddly dry. He cleared his throat and stood back up, trying to strangle some fucking dignity into his body. He wasn’t about to fold in half like some fucking pussy. He just hadn’t gotten properly laid in too fucking long. You were pretty. That was fucking it.
You helped Butcher and Hughie with the job, tracking down books and flipping through them with nimble fingers. Soldier Boy imagined them wrapped around his cock, and forced himself not to rub himself through his pants. He wasn’t about to be that fucking pathetic, no matter how much it hurt. No matter how he couldn’t look away from you for a single second, in case you just turned into mist and turned out to be some kind of fucked up hallucination.
Soldier Boy watched you, as you read and spoke to Butcher. You were polite. Please and thank you and tiny fucking giggles that made his balls heavy. It would be fun to fuck all that out of you. All those sweet words pouring out of your lips, as you’d cry and sing for him.
Butcher seemed to respect you, which said something Soldier Boy wasn’t sure how to hear. Nothing and everything good. When Hughie told you what supes they were going after, you didn’t blink or crow uselessly about murder not being right. You’d just rolled up your sleeves and gotten to fucking work. Soldier Boy could appreciate that. No use in crying about shit that had to be done.
“How’d Butcher find someone like you,” Soldier Boy asked when it was just the two of you. You looked up with raised brows, he almost fucking balked.
Pretty fucking doe-eyes that ripped right through him. Fucking dangerous.
“Someone like me?” You echoed, and he grunted.
“You’re too fucking gorgeous to be tangled up in this shit-“
“Am I?” Your lips twitched. “I wish someone would’ve told me that. I would’ve kicked you out.”
Soldier Boy opened his mouth, his tongue dragging over his lips. You kept fucking smiling and talking, and he was asking you to smile and talk, but it did something drug-like to his brain and he didn’t fucking like it.
“You know, I used to watch your movies as a kid,” you said casually.
Soldier Boy smirked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He could fucking work with that. “Yeah? You a groupie?”
That got another, breathy little laugh from your lips. Christ, the sound was addicting. “Not quite. I’m not- That’s not really something I do.”
“Somethin’ you do? The fuck does that mean.”
You shrugged. “Hero worship.”
Soldier Boy frowned. The fuck were heroes for, if not to be worshipped. “You think you’re too good for that shit? For getting wet from seein’ someone you want on a screen?”
That got a flush. It’s the best fucking color he’d seen, on your face. He wanted to kiss over it, make it bloom down your neck and over your tits.
“I bet you were a dirty fuckin’ girl, weren’t you,” he leaned further forward, and dared to reach over the desk. To brush his fingers against your arm, and revel in the way you shivered from his touch. “Had posters of me in your room, didn’t you. Used to touch yourself, thinkin’ about me breaking through the fucking wall and taking you right there.”
You blinked at him, with those pretty fucking eyes. They were glossy, now. Another step. He was closer, to what he wanted, and it was the best damn feeling in the world.
“Well, I’m here to make dreams come true, doll,” he traced down your arm, and your breath caught. “Just tell me how you want it, I’ll fuck you ‘till you’re too cross-eyed to read this shit.”
He jerked his head to the books, and waited. This was the part where you told him to bend you over the desk, to pin you to the wall, to pull you into his lap and let you ride him until you passed out.
But instead, you fucking laughed. You pulled your arm back and giggled, shaking your head like he’d said something funny. Soldier Boy’s mouth fell open, and he felt like a fucking idiot. You flipped through your little book, ignoring his dumbfounded expression. He opened and closed his mouth like a damn fish, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
“My favorite was Ghosts of Hanai,” you told him, offering another one of those mind-numbing smiles. “Did you know it was a book first?”
Soldier Boy did not know that. He couldn’t remember how to speak, to tell you that.
“It’s a really good book. Obviously you’re not the main character- In the book- But I kind of liked the adaptation anyway. It wasn’t as- You know- Good. But it was more fun.”
“I’ll show you fun,” he muttered before he could stop himself, and you just giggled again.
If you did that shit one more time, he was going to have to go into the bathroom to beat himself off. Soldier Boy knew why Butcher called you a problem, now. You were perfect, and infuriating, and he should’ve wanted to put your head through a wall for fucking laughing at him, but he didn’t. He wanted to hear that songbird sound again. He wanted to fucking get under your skin, the way you’d seeped under his.
“Bye, Soldier Boy,” you waved to him like a sweet siren, when they were ready to go. He grunted, and waved back.
“You sure she ain’t some kind of supe,” he asked Butcher in the van, and Butcher snorted.
“I’ve wondered, but nah. Just a fuckin’ human.”
Butcher gave Hughie some kind of secret look that Soldier Boy didn’t concern himself with. He was too busy thinking about you. He’d have to go back to you see you. He’d make up a reason why. But he wasn’t used to not getting things he wanted, and he was worried he might want you so much his annoying fucking heart was going to give out about it. He couldn’t allow that.
You’d remember him. You’d laugh for him more. He’d figure out what made you like him, and he’d do it, and then this annoying buzz in his bloodstream could fuck off.
This annoying fucking feeling better fuck off.
It wouldn’t fuck off.
Soldier Boy found himself back at your library after a week. If anyone asked, he’d say he tried to stay away. It would be to preserve dignity. To pretend he hadn’t been hoping they’d need more stupid books so he could go back and see you.
You were clinging to the edge of his every thought. That laugh, that smile, the magnetic way you’d spoken and sat and been. Gentle but not weak. Kind but not stupid. A rare kind of thing to be, when you knew the dark kind of shit that grew in the corners of the world. Part of Soldier Boy prayed it was just an act. That he’d talk to you a little more, and you’d be no better than the rest of them. Then he could fuck you and forget after, like he’d done with almost every other person on his long, stained list of bodies.
But you were just fucking like that. And it was insufferable and enchanting and fucking amazing.
“Soldier Boy,” you said when he returned, blinking in surprise, and something else he couldn’t read. “You’re… back?”
He grunted. “Obviously.”
“Do you need help with another-“
“No.”
You frowned at him. Did that little head tilt, and Christ, what he wouldn’t give to just bury his fucking face in your neck and breathe you in.
“I just here to get a book,” he heard himself say, and Jesus, you were doing something to him. He didn’t give a fuck about books. He certainly didn’t want one.
But you were here. And Soldier Boy had a feeling you wouldn’t be open to him just being here to see you.
And you lit up, when he said he wanted a book. Great. Now he was going to have to fucking read, just to get some pussy.
“What book?”
“A- Big one.” That had to be impressive. “Biggest you’ve got, doll.”
He winked, looping his thumbs through his belt. You made that face again, brow raising slightly. “Big as in long, or complicated?”
Soldier Boy shrugged. “Both.”
“Fiction or Nonfiction?”
Why were there so many kinds of fucking books. “Whichever one you like better. I trust you won’t give me something shit.”
That made your lips twitch, and it hit Soldier Boy like a rush of coke. His head got lighter and the world got sharper, and you smiled at him, and that heartbeat was his again. He really was worse than a fucking teenager.
“Wait here,” you told him, and he did. Like a fucking dog.
You came back with a massive heap of a book. There couldn’t be that many words in the world, let alone enough sentances to make something that long. Anything worth saying shouldn’t take more than a fucking page.
“Infinite Jest.” You passed him the book, and he stared at you. “Long and complicated.”
Soldier Boy grunted, not bothering to spare the book a glance. You were what he was here for, and if you just fucking walked away, he felt like he might explode.
“You like this thing?” He almost barked, and you paused, already a half-step back.
“It’s okay,” you said slowly. Actually fucking thinking about your answer. “I like his essays better.”
“Essays?” Soldier Boy frowned. “You like his fuckin’ book reports?”
You gave him one of those coy, honeyed half-smiles again. He was worried he was going to fucking drool. “Creative essays. Like- Book reports about your life.”
Soldier Boy nodded, glancing down to the book, then back to you. He didn’t want to read this shit. Book reports had, as far as he remembered, always been short. And he wanted to see what kind of shit you liked to read. What you considered good. “I want one of those. Instead of this.”
He’d meant it to be an order, but it came out without the usual edge he put in his tone. That edge was his best weapon. It had won him countless battles before they even fucking started.
But you just gave him that fucking look. The one where he felt flimsy and stupid and weak, his body all excited from your attention and his fingers itching to dig into your soft looking skin. You smiled, and he swallowed, drawing himself a little taller. He wouldn’t just fall into you. He refused to be that fucking weak.
“Read that first,” you told him. “Then we’ll talk about the essays.”
You turned and walked away. Soldier Boy let you go, because if he touched you, he was worried he was going to turn into more of a weak fucking lapdog than he already was. He wished he could read you—read that smile, those looks, the lacey tone you took with him and seemingly no one else—as well as you seemed to be able to peel him right apart. He looked back at the book, roughly flipping it to the first page. He tried to read the first sentence, but the words floated off the fucking page and didn’t even brush through his brain. He couldn’t read this shit.
Then we’ll talk, you’d said.
You’d talk to him, if he read this.
Christ on a Cross. He was going to try and read a book.
It took him a month. A month of staring at words in the dead of night, when he couldn’t sleep and no one was around to see. If Butcher caught him trying this shit, he’d never hear the end of it. Hell, he wasn’t hearing the end of it now, and no one even knew he was reading.
“Where you goin’, Gov?” Butcher barked as Soldier Boy moved to the door, and he scowled at the air.
“None of your fucking business.”
Then Butcher said your name, smiling knowingly, and Soldier Boy wanted to punch his teeth in. “You’re goin’ to see her again, ain’t you-“
“Said it was none of your fucking business,” Soldier Boy spat, raising a firm finger. “Not another word, or I punch your teeth into your asshole, you got that?”
Butcher just laughed to himself, and Soldier Boy ground his teeth. It wasn’t anything like your laugh, but then again, nothing was.
“Hi, Soldier Boy,” you greeted him without looking now. He wanted to think that meant something. That you were getting as obsessed with his presence as he was with yours. “Did the dictionary help?”
“Mhm,” he glanced at the sitting area, where a few old folks—younger than him, but wrinkled in a way he’d never be—were poking through the newspapers and chatting. There were some kids in the book section. Few teens giggling, somewhere deeper between the shelves.
No one paying him any mind. No one to look at him and wonder what the fuck Soldier Boy was doing in a library, why he’d needed a dictionary, like he was some dumbass who couldn’t speak or read or-
“I needed a dictionary,” you said, and Soldier Boy blinked. You were looking at him. Right at him. He felt it, in his heartbeat, and he never wanted it to fucking stop.
“What,” he said, stupid and drunk, and you smiled.
“I needed a dictionary. To get through Infinite Jest. The first time,” you amended, your eyes getting strangely softer the longer you watched him. “But- I still needed it.”
Soldier Boy’s hands curled into fists. “You read it multiple times?” This one time was feeling like it was going to fucking kill him.
“I read most things multiple times.”
He snorted. “Jesus.”
That made you blink. A faint flush creeped onto your face, and you looked back to your computer. Soldier Boy froze. Your heart was doing a little fucking stumble.
Interesting.
“You’re real fuckin’ smart, huh?” He tried, just to see what would happen.
Your heart did the little stumble again.
Jackpot.
“Maybe,” you mumbled, glaring at your screen. “I just- Like books.”
Soldier Boy snorted. “Yeah. Think I figured that one out myself.”
You hummed, not meeting his gaze anymore. You were getting quiet. He didn’t like it. Not like this. You’d be allowed to get quiet and shy when he was balls deep inside of you. Right now, he wanted to hear that pretty fucking voice, teasing and sassing and helping him, all at once.
“What kind of books do you like,” he asked, and it sounded lame to his own ears.
But you looked at him. And screw him up the ass and sideways, it was fucking worth it.
“What kind of books do I like?”
“That’s what I fucking said, isn’t it?”
You stared at him. He stared back, because there was one thing he wasn’t going to let himself do, and it was back off of this.
“Why?”
And Soldier Boy leaned back. Because you said it like that was a real question. Like he wouldn’t, obviously, naturally, want to know every fucking thing about you. Women liked it when someone listened, he’d learned over the years. He’d listen to whatever the fuck you wanted to say, if it got you closer to being in his arms.
“Because,” he said, and your lips tugged down into that pretty pout.
“Because why?”
“Can’t I just fuckin’ want know?” He snapped, and you leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms.
“No one ever just wants to know.”
Soldier Boy rolled his eyes. “Well, you’re looking at someone, doll. So get that through your pretty head.”
You blinked. Flushed. Wrapped your arms around yourself, like you were trying to stop that loud heartbeat from jumping right out of your chest.
“I like everything,” you said stiffly, and Soldier Boy smirked.
“Everything, huh.”
You shrugged, and he leaned over the desk. Your breath hitched, and he knew his features were turning wolfish, but he didn’t fucking care. You seemed into it anyways.
“Everything,” he breathed, and your lips pressed in a nervous little line. “Show me what everything is, then.”
And I’ll show you everything, gorgeous. He thought about saying it. Thought about how you’d melt and get nervous and he’d have his in.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t figure out why—what the fuck was wrong with him, what the fuck you were doing—but the words got caught, and he didn’t say them. He had you where he wanted you anyway, he rationalized. Talking to him. Smiling at him. Breaking you right now would be too fucking easy.
Since when had he not wanted easy.
Maybe since you pulled him through the bookshelves with light, delicate fingers on his wrist. Like you were afraid of breaking him. Since you talked and talked and talked, and he realized how fucked he was.
He wasn’t listening to you talk to fuck you. He just wanted to hear you talk, about books and ships and history and romance and any other fucking thing you wanted. He went home with a book he hadn’t gone there for, because you said it would help him keep trudging through Infinite Jest, and it did. He finished it that week, and marched back into your library with a prideful grin, slamming the monster of a book down on your desk.
“Done,” he declared, and you smiled at him like you were fucking happy, and it did something to his chest he didn’t want to name. Something fucking gooey and light. Something dangerous and strange.
“Did you like it?” You asked him, like it fucking mattered.
Soldier Boy nodded, and you beamed.
“I have something for you, next.”
Of course you fucking did. You were just perfect like that. And the next thing was a damn picture book, but when he glared at you, you just giggled and pushed it further into his hands.
“Trust me,” you said, and fuck him, he did.
He took the damn book, because you were the one handing it to him, and he’d read it, because that smile was the best thing he’d ever damn seen.
“Bye, Soldier Boy,” you said when he walked away, and he paused.
Soldier Boy. The character, in the movie you hadn’t liked as much as the book. “Ben.”
You blinked, and he sighed.
“My name is Ben.”
“Oh- Okay,” you flushed, and there it was again. That little skip in your heart. “My name is-“
“I know your name, doll,” he drawled, and you bowed your head. Shy and adorable and he was so fucked.
“Right. I- I knew that.”
He chuckled, grinning down at you, and that hawk sharpness in your eyes was gone. You looked like a fucking bunny, and screw him, he wanted to bend you over right there. He brushed his fingers with yours, and you made the tiniest fucking sound.
“Bye, pretty girl,” he said, and you mumbled another bye of your own.
Soldier Boy took a deep breath through his nose, and smelled it. Heady and thick and purely fucking you.
You were turned on. It made his own cock twitch in response, throbbing and begging him to coat itself in that sweet slick between your legs. To feel the way it would stick and slide against him, to cover himself in you and make you his and-
He took a deep breath. He’d be back tomorrow. He’d keep testing it, until you snapped. You made him chase, he’d keep fucking chasing. He didn’t want to just take you anymore. He wanted to make you admit it. That you wanted him as much as he wanted you.
He was worried that wasn’t fucking possible. That no one had ever wanted anyone, as much as he wanted you.
Feelings were so fucking annoying. He still refused to name them. You’d do that for him, with all your smart words and pretty eyes.
Soldier Boy looked over his shoulder before he walked out the door. You were watching him. He smirked, waving a hand in goodbye. You flushed and looked frantically back to your computer.
He’d get you where he wanted you. Didn’t matter what he’d need to do. He looked at the book in his hands. Comic, you’d called it. He’d give it a shot. For you.
He was starting to worry, about the type of shit he’d do for you.
“What’s your thing,” Ben grunted at you one day, and you frowned.
“My thing?”
“Everyone’s got something that gets them in this shitty game,” he said. “They kill someone you love? Help someone you hated. One of those soft little fuckin’ pussies try and do something to you?”
A small, angry part of him flared at that. Anything that had touched you would burn.
“I mean- It’s just the right thing to do,” you mumbled, looking back to your book, and Ben snorted.
Of course you’d do the right fucking thing. He knew you better now. He shouldn’t have bothered to be surprised.
You liked things too much. You were too soft and too hard in all the strangest places. You never looked at him like you were afraid, and you praised him for finishing comic book after comic book—you’d been right, he liked those things, more than he’d say aloud, but you knew—and then you’d flush when he gave you a little too much attention and get sassy when he tested you.
He knew about your past now. There were darker parts that made him angry. Happier shit that made you smile, and made him want you to smile about him one day.
You knew about his past. More than he’d ever told the tabloids. He’d found it slipping out of him, the longer he was around you. But you had that effect on him. Flowing over his like the fucking ocean and catching him in your tide. He didn’t fight it. Anything that made you look at him, that let him tease you, and made you all fucking soft and sugary.
Ben brought you dinner now, like some kind of delivery boy. But you always smiled at him, and asked him how his day had been, and damn him that kept making it worth it. You kept making it worth it. He was allowed in your place now, and he didn’t question why. He’d just been there, and you’d been going home, and he’d been allowed to walk you there. It wasn’t too far from the library, and pretty fucking small, but it smelled like you. Felt like you. So he liked it, and he found a reason to be there almost every fucking day, and that reason was food or your safety or another comic book. You’d talk and he’d listen, then he’d talk and you’d listen, and fuck him, he felt better than he had in longer than he wanted to admit. In maybe forever. And it was all fucking you.
“Wow.” Hughie had said to him, about a week ago. “You really don’t just want to like- You know. Bang her.”
Ben had grunted, not bothering to respond. All the shit he said just made them bigger asses. Butcher had taken to asking him to read every single piece of paper they came across. Frenchie had been making kissy faces behind his back, and asked him to make out with a book. The only reason Ben hadn’t crushed his skull with a single hand was that he’d be kicked out, and you’d probably frown upon that upon that.
“Heard you been reading,” MM had grunted to him. “Didn’t know you knew how.”
Ben had ignored that too, mostly because he hadn’t know he could read either. But he was getting better at it. Helpful to have a good motivator.
You.
He didn’t want to just fuck you anymore. He wasn’t sure what the fuck he wanted. You smiled and the world felt in order. You said his name and it sounded like being called home. Fucking you would be a benefit—you’d only gotten hotter, the longer he’d looked, and his shower and pillowcases knew your name as well as his dreams did by now—but he also liked just… sitting here. Talking. Like some cucked, pathetic little housewife-
“Why do you do it?” You asked, and Ben paused.
“Do what? Fight?”
You nodded, watching him with that judgement free curiosity. He frowned at his burrito, hoping it would give him the answer. He didn’t fucking know. He never thought about that kind of shit, unless you asked him to.
“Couldn’t you just… leave?” You asked softly, and he glanced up at you under heavier eyes.
“You want me to leave, doll?”
“No.”
You’d answered so quickly. It made him feel a million feet tall, and decide that maybe flying wasn’t that fucking bad, if this was what it felt like.
“But- Do you really want to do this forever?” Your voice was so quiet, Ben was worried you were trying to tread lightly around him. He never wanted you to do that. Not with him. If he was getting raw and weak, you had to fucking come down with him.
“Nah,” he took a large bite of his burrito, speaking through the mouthful. “Sick of it. All of it. Been lookin’ for something better-“
“Ben,” you chastise, holding out a napkin. “Chew.”
He rolled his eyes, but chewed. You smiled, waiting patiently for him to finish. He never fucking knew how you did that. Put up with him, when all the members of Butcher’s team looked like they wanted to throttle him every damn second. He used to like it like that. To be satisfied, with the way people would glare at him and not be able to do a fucking thing about it.
But you just… liked him. And that felt better than anything else.
“Looking for something better,” he said after he swallowed. “Y’know. Not this shit.”
“What does better look like?”
You asked it gently, and he doesn’t need to think about it.
Better looked like you.
“Still figuring that out, doll,” he muttered, and something taut flashed over your features. Ben frowned. Times like this, he really fucking wished he could read you.
“I hope you figure it out soon,” you mumbled, and Ben swallowed.
He did too.
You’re getting confused, but Ben is a confusing man.
Everything you’d heard about him—from Butcher, Annie, and the TV—said that he’d be a monster. An impossible, murderous asshole who’d snap you in half to get what he wanted. Over sexual and disrespectful. Arrogant and cold.
And he was arrogant. He was impossible, and a bit of an asshole. He’d flirted with you like he couldn’t help himself, and looked at you like he wanted to eat you alive.
But then he actually read the book. He smiled at you, and got soft around edges you hadn’t even noticed were so sharp. It had been like watching barbed wire unravel. Concerning and strange and… endearing.
Ben was surprisingly endearing.
It was like he’d never just had a friend before. He wandered after you in the library like a puppy, and leaned over your desk with squared shoulders like he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing himself.
“What’s that,” he’d ask you every day, about almost every thing, and you’d shove down a laugh. Under all the gruffness and anger, he mostly just seemed confused. About the world. About you.
So at least it was mutual. The uncertainty.
Because for everything you understood about Ben—his loneliness, his age, his strange puppy like demeanor—you didn’t get this. What he meant to you. What you meant to him.
You’re afraid you’re in love with him. That somewhere between take-out dinners and telling him you read romance books, he stopped being just Ben and became yours.
Not yours.
No one else’s. He says he hasn’t gotten laid in forever. Between visiting you and working, you’re sure he hasn’t had time to mess around in a bar or alleyway. That makes you smug, in a way that sits too brightly in your chest. You don’t want him to find that kind of feeling anywhere. You wish he’d ask for it from you.
He makes moves. He flirts and teases and smirks when it pools between your legs, nostrils flaring and eyes gleaming. Like he fucking knows. But he never does anything about it, and you’re going insane.
You mean something to him. You had to. He’s not the kind of man who would’ve stuck around this long, if he didn’t. But he’s also not the kind of man to deprive himself of things. If he wanted you, he should’ve fucking taken you by now.
Hughie turned red, and mumbled something about this not being his business, when you brought it up.
“Just- Talk to him,” he’d pleaded. “Not me. Never me- I- I like life.”
You’d frowned, but Hughie had frantically changed the subject. He seemed to know something you didn’t. They all did.
“He’s fuckin’ obsessed with you,” Butcher had drawled, when you’d asked him. “That’s what we know.”
Your face had burned. “It’s- No he’s- I mean- I know he- He likes women, and- I’m one- But- Just sex-“
“Love, he could find sex on the street or gutter if his dick needed a tug,” Butcher had rolled his eyes like you—pacing and wringing your hands—were the insane one. “He read for you. I’m real bloody sure he didn’t even know what the fuck a book was, ‘fore he laid eyes on your pretty fuckin’ face.”
You’d smacked Butcher. He’d laughed, and started asking more mission-related questions.
You’d obsessed over it all day. Obsessed with you. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. You were you and Ben was Ben. He was Soldier Boy. The handsome face you’d grown up fawning over, the big man on the TV screen that seemed untouchable. You’d almost fainted when you saw him, something like a survival instinct locking over you and stopping you from becoming a downright pathetic schoolgirl. You tried to divorce him in your head, from the idealization of a childhood crush.
But you couldn’t. He was meaner and kinder and smarter and cruder than anything you’d managed to dream of. His praise made you dizzy and his mocking tone sent a pool of desire between your thighs, and then he did the dishes when he thought you weren’t looking—you think he might be under the impression you’ll believe they’re just doing themselves—and asked about your interests and didn’t fuck around.
He was supposed to fuck around. To make it easy on you, to get over the infatuation.
He hadn’t. And now you’re so far gone you spend every day gorging yourself on his attention.
Obsessed.
Pretty girl, he calls you. You’d like to be his pretty girl, if he’d just put a claim on you. You wish you could drink enough to be brave. You wish he’d be selfish again, and just fucking take you.
But you’re going to have to do this the hard way. The way that cleaves you in half, if there’s a single wrong serration. If he just carves your chest open, takes your heart, and doesn’t offer his in return.
You have to try. Because if you don’t, you’re going to be here forever.
He brings you your favorite food, tonight. He sits with his knee bumping yours, and it makes your head so clouded you almost forget your plan.
“Do you have… anything?” You ask, your voice barely more than a nervous breath. “That you want to do?”
Ben gives you a sideways, almost confused look. “The fuck does that mean?”
“I mean, just- What are you planning to do?”
“When.”
“In the future.”
“Ah,” he shrugs, raising his burger back to his mouth. “This.”
You swallow. That’s not helpful. “This?” You prompt weakly, and he nods. “You mean- This?” You wave a hand around the room, and Ben’s lips twitch. “Me?”
“You?”
He says it like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and your heart shrinks.
That’s what you thought. You never should’ve listened to Butcher and Hughie, you knew that wasn’t what he meant, you fucking knew it and- God, you were so fucking stupid, to think he’d want you back.
“Nevermind,” you mumble, and Ben stiffens.
“Doll-“
“I’m getting a new shipment of books tomorrow.” You don’t want to talk about this anymore. “So- I might be too busy to eat lunch-“
Ben snaps your name, and you stare at your hands.
“I- Um- I don’t know how long it will take, so you don’t have to come over-“
Ben grabs your wrist, his touch almost searing into your skin, and when you look up, he’s staring at you. He’d moved to kneel over you. Your noses would brush if you twitched. His breath fans over your face, and you’re embarrassingly slack under his hand.
“Ben…” You whisper, because you don’t want to do this. You don’t want whatever fragile thing you had—even if it was just friendship—to break.
But he doesn’t move back. He never really has.
“You’re sulking,” he mutters, and you try to bow your head, but he catches your chin with two fingers. Tilts it slowly back up, forcing you to hold his gaze. “Why.”
Your voice is tiny. “Doesn’t matter-“
“The fuck it doesn’t matter. What’s wrong with you.”
“Nothing,” you try to avert your gaze. It’s impossible. “I just- You’re- I’m-“
You cut yourself off lamely. Ben leans in closer, jaw ticking as he scans over your features.
“You want it to be you?”
Your mouth falls open. “I- What?”
“My future.” He rasps. “You want it to be you?”
“Do you?”
Your mouth falls open. “I- What?”
“My future.” He rasps. “You want it to be you?”
“Do you?”
You expect him to laugh, but the lines on his face just deepen. He lets out a sharp breath through his lips, then smirks.
“Maybe I do,” he almost purrs, tipping your chin a little futher back. “What then, doll?”
You gape at him. So close. Saying words he won’t be able to take back, but not enough to make you melt. You’re still guarded. Still careful.
“Say it,” you whisper, because you have to be sure. “The- The whole thing.”
Ben frowns. “Doll-“
“Say it,” you almost plead. “If you mean it-“ Please fucking mean it. “If this isn’t just- If I’m not just some fixation, Ben, please say it-“
He crashes his mouth over yours, and your words turn into a long, hungry whimper. His lips are chapped and warm. Soft but firm, the kiss demanding but controlled. His hand slides into your hair, the other coming up to cup the back of your neck, and you melt into his strong body. His tongue traces over your lower lip, and you whine softly.
You get breathless embaressingly fast. Your thighs press together, but he’s not making it easy on you. His hand on your neck drags down your spine and splays possessively on your back. He pulls you closer, humming in satisfaction when you brace your fingers on his thighs. His knee pushes between your legs, and you grind down against it without a thought.
“Christ,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, smirking as you pant and cling to his jeans. “Needy little thing, ain’t you?”
“Ben,” you whimper, and he hums.
“’S alright. I’m gonna take care of you.” He hooks his arm under your knees, the other sliding under your arms. “C’mon.”
You wrap your arms around his neck as he pulls you into the air, pressing your face into his neck. He carries you steadily to the bedroom, setting you down with suprising gentleness on the bed. You blink hopelessly at him, as he draws back up. He still hasn’t said it.
And like he can read your mind, Ben smirks and flicks your nose with his thumb.
“Not a fixation,” he says. “Just my pretty fuckin’ girl.”
You flush, but refuse to cave that fast. “That’s not saying it.”
Ben snorts. “Jesus, woman-“
“Say it.” You snap, before—under the burn of his gaze—adding a mumbled, “Please.”
Ben chuckles. He peels off his shirt, and you almost forget to be stubborn. His big. Even bigged than he looks with his shirt on. His skin is tanned and soft, his boobs might be bigger than yours, and you can see the flex of thick, well built muscle with every breath. Your tongue flicks over your lips, and he smirks.
“You’re real fuckin’ demanding, you know that?”
“You- You’re supposed to- Ben-“ Your protests fall flat, as he trails a light touch up the underside of your leg. “Ben- That’s- You’re- Not playing fair-“
“I’m not tryin’ to play fair, doll,” he teases. “I’m tryin’ to get you ready.”
“Ready?” you squeak, and he hums, squeezing under your knee.
“Want you to be nice and relaxed for me,” he murmurs. “Gonna use this pretty fuckin’ body right. Make you wet, make you fuckin’ stupid.”
He pushes his fingers under the hem of your shorts, and your breathing is staggered and shallow. You lean back and push into his touch all at once, and Ben’s grin widens.
“Look at that. Already playin’ nice.”
You try to glare at him, but he lean back down, pressing you back into the mattress with a deep kiss. Your fingers shoot into his hair, as his weight settles between your legs. It forces them open, his budge pressing right against you clothed, aching pussy. You hadn’t even let yourself fully feel it—the vastness of your desire—because you’d been worried it would’ve just consumed you entirely. That you’d turn into some sex-crazed lunatic, imagining Ben above you and touching you and kissing you. You would’ve turned into a puddle that spent her days in bed with a vibrator, dreaming of what she couldn’t have.
But now you have it. You have him. Kissing you like he’s trying to let you consume him. He groans, with every whimper he draws from your lips. His hips roll against your core, and your breath catches. Your cunt feels like it’s almost in pain, from the neglect of intention. You scratch at Ben’s shoulders and belt, trying to drag him closer and tear every barrier between you apart with only your nails.
Ben catches your wrist, and pins it over your head. You thrash and strain, and he just chuckles, dragging his thumb over soft skin.
“Look at you,” he rolls his hips down again, and your back arches off the bed. “How the fuck could you think I wouldn’t want this?”
You blink at him, breathing through your mouth, and Ben leans down. His kiss brushes the very tip of your nose. You mewl, wired and desperate, and Ben laughs. The mockery of it only makes the heat between your legs stronger.
“You make me fuckin’ crazy,” he says, jaw clenched tight. “Make me… Feel things.”
“You make me feel things too,” you breathe out, and Ben stills.
“Yeah?”
You almost giggle at the slack, worshipful look on his face. Guarded but leaking with a hope you’re sure his old, old heart doesn’t know how to recognize. You don’t strain against his pull on you. You just lean up and brush a kiss over his jawline.
His whole body shudders. You sink back into the cushions, beaming as his wrecked expression. A low growl rolls through his chest, and his eyes go so dark it’s almost predatory.
“You,” his voice has dropped, so impossibly deep. “You…”
Words seem to fail him. You don’t mind. You don’t love Ben because he’s a man of words. You have enough of them as it is. You surround yourself with them, and there are only so many in the world that can express this. The electric, new and fragile and hungry thing between you.
You love Ben because he’s a man of action. And you know he’s not going to be able to say he loves you.
So he crashes back down, and shows you instead.
It starts with open mouth kisses, over your collarbone and throat. You head tips back, your mouth going slack, and Ben moans against your skin.
“So fuckin’ responsive.” He snakes a hand under your body, giving you ass a firm squeeze. “Knew you would be. Sensitive fuckin’ doll, probably getting fuckin’ soaked from just a little touching.”
Humiliations burn with arousal in your gut, deep and hot and intoxicating. You are soaked. You can feel it every time you shift against him.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Ben coos, kissing a particularly soft part of your neck. “I know how bad you want this. I can fuckin’ smell it.”
Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “You- You what?”
“You heard me,” he pushes your shirt slowly up, thick fingers brushing over the soft skin of your stomach. “Every time you got needy, doll. I could almost taste it.”
“And you- You never-“
“You’re the one who said to be sure.”
His tone is mocking, but his touch is hot and his expression is shockingly soft. You flush under the attention, unsure what to do yourself. Just splayed on the bed for him to play with, dazed and confused. Ben grins like a wolf, and tears off your shirt without a warning. You almost protest, but he doesn’t give you the chance.
“No bra,” he takes on perked nipple, rolling it between his fingers with a dangerous smile. “Fuckin’ slut.”
You swallow, watching with wide eyes as he lean over your chest. Electricy shoots through your body, as he wraps his mouth around your neglected nipple, sucking lightly as he plays with the other one between those infernal fingers. You stare at the ceiling with fluttering lashes, lost in the warmth of his mouth. His tongue flicks, and you whimper. Ben’s teeth graze against you, and a weak noise of his name falls from your lips.
He smirks, dragging more kisses over the curve of your breast. He gives your nipple one last flick, then kisses over the hurt.
“Already bein’ so quiet,” he teases, toying with the band of your shorts. “Think I might need to make you scream, doll. Make you prove how bad you want this cock.”
“I- I want it-“ You stammer, pushing up on your elbows. “Don’t- I want it-“
“Shh.” Ben presses his finger against your mouth, and your jaw snaps shut.
He blinks. You swallow, trying to drag up the strength to resist him again, but it’s too late. He’s seen it. How fucking desperate you are to please him.
“Jesus,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “You’re- Chirst.”
Your cheeks burn. You try to roll onto your stomach, but Ben catches you and rolls you back. You pout at him, silently pleading with him not to make this a fucking thing, but he just keeps examining you. His gaze burns over your skin. You think you’re going to fucking explode.
Slowly—almost carefully—Ben pushes his thumb into your mouth. You take it, batting your lashes and loosening your jaw. The pad of his fingers tickles the back of your throat, and you suck lightly, eyes fluttering shut. Ben massages your thigh, and your legs fall further open.
“This what you really fuckin’ wanted, huh,” Ben mutters, and you hum, swirling your tongue around him. “You’ll do anything I fuckin’ tell you.”
You hum, sucking harder. You eyes burn, and you squeeze them shut.
Ben taps your cheek with his free forefinger. “Open.”
You obey, blinking through the shame, not letting yourself slack on his thumb. You flick against it, the same way he’d played with your nipple, and his throat bobs.
“Fuckin’ dangerous,” he says, and you don’t understand why he thinks that. You’re the pathetic one here.
But Ben pulls his thumb back, and with a softness you didn’t know he had, he leans down and brushes his lips against yours. It’s a restrained, teasing kiss. You think you’re going to cry, but then he pushes his knee back against your core, and you can only gasp against his mouth.
“That’s it, doll,” he mutters. “Relax for me.”
“Be- Ben-“ You blubber, already fucking ruined. “Touch me, please-“
He deepens the kiss, his tongue pressing into your mouth with such demand you almost sob. He knee grinds itself against you, moving back only so he can rip your shorts and panties away. Your breath hitches, as two massive fingers drag their way through your cunt.
“What a fuckin’ mess,” Ben growls. “I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I. Not fuckin’ my pretty girl like she needs.”
You whine, nodding like a bobblehead. Ben pulls slightly back, kissing a stray tear on your cheek.
“Fucking crybaby,” he hisses. “Barely even done anything yet, you’re going to be a fucking wreck when I’m done.”
God, you are. There’s no way around it. Those two fingers are curling right against your weeping pussy, and if he doesn’t do something soon, you’re going to fucking scream.
“I’ll give you something to really cry about.” Ben slams a quick, harsh kiss back on your lips before pulling away. “No cumming, ‘till I say. You got that?”
You stare at him, and the softness is gone. His jaw is set, his eyes sharp, and his voice a rough command. Usually, you’d laugh at his attempts to boss you around, but right now you’re barely more than putty in his arms. You nod, and Ben huffs in satisfaction.
“Good girl.”
Your cunt squeezes around nothing. Ben must smell the gush, because his nostrils flare and his fingers dig into your hips.
“Been waitin’ too fucking long for this,” he says, kissing his way down your body. “Going to take my fuckin’ time, doll. Think I’ve earned that much, keeping my cock in my pants long as I did.”
You mewl an agreement, and Ben laughs.
“Anything I say,” he mutters to himself, pulling your legs over his shoulders. “Too fuckin’ good to be true.”
You’d argue this wasn’t good, if it wasn’t the best feeling you’ve ever experienced. You’re completely at Ben’s mercy, one massive hand massaging your ass as the opposite parts your pussy folds, giving him a good look at the evidence of your desperation.
Ben hums in approval, and your pussy clenches again. He laughs, kissing the inside of your thigh, and blows a puff of cool air against your clit. Your hips fly off the bed as you cry out, and Ben slams them down with a single hand.
“Stay still.” He orders, and you whimper in acknowledgement.
You’re going to try. You’re really going to fucking try, to listen. To be good for him.
But he does’t make it fucking easy.
Ben dives headfirst into your pussy, and you almost fucking scream. You knew he was experienced, but this feels like someone’s mouth fucking you with a sex machine. A hot, messy sex machine that has rough lips and a thick tongue, plunging in and out of your gaping cunt. His nose drags against your clit, rubbing into it over and over like he’s trying to set you off, and you grab at the sheets to try and achnor yourself.
“Be- Ben- Fuck-“ He makes out with your clit, and your eyes roll back in your head. “Oh- Oh my god-“
He pulls back, smacks your pussy, and pushes his face back into your core. Your body doesn’t even seem to know how to process it, every nerve so lit up that it’s scrambled and dazed. You’re almost, literally, overloaded with pleasure.
Ben keeps eating you out with the fervor of a starved man. He uses his whole face, tonguing you like he’s trying to memorize the way you squeeze around him. Whenever you cry out for him, he spanks your pussy, and you can’t tell if it’s a punishment or reward. Maybe both, if the way your cunt pulses with every hit is an indication.
He hits your pussy again, right when you’re so close to the edge you can taste it, and you almost cum. The only thing that stops you it is physically yanking yourself back, trying to escape the intensity of his touch.
Ben grabs you and drags you back. You whine, looking up at him with glossy, tear stained eyes. He wipes them away with his thumb, glaring down at your open, wrecked expression.
“The fuck did I say about moving?”
“I- I didn’t-“
“You did.”
He plants one hand on your lower abdomen, spanking your pussy with the other. Once. Twice. Your eyes roll back and the tears roll down your cheeks, but Ben just sneers.
“You wanna cum, doll?”
“Yes- Yes, please-“
“Then be fuckin’ good.”
He spanks your pussy again, and pushes his face back in. Your cunt is so abused and raw it only takes a few seconds to work you back up to where you were before. You try not to move, but then Ben—like he wants you not to listen—flicks his clit back and forth over your clit, so fast it feels like a vibrator. Your thighs lock around his head, and your back arches off the mattress.
This time, Ben doesn’t pull back and spank you. This time is worse. He just… Keeps going. He’s strong enough to keep your hips steady against his face. He grabs your ankles, and forces them to stay around his head. You can’t get away from him, as he works your pussy. You thrash in the sheets, crying out and shoving his head as it becomes borderline impossible to hold your orgasm in, but he doesn’t fucking stop.
You’re crying, loud and pathetic, and Ben just moans against your cunt. You roll onto your stomach, trying to crawl away as your traitorous pussy grinds against his face, and Ben slaps your ass. One arm leaves your body—though it doesn’t help you at all—and you hear skin slapping behind you. You manage to twist over your shoulder, and almost cum just from the sight.
Ben, jerking himself off as he keeps you pinned to his face. His cock is thick and big, bigger than anything you’ve ever see. It’s almost pretty, and that’s not something a cock should be. He’s leaking with pre-cum. You want to lap it off of him.
He slams you further onto his face, and you mewl, collapsing back into the matteress. You might pass out, with the effort to keep your orgasm in. You can barely think, barely speak. You’re just sobbing into the sheets and lost in the pleasure.
Then it stops.
Ben pulls away, and the loss is worse than the torture. You cry out, babbling something like his name, and Ben’s lips slot gently over yours.
“Doin’ so fucking well, babydoll,” he mutters. “Just a little longer. It’ll feel good.”
You nod, trying to chase his lips when he pulls away. He hums in amusement, pressing a kiss to your neck, and drags your ass up into the air. Your knees are already wobbly. You wouldn’t be able to stay up, if Ben didn’t wrap an arm around your stomach and force you up.
“Never seen someone so fuckin’ gorgous when they cry,” he mutters, rubbing that thick cock between the lips of your pussy. “Think I just like you wet, honey. Wet and fuckin’ sweet.”
He gathers some arousal with his fingers, then reaches over to press them against your lips.
“Taste,” he orders, and you obey thoughtlessly.
You don’t taste bad. Just… Strange. You moan, but mostly because you like Ben’s fingers being back in your mouth.
“That’s it,” Ben coos, lining himself up against your entrance. “Keep suckin’, pretty girl. Know it helps.”
You hum, and you’re too gone to actually think about what he said. It helps.
Then Ben starts to push inside you, and it becomes obvious what he meant. You squeak around his fingers, and Ben shushes you, slowly. Pushing every inch in so slowly, letting you adjust before giving a little more. You’ve never been strenched this wide, had such deep an angle. You keep sucking on his thumb, trying to find something to do with your body but seize up and wiggle. Ben thumbs slowly at your clit, helping it get further and further in.
“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, his balls pressed against the curve of your ass. “Fit me like a fuckin’ glove, doll- Christ-“
Ben leans fully over you, his body blanketing yours and his hand splaying back over your stomach. His face presses into the crook of your neck, his thumb pulling out of your mouth so his hand can wrap around your throat. He grinds his hips down, and you mewl, fresh tears falling from your eyes.
Ben kisses them away, rolling his hips again. His cock hits so deep inside you, you think you see stars. Just having him in you is cruel. You’re so full, with so little friction, it’s a wonder you’re not sobbing.
But Ben takes mercy, squeezing your neck gently before whispering, “Sing for me, babydoll.”
He pulls almost fully out, slams back in, and you scream. It’s a broken, delighted sound of pleasure, and Ben groans against your skin. He lets go of your throat, letting your cheek press into the mattress, and grabs your hand. Your fingers tangle together, as you pant. There’s nothing you can really do but take it. The size of him along, it knocks the air clean from your lungs. Ben presses demanding kisses, over your face and neck. You try to kiss him back, but you mostly just writhe and cry out his name.
He’s like an animal, with all his grunts and growls of your name. Every thrust drags his cock over your g-spot, splitting you open over and over until you’re just a ball of tears and nerves in Ben’s arms. His thumb wanders back down to your clit, rubbing tight, harsh circles, and you scream. The Zpressure in your body feels seconds from exploding, and you really don’t think you can take much more.
“Be- Ben-“ Your eyes cross, as he keeps pounding into your gushing cunt. “Ooooh- Bennn-“
“I know,” he kisses your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, his hips snapping down like a drill. “Soak my cock, pretty girl. You can do it, come on-“
The permission is all you needed. Ben’s hips snap forward, the head of his cock angled to drive into that gooey spot, and you come undone. Your orgasm is blinding and powerful, sweeping through every inch of your body. It lasts, as Ben fucks and fingers you through it, unraveling you so completely you think you black out for a moment. All you remember is a heavenly, strangely pure kind of floating feeling, and Ben’s growled praise in your ear.
“Good girl,” he hisses, and you coo, pussy fluttering and weeping. “Fuckin’- Gonna fill you up, doll, fill you up real fuckin’ good- I’ll be leakin’ out of this pussy when I’m done, let everyone know who the fuck you belong to- My girl, my fuckin’ girl-“
Ben’s thrusts grow jagged, his hand moving back to your throat, and you make a blubbering sound of agreement. He chuckles, choked and rough.
“You’d fuckin’ love that. Bein’ full of me, bein’ mine, bein’- Fuck-“
Ben cums, thick ropes of cum spurting into your cunt. There’s so much of it, so much of him, you can almost feel it in your throat. Almost fucking taste it. He tries to fuck you through it, but soon his release is dripping down your thighs and spraying back to your calves, and he pulls out. A stream of it hits your back as he moans, and you only squeak when Ben rolls you over and paints your stomach and tits white as well.
It’s a glorious fucking sight. Ben in all his glory, his cock wrapped in his fist and coated in your juices, his chest heaving as he moans your name and cums all over your body. When he’s done he doubles over, crashing his lips against yours and kissing you with so much fervor, you could almost think no sex had happened at all.
He pulls back, and you giggle. You don’t know why. It just feels like the right fucking thing to do, with how softly he’s looking at you. How unbelievably fucking lucky you are. Ben raises his brows, rolls his eyes, and presses a softer kiss to your lips.
“You think this is funny?” He mutters, but there’s no venom in his voice.
You nod, smiling up at him, and he sighs.
“You’re lucky,” he mutters, and he has no idea.
You press a kiss to his lips, and they twitch up. His eyes soften again, as he takes you in. So fucked out you can’t even speak.
“Good?” He mutters, and you nod like a bobblehead.
So good. So fucking worth it, for the months of mind games of questions, with how fucking good it was.
Ben smiles. And you can read it all over his face.
How he really does feel the exact same way.
“Told you I’d take care of you,” he grunts. “My fuckin’ girl.”
And you are. And he really, really fucking does. He cleans you up and feeds you. Gets you water and crawls into bed, lighting up a joint but keeping you tucked tight into his chest. You look up at him with a dazed smile, and he looks down at like some adoring, devout follower of a secret religion.
“We should get married,” he says suddenly, and you laugh, finding enough of a voice to respond.
“Date me first, smart guy.”
He grunts, pulling you closer and kissing the top of your head. You both know there isn’t much dating that will need to be done, to get you on board. But Ben’s going to try anyway. And you love him for it. How willing he is, just for you, to really, always fucking try.
✦End note: eric kripke WISHES he had my vision of soldier boy ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
summary: you plan a control-shifting birthday surprise for your boyfriend!dean, trying something completely new that leaves him tied-down entirely at your mercy.
content warnings: ( 18+ ) mdni. explicit sexual content. established relationship. dom!reader & sub!dean. unprotected p in v. oral sex (m receiving). birthday sex. bondage (rope play). edging. overstimulation. mild sensory deprivation. praise (mild). dirty talk/teasing. no use of yn.
word count: 5.0k
The neon sign of the motel flickered a dull, buzzing amber against the cracked windowpane, but inside, the world was completely dark for Dean Winchester.
You guided him into the room by his leather jacket, your fingers curled into the worn material. He was compliant, though his boots dragged against the cheap carpet with an amused, heavy thud. The black fabric wrapped securely around his eyes kept him completely blind.
Over the years you'd been together, your intimacy had never been vanilla, and it had certainly never been boring. You knew each other's bodies inside out, always matching each other's heat. But for his birthday tonight, you wanted to completely change the rules. You wanted to surprise him with something he would never see coming—literally.
"Alright, sweetheart," Dean chuckled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated right through you. He tilted his head, trying to use his other senses to map out the room. "I know it's my birthday, but you're being extra mysterious tonight."
"Shut up and keep walking, Winchester," you murmured, a playful edge to your tone as you steered him toward the edge of the mattress.
Before letting him sit, your hands slid up the broad expanse of his chest to grasp the lapels of his leather jacket. Dean caught his breath, his smirk widening as he stood perfectly still, letting you command his movements. You smoothed the heavy, worn leather off his broad shoulders, dragging the sleeves down his muscular arms until the jacket pooled carelessly onto the floor behind him. Left in just his flannel shirt, the heat radiating off his body was instantly more intense.
You pushed his shoulders gently, and he let himself sink back onto the bed, leaning back on his elbows. Even blindfolded and clueless, the smirk on his face was pure, unfiltered ego. He confidently tilted his chin up, his lips parting in a wicked grin.
"You gonna let me take this off my eyes yet, or am I gonna have to beg?" he teased, his fingers twitching against the bedspread as if he was already planning where to touch you first, thinking this was just another one of your usual wild nights.
"You might have to," you said softly, crawling onto the bed and straddling his thighs. The weight of your body pinned him down just enough to make his breath hitch, though his arrogant smirk didn't fade. "But not yet. Today is about what I want to do to you."
"Oh, is that so?" Dean hummed, his chest rising and falling beneath his shirt. He was still in full teasing mode, completely convinced he was the one ultimately holding the reins, even from flat on his back. "And what exactly is it that you want, baby?"
While you kept him occupied with the slow, deliberate trail of your fingertips up his chest, tracing the hard lines of his collarbone, your other hand reached for the sturdy length of rope you'd hidden under the pillow earlier—the kind he usually kept in the trunk of the Impala for hunts, but repurposed for a completely different kind of entrapment tonight. You worked with a practiced, seamless quietness—slowly, almost imperceptibly, looping the coarse but secure fiber around his left wrist, securing it tightly to the heavy wrought-iron frame of the motel bed.
Dean's grin faltered just a fraction as the knot tightened. "Wait, what are you—"
Before he could finish the thought or pull away, your hands moved to his right wrist, wrapping it just as securely to the opposite side of the headboard.
A sharp, surprised laugh left his throat, though his voice lacked its previous cockiness. "Okay, alright. Funny. You actually tied me down."
You leaned down, your lips brushing the sensitive skin right beneath his ear, your breath hot against his neck. "I told you, Dean. Today, you don't get a say. You’re just going to sit there, look pretty, and take whatever I decide to give you."
The sheer dominance in your voice sent a visible shiver down his spine. Dean swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. The smirk was entirely gone now, replaced by a sudden, heavy silence. His chest heaved as he strained against the fabric, not to break free, but because the sudden shift in power was hitting him in a way he hadn't anticipated.
"Baby..." he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, laced with a warning that carried absolutely no weight.
"Shh," you whispered, pressing a soft, torturously brief kiss to his jawline before completely pulling your weight off him.
The mattress shifted as you stepped off the bed.
"Hey. Where are you going?" Dean called out immediately, his head turning blindly toward the sound of your footsteps. The lack of sight was clearly starting to drive him crazy, the uncertainty amplifying every second. "Don't leave me hanging here. Come on. What are you doing?"
You didn't answer. You let the silence stretch, only offering the faint, deliberate rustle of fabric as you quickly slipped out of your regular clothes and pulled on the lingerie you had bought specifically for tonight—a dark, intricate set that hugged every curve of your body perfectly.
Dean was practically vibrating with impatience, his breathing shallow and heavy in the quiet room. "Sweetheart, seriously. Just tell me what's happening."
"Just be patient and wait, Dean," you said, your voice smooth and entirely in control as you walked back to the edge of the bed.
You crawled back onto the mattress, moving slowly, savoring the agonizing anticipation radiating off him. You reached up, your fingers sliding behind his head to untie the blindfold.
As the black fabric fell away, Dean blinked rapidly against the dim light of the room, his green eyes adjusting until they finally locked onto you.
The words he was about to say died instantly in his throat. His gaze raked down your body, taking in the lace, the skin, the confidence in your posture. His jaw literally slackened, his eyes widening in pure awe.
"Oh, fuck..." Dean choked out, the curse escaping his lips as a ragged, helpless groan. He pulled instinctively against the restraints, his knuckles turning white, completely undone by the view in front of him.
Dean's gaze never left your body as you sat back on your heels at the foot of the bed.
"Like what you see, birthday boy?" you purred, tilting your head, completely basking in the heavy, heated weight of his stare.
"You—" Dean choked out, his voice rough, slipping into a tone he always used when he wanted to take charge. "You are completely out of your mind. Untie me. Now, baby. Seriously."
Instead of obeying, you simply smirked. You moved forward, crawling over his thighs with an agonizingly slow, feline grace. You didn't let your skin touch his; instead, you straddled his hips, keeping your weight slightly lifted so the friction he was so desperately seeking was completely denied.
"What did I tell you about using that tone with me tonight, Dean?" you whispered, leaning down just enough so your warm breath fanned across his lips.
Dean instinctively lifted his head, his mouth reaching for yours, desperate to claim you, to drag you into a bruising kiss. But the moment his lips almost brushed yours, you pulled back. Just an inch. Just enough to leave him catching nothing but empty air.
He let out a frustrated growl, his knuckles turning white against the bedpost. "Come on, don't do this. Don't play games, sweetheart. Just kiss me."
"No," you said softly, your voice smooth and entirely dominant. "You only get what I choose to give you, and right now? You haven't earned a single thing."
To emphasize your point, you slowly leaned down, but not to his mouth. You trailed your lips along his jawline, never actually touching his skin, letting only the tips of your hair brush against his neck. The sheer sensory deprivation of it made Dean's entire body shudder beneath you. He arched his back, trying to force his chest up to meet your touch, but you instantly shifted your weight backward, moving completely out of his reach.
"Nuh-uh," you tsked, holding his frantic gaze. "If you lose your temper or try to act without my permission, I will turn around and leave this room. Do you understand me?"
The threat hung heavily in the dim room. Dean looked up at you, his eyes dark with an agonizing mix of frustration, pride, and an undeniable, blooming yearning. His chest was rising and falling rapidly. He wanted to argue, his stubborn ego screaming at him to fight it, but as his eyes raked over the lingerie, over the absolute power you held over him, his resistance began to crumble.
He let out a ragged, shaky breath, his head thudding back against the pillow. The cocky smirk was completely gone, replaced by a raw vulnerability he only ever showed to you.
"Yes," he muttered, his voice dropping to a low, breathless rumble. He stopped pulling against the ropes, his hands flattening against the headboard in a sign of forced submission. "I understand. Just... please. Don't go."
You smiled, a soft, dangerous expression, and leaned in just a fraction closer, letting him feel the agonizingly close heat of your body once more. "Good boy. Now, let's see if you can keep that promise."
You could feel the heat radiating off Dean's body in waves, his green eyes dark and completely fixed on you as you sat perched on his hips. He was perfectly still now, his large frame tense with the forced restraint you had demanded of him.
Slowly, deliberately, you reached for the first button of his flannel shirt. Your fingers moved with an agonizing lack of urgency, popping the plastic button from its hole. The moment the fabric parted, revealing just a fraction of his collarbone, you leaned down. You didn't just move past it; you pressed your lips directly to the newly exposed skin, your tongue darting out to lick a slow, wet stripe across his collarbone.
Dean let out a low, ragged hitch in his breath. His fingers twitched, his knuckles white as he fought the instinct to pull his hands down to guide you.
"You're killing me," he strained out, his chest heaving against your chest. "Sweetheart, please..."
"I told you to be quiet, Dean," you whispered against his skin, your breath hot and teasing before you sat up to reach the second button.
You popped it open. The flannel parted a little wider, exposing the hard, scarred expanse of his upper chest. This time, you dragged your open mouth down the center of his chest, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin right over his breastbone. Dean’s eyes fluttered shut, a deep, rumbling groan tearing from the back of his throat. He arched his back slightly, trying to press himself up into your mouth, but the moment you felt the movement, you bit down just a fraction harder—a sharp, disciplinary nip that made him gasp.
"I don't remember saying you could move?" you chided softly, looking down at him with a tilted head.
"Sorry," he panted, his eyes snapping open, practically swimming with a helpless, desperate yearning. The proud, stubborn hunter was completely gone, replaced by a man entirely at your mercy. "I'm sorry. Just... don't stop."
"We'll see how well you behave," you murmured.
One by one, you worked your way down the rest of his shirt. You undid each button like it was a sacred ritual, and after every single one, you paid tribute to his skin. You sucked a dark mark into the hollow of his throat, trailed your wet tongue down the ridges of his abdominal muscles, and swirled it around his navel. By the time the flannel was completely open, draping off his broad shoulders, Dean was already dripping with sweat, his breathing a chaotic, shallow mess.
You slid down his body, shifting your weight until you were kneeling between his legs. Dean's gaze followed you frantically, his eyes dropping to your hands as you reached for the buckle of his belt. The metallic click of the belt unlocking sounded incredibly loud in the quiet, dim motel room.
You unzipped his heavy denim jeans with excruciating slowness, centimeter by centimeter, letting the rough track of the zipper drag out the anticipation. As you gripped the denim and his underwear, pulling them down together over his hips, his length snapped free, already fully erect, heavy, and throbbing with a desperate need.
You dragged the denim completely off his long legs, tossing the clothes carelessly onto the floor, leaving him entirely exposed to you.
Dean was shaking now, his thighs tense, a heavy sheen of perspiration covering his tan skin. He looked down at you from the pillow, his lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. "Baby, look at me. Look what you do to me. Please, I can't... I can't take much more of this."
"You can take exactly as much as I want to give you, Winchester,"
You reached out, your cool fingers finally wrapping around his thick, pulsing length. Dean let out a loud, uninhibited cry at the sudden contact, his hips twitching upward instinctively. You gripped him firmly, anchoring him down, and began a slow, deliberate stroke.
"You're so hot," you whispered, leaning in closer, your eyes locked onto his face so you could watch every single micro-expression. "So hard for me. And you haven't even tasted me yet."
Before he could process the words, you leaned down and opened your mouth, sliding your wet tongue all the way from the base of his length straight up to the tip.
Dean's head thudded violently back against the wooden headboard, a shattered, broken sound escaping his lips. "Oh, God—fuck—"
You didn't let him recover. You leaned over him fully, taking him into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth. You took him in deep, your lips wrapping tightly around him, creating a fierce, dragging suction as you began to bob your head in a slow, torturously rhythmic pace. You swirled your tongue around the ridge of his length, using your hand at the base to pump him in perfect synchronization with your throat.
Dean's eyes rolled back, his chest rising and falling in violent, jagged gasps. He pulled against the restraints, the wrought iron of the bed groaning under his strength as his body practically begged to take control, to thrust into the heat of your mouth. But he held back, his knuckles turning a ghostly white, weeping soft, helpless groans into the empty air of the room as you thoroughly, slowly, soaked him in your warmth.
You pulled back slowly, letting your lips drag along his length one last time before you sat up. The sound of the wet friction filled the quiet room, a stark contrast to Dean's ragged, uneven breathing. He lay there completely exposed, his skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, his chest heaving as if he'd just run a marathon.
He opened his eyes, blinking through the haze of pleasure, his green irises completely dark with blown-out pupils. "Please," he choked out, the word raw and broken, scraping past his throat. "Tell me you're done playing. Put me inside you. Please."
You offered him a slow, wicked smile, deliberately taking your time as you shifted your weight. You crawled back up his long legs, straddling his thick thighs once more, but this time, you didn't leave any space between you. You lowered yourself until the heat of your core, covered only by the thin, intricate lace of your underwear, pressed directly against the rigid, throbbing tip of his length.
Dean let out a sharp, ragged gasp at the sudden, intense friction. His hips hitched upward instinctively, desperate to close the remaining distance, but the ropes held him back,
"I'm the one doing the moving tonight, Winchester. You just stay right there." you warned, leaning forward to rest your forearms on his chest, pinning him down with your gaze.
With a slow, deliberate movement, you reached down and slid the scrap of lace to the side, exposing your own slick, aching heat to him. You lined yourself up with him, resting the crown of his length right against your opening. Dean's eyes closed shut for a brief second, his jaw locking so tight the muscles in his neck strained. He knew what was coming, and the sheer anticipation was visibly torturing him.
You didn't drop down. Instead, you lowered yourself by a single, agonizing centimeter. Just enough to let the very tip of him slip inside your tight, wet warmth.
"Oh, God," Dean groaned, a shattered sound that cut off into a sharp intake of breath as you stopped right there. He instinctively tried to thrust upward to force the rest of his length inside, but you immediately lifted your hips, completely pulling away from him.
"What did I say about trying to take over?" you chided softly, your voice a smooth, dominant purr.
"I'm sorry—fuck, I'm sorry," Dean panted, his head thrashing against the pillow in absolute desperation. The proud, unyielding hunter was completely undone, reduced to a trembling mess beneath you. "I won't move. I swear. Just please give it to me."
Satisfied with his submission, you slowly lowered yourself again. One centimeter. Two. Three… You took him in with an excruciatingly slow, dragging pace, letting your tight walls stretch and mold around his thick, pulsing length. Dean's eyes rolled back, his lips parting as a long, helpless wail of pure pleasure escaped him. You could see how hard he was trying to keep himself from breaking your rules—to force his body to stay still while you consumed him.
And that—the sight of Dean Winchester, completely helpless under your command, his knuckles turning white as his hands strained fruitlessly against the ropes while you slowly buried him inside you, was completely intoxicating.
When you finally sank all the way down, bottoming out against him, a deep, resonant shudder rippled through his entire frame. You stayed completely still for a moment, letting him feel the full, crushing weight of your warmth enveloping him.
"You look so beautiful when you're ruining yourself trying to stay still for me," you whispered, leaning down until your lips were brushing his ear, your voice dripping with absolute control. "Keep giving me that look, baby, and maybe I'll actually let you come."
Dean's breathing completely shattered. "You're... you're crazy," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a yearning so profound it made your chest tighten. "Ride me, sweetheart. Please. Take whatever you want."
Slowly, you began to move. You lifted your hips, sliding up his length until you were almost off him, before sinking back down in a smooth, rolling motion. The wet, rhythmic friction of your skin against his was overwhelming. You kept the pace torturously slow, focusing on the depth, grinding your hips against his pelvis at the bottom of every stroke to maximize the pressure.
Every time you came down, Dean let out a muffled, choked-back sob of pleasure, his eyes locked onto yours with a desperate, burning intensity. He was completely trapped beneath you, utterly dependent on your rhythm, riding the edge of a cliff you wouldn't let him jump off just yet.
Your breath caught in your throat, a shaky whimper escaping your lips as you rode him, but you quickly bit it back, forcing your expression into a wicked, dominant smirk. You were feeling the overwhelming heat of him inside you, stretching you, throbbing against your tight walls, but you remembered exactly why you were doing this. Today was his day. This was his birthday gift, and you weren't going to let him off the hook that easily.
You slowed your hips back down to that torturously deliberate, agonizingly shallow rhythm, grinding your pelvis against his just enough to make him whine.
"Look at you, birthday boy," you purred, leaning down so your sweat-slicked chest brushed against his. Your voice was a low, teasing vibration against his skin. "You look so desperate beneath me. Are you enjoying your present?"
"Sweetheart... fuck," Dean choked out, his head thrashing violently against the pillow. His chest was heaving, his tan skin glistening under the dim motel light. He pulled against the silk ties, the wrought iron of the bed rattling loudly as his hips twitched upward, completely out of his control. "It's too much. You're... you're too tight. Please, just let me thrust. Just once."
"I said no," your reply was immediate, raising your hips to the top of his length, leaving only the very tip of him nestled inside you. "Don't forget the rules, Dean. You don't get to move. You just get to lie there and take how good I make you feel."
Dean let out a shattered, broken groan, his long, thick thighs went completely rigid, the veins in his forearms bulging against the mattress as he fought the sheer, agonizing urge to break the restraints and completely take over. The sheer vulnerability of a man that powerful, completely paralyzed by your command, was enough to make anyone catch their breath.
"That's it, baby," you whispered, leaning down to lick a wet stripe up his neck, right over his pounding pulse, before nipping lightly at his jawline. "Let me hear how bad you want to come inside me."
He gasped for air, his lips slick and parting as his head tossed from side to side. "I'm gonna explode, baby. I swear to God, if you don't drop down on me right now, I'm gonna lose it. Please. Please."
"You want it all?" you teased, your own voice dropping into a breathless, needy register as your own arousal spiked from his desperation. You ground your hips in a slow, agonizing circle around the head of his length, making him gasp so loudly it echoed in the quiet room. "Tell me how much you need it, Winchester. Beg me for it."
"I need you," Dean rasped, his green eyes snapping open, burning into yours with a raw, worshipful yearning that made your core throb. "I'm begging you, sweetheart. Put it all inside you. Let me fill you up. Please, let me come for you."
Hearing him beg so completely, with absolutely no pride left, sent a shiver of pure pleasure straight down your spine. Your dominance flared, mixed with the intense lust building between your thighs.
"Good boy," you murmured against his lips.
And then, you finally sank all the way down.
You didn't do it fast; you did it with an excruciatingly deep, dragging weight, letting him feel every single millimeter of your tight, wet walls enveloping him until you bottomed out against his pelvis.
Dean's entire body went stiff, a loud, uninhibited cry tearing from his throat, his eyes wide as he stared up at you, completely undone by the sudden, overwhelming depth. You didn't stop there; you began to move in a tight, heavy, rolling rhythm, focusing entirely on his pleasure, sliding up and squeezing him tightly before crushing yourself back down against him.
"Yeah, Dean... right there," you whispered straight into his ear, letting your lips brush the shell of his ear as you picked up the pace just a fraction. You could feel his length swelling even larger inside you, pulsing with a dangerous, imminent release. "You're so hard for me. You're trembling. Come on, big guy. Show me how much you love your gift."
"Oh, God—fuck, sweetheart—I'm close—I'm right there—" Dean choked out, his voice cracking, a deep, primal sound that made your entire core clench in response. He was completely at your mercy, his hips lifting helplessly against your rhythm.
Every slow, dragging slide of your hips was pushing him over a cliff he had been dangling from since the second you tied his wrists to that headboard.
"Come for me, Dean," you whispered, your own mask of total dominance completely shattering as the friction built to an unbearable, blinding peak. You abandoned the slow pace entirely, driving your hips down hard, bottoming out against him over and over. "Come on. Do it."
That was his final breaking point. Dean let out a loud, undone cry as his entire body went rigid beneath you, the muscles in his thighs and abdomen locking up as a thick, powerful wave of release ripped straight through him. The sudden, intense pulsing of his length inside you was the exact trigger your body needed. You let out a high, breathless sob, your eyes fluttering shut as your own orgasm crashed over you, your internal muscles clamping down on him in tight, desperate ripples.
Dean's head thudded back against the pillow, his eyes rolled back, a continuous, ragged string of curses leaving his slick lips as he took every single contraction of your climax.
For a long, heavy minute, the only sound in the room was the chaotic symphony of your frantic breathing. Your strength completely gave out, and you collapsed forward, burying your face in the crook of his neck. Your chest rose and fell rapidly against his, your skin hot and damp with sweat. Even as the aftershocks slowly subsided, you didn't move. You deliberately kept your weight on him, staying securely pinned over his thighs, keeping him buried deep inside your soaking wet warmth.
Dean let out a long, shaky exhale, the tension slowly bleeding out of his large frame, though his chest was still heaving. He turned his head sideways, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, his breath fanning across your damp skin.
"Holy shit," he breathed out, his voice a gravelly, exhausted whisper. "You are completely lethal. You know that, right?"
You let out a soft, breathless laugh against his neck, slowly lifting your head to look down at him. Your lips curved into a lazy, satisfied smile. "You behaved so well, Winchester. I had to give you your reward."
His green eyes, still beautifully hooded and dark with lingering lust, focused entirely on your mouth. The cocky hunter was gone, replaced by a man looking up at you with pure, unadulterated devotion.
"Now," you murmured, leaning down just an inch. "You can finally have what you've been craving for."
You slid your hands up to cradle his jaw, your fingers tracing the rough stubble of his cheek, and finally brought your lips down to his.
The kiss was everything Dean had been starved of since the moment you blindfolded him. It wasn't the playful, teasing brushes you had tortured him with earlier; it was an incredibly deep, bruising, and desperate possessive clash of lips and tongues. Dean groaned into your mouth, his head tilting to deepen the angle, tasting himself and you all at once. Even with his hands securely bound, the sheer hunger in the way his mouth moved against yours made you feel entirely consumed. It was a slow, heavy pouring of years of love and absolute trust into one single, breathless connection.
When you finally pulled away, your lips were swollen, a thin silver thread connecting you for a fraction of a second before breaking. You rested your forehead against his, a soft smile gracing your face.
"Happy birthday, Dean," you whispered.
Dean chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated directly against your thighs where you still held him inside you. He pulled lightly against the silk ties around his wrists, the iron headboard giving a soft, familiar creak.
"Best damn birthday present of my life," he murmured, his eyes crinkling at the corners with that familiar, wicked spark. He flashed you a lazy, boyish grin, his thumb lightly stroking the mattress. "But, uh... as much as I love looking up at you like this, sweetheart... don't you think it's about time you untie me?"
You tilted your head, your fingers lazily tracing the hard lines of his collarbone, entirely unbothered by his request. "I don't know, Winchester. I think you look perfect exactly where you are. Why the rush?"
Dean's grin widened, his gaze dropping to where you were still wrapped tightly around him, his length already starting to stir and swell inside your heat once more. He twitched his hips just a fraction, a low hiss escaping his teeth at the sudden, tight friction.
"Come on, baby, don't be cruel," he groaned, his voice dropping into that rough, gravelly register that always made your chest tighten. He pulled against the restraints again, the headboard rattling softly. "You know what you do to me. I'm practically at your mercy here."
"Exactly," you murmured, shifting your weight just enough to rub your core against him, deliberately driving him crazy. "And I happen to like you at my mercy."
Dean swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he watched your lips. The dominant mask you wore was intoxicating, and even though his hunter instincts usually screamed for him to take control, the absolute trust he had in you made this surrender feel like the best kind of torment. He let out a shaky breath, letting his head thud back against the pillow as he gave up on fighting the ropes, completely captivated by the lazy, satisfied smile on your face.
He flashed you back a lazy, boyish grin, his breathing still a bit shallow as he looked up at you. "Round two?"
You couldn't help but let out a soft, melodious laugh at his sheer stamina, leaning down to lazily trace the hard lines of his collarbone.
"You really like being submissive, don't you?" you purred, a teasing, dominant smirk returning to your lips as you deliberately squeezed your walls around him, making his breath hitch instantly. "You freak."
Dean's eyes darkened, a dangerous, hungry heat flaring back to life in his green irises. He stared up at you with absolute promise, his smirk turning utterly wicked.
♡ He wanted all of it. And somehow, impossibly, he wanted it all with you.
Warnings: 18+ / MDNI! • Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Female Masturbation (Use of a Vibrator), Dry humping, Voyeurism (Accidental), Steve Harrington Being Hopelessly in Love (and Coming in His Pants)
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!Henderson!reader
Word count: 6.4k
Summary: Steve Harrington walks in at the worst possible moment. Fortunately for both of you, it forces a conversation you should have had years ago—preferably not with something buzzing between you.
Author’s note: One day I won't accidentally turn a pure smutty request into a feelings fest complete with mutual pining, emotional constipation and a confession. Today is not that day... apologies to you ♥︎
Also, has the quote in the header inspired another idea yes... no further questions, good day ♥︎
The crumpled post-it note hanging from the fridge was the first sign that something was… different. The second was the absence of Dustin's voice—which, quite frankly, should have been audible from three streets away.
"Mom? Dustin?" Your voice echoed through the empty kitchen.
Nothing.
Frowning, you crossed the room and pulled the note from beneath the heart-shaped magnet holding it in place. The bright yellow paper was covered in your mom's unmistakable looping cursive.
Book club at Belinda's. Dustin at Wheelers. Pizza money on the counter. Love you Hunnybuns xxx
You can't remember the last time you had the house all to yourself. No Dustin yelling your name from the other side of the house because he couldn't find something that was right in front of him. No Dustin barging into your room without knocking. No Dustin demanding lifts off of you.
Just peace and quiet. And well, you couldn't possibly let that go to waste…
"Oooo girls, they wanna have fu-u-un..."
You sang (screamed)–dressed in mismatched socks, an old Hawkins High T-shirt and pyjama shorts, your hair tied up and hanging together by sheer determination, sliding across the kitchen tiles with a whisk doubling as your microphone.
You weren't exactly giving Cyndi Lauper a run for her money, but the half-empty bottle of red wine sitting on the counter was doing a fairly decent job of convincing you otherwise.
You swung open the oven door, immediately being hit by a wave of warm, sugary goodness. Tilting your head, you squinted at the tray of cookies. Misshaped and definitely not done.
You hummed, and with a decisive nod that suggested you had far more baking expertise than you actually possessed, you pulled the rack out slightly and turned the tray around. "There," you informed the cookies. "That'll fix you."
Whether it actually would remained to be seen.
You shut the door and immediately reached for your wine glass, taking a long sip as the next song drifted through the radio. The red wine was pleasantly cool against your tongue, and you leaned back against the counter, swaying slightly to the music.
For a moment, a thought slipped through the haze of music and sugar and warm cookie-scented air. An unwanted thought that maybe, just maybe this wasn’t what a twenty-something-year old should be doing when she got the house to herself. Rather than say, have friends over; you knew the older members of the gang were free tonight bar Robin who had a late shift at the squawk.
Maybe you should, instead, be throwing some crazy party that people would talk about for years or, maybe—maybe you should have invited a boy over.
You immediately shook your head, as if you could physically dislodge the thought from your head. If only it was that easy; because yes, there was a boy… but he didn't want you. Not the way you wanted him.
An annoyingly familiar ache settled itself into your chest, yet again. Unwelcome. Persistent. Stupid, really, considering you'd spent months (years, if you’re honest) trying to convince yourself you were over it. Over him. And his stupidly, beautiful face and stupidly soft hair and stupidly sweet smile and–
The shrill ding-ding-ding-ding-ding of the egg timer nearly sent you through the ceiling.
"Jesus Christ!" You slapped a hand against your chest, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass as your heart launched into your throat. You might have definitely, completely and utterly forgotten that you’d set that.
You flicked the timer off and immediately opened the oven door, a wave of warm air washing over you. The cookies had finally reached that perfect golden colour around the edges, chocolate chips melted into glossy puddles across the tops.
Far better company than Steve Harrington.
The thought slipped in uninvited.
You groaned. Apparently your brain wasn't finished torturing you. Or lying to you.
Because as much as you wanted to deny it—and would, repeatedly. As much as you wanted to roll your eyes and pretend otherwise, given the choice between a tray of fresh cookies and Steve Harrington?
Well.
It wasn't exactly the cookies you were thinking about at night now, was it?
Curled beneath your blankets, a plate of still vaguely warm cookies balanced beside you and your wine glass perched precariously on your nightstand, you watched Ronald Miller grin at Cindy Mancini like she was the only woman in the world through the glow of your television screen.
You hadn’t stopped glaring at it. "Oh, please." As if any man was actually like this, well–
The cookie paused halfway to your mouth.
On screen, Ronald was pulling that awkwardly charming routine that was clearly supposed to make audiences swoon. It made you scoff. Actually scoff. He wasn’t that charming. Okay , maybe a little… but he tried way too hard. Steve never even had to try. Steve could walk into a room wearing a ridiculous sweater, carrying six video tapes and complaining loudly (maybe a little obnoxiously), and somehow every eye would still end up on him anyway.
Not based on true events obviously but who cares. The wine certainly didn't. Because suddenly Ronald Miller wasn't even on the screen anymore.
Instead, your mind wandered to broad shoulders, to hands constantly pushing through impossibly soft hair, to warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners. It was deeply unfair.
The man couldn't even complain properly.
Somehow, even when he was whining about Dustin dragging him across town for some ridiculous emergency or being roped into babysitting duties for the kids yet again, he still managed to be annoyingly endearing.
Ronald Miller might have looked good in a varsity jacket, but Steve had spent years making one look utterly unfair.
You could still picture him leaning against his BMW outside Hawkins High, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, letterman jacket hanging open, sunlight catching in his hair while half the female population of Hawkins suddenly found excuses to walk past.
The truly irritating part?
Time hadn't fixed the problem. If anything, it had somehow made it ten times worse.
Because somehow Steve Harrington had traded a varsity jacket for a stupid lime-green Family Video vest and had still come out winning.
You could picture him again outside waiting at the end of the day, one arm hanging out the driver's side window, sunglasses shoved into his hair; though this time he was here for you… and Dustin but that’s beside the current point.
On those rare, glorious days you made it to the car alone, his face would immediately light up. "Hey, Henderson."
Then he'd be out of the car, arms wrapped around you before you could even blink, squeezing you in a quick hug that always lasted just long enough to leave you smiling afterwards. Who are you kidding? Just seeing him made you smile for days afterwards.
If Dustin got there first, however, it was a completely different story.
Steve would immediately become trapped in one of your brother's endless monologues while you trailed behind, rolling your eyes as Dustin launched into a detailed explanation of whatever "disaster" had occurred that day. You'd get a quick smile thrown your way as Steve somehow managed to keep up with the conversation, and then you'd open the back door yourself, sliding into your usual seat while the two of them continued talking/bickering.
But then there were summers.
Summers were the worst.
Long afternoons at the lake with the entire gang sprawled across towels and blankets. Robin and Eddie stretched out in the sun. Dustin arguing with Steve about music. Nancy pretending she wasn't people-watching while reading a book. Or days at the local public pool. Dustin loudly insisting he could swim despite never having taken a single lesson because he'd skipped them in favour of science classes. You and Steve watching his every move.
Steve always so close, yet never really there. Sun-bleached hair falling into his eyes, swim shorts hanging low on his hips, and a permanent tan that appeared every summer without fail. The sunlight always seemed to cling to him somehow, turning his skin golden after mere minutes outside.
It was annoying. It was all very, very annoying.
Especially when he laughed and tipped his head back, exposing the line of his throat, or stretched his arms above his head after a swim like he had absolutely no idea what he was doing to the people around him.
Not that you were paying attention. Obviously.
However, more than once you had caught Max and El whispering to each other, looking in Steve's direction. The second you'd followed their gaze, both girls would immediately start grinning.
Which was rich.
Because at least they had the excuse of being teenagers.
You were a grown woman.
A grown woman who should have been perfectly capable of sitting beside Steve Harrington without becoming acutely aware of every accidental brush of shoulders, every lazy smile, every moment he turned toward you and gave you his full attention.
He was the sun.
And you, despite knowing better, had spent years turning your face towards him anyway.
God, you needed a stronger drink–you were turning poetic.
Or, as Eddie constantly insisted, you needed to get laid. Preferably by Steve, but at this point, you'd probably settle for anyone willing to knock some sense into you. ‘Cause god did you need some.
The man was lucky he was your best friend otherwise you would have hit him. It also helped that he was.. maybe not entirely wrong but whatever.
With a sigh, you reached for your wine glass and took another long sip, determined to focus on the next movie instead of your increasingly embarrassing train of thought.
Let's be honest, if any man was capable of making you stop thinking about Steve Harrington, it should have been Westley.
The man literally crossed countries, fought pirates, survived torture and came back from the dead for the woman he loved.
Objectively speaking, that was insanely romantic.
Steve would do that. Your mind immediately countered.
You groaned. "No, he wouldn't."`like saying it aloud might make that true but, hadn't he already kind of done that.
Not the pirate part. Obviously.
But the rest?
The man had been beaten up, battered, dragged through a nightmare dimension and survived being tortured by Russians, all because somebody he knew needed help.
Because that's who Steve was.
You stared at the television, but your mind had already wandered. To a day you’d recalled more times than you can remember. Back to Steve leaning against a tree, chest rising and falling in sharp breaths as everyone caught their bearings. Dirt streaked across his skin. Dried blood along his cheekbone. His hair shoved back from his forehead with trembling hands.
You remembered the fear first.
Then maybe, a little jealousy. The way Nancy had stood so close to him afterwards. The way Steve had looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him upright. Like seeing her there had made everything worth it.
You weren't necessarily proud of those feelings.
But you did have a pretty good defence, if you say so yourself. You'd been in love with the boy for years and had just survived being attacked by a swarm of murderous bats in an alternate dimension. Emotions were running a little high. Okay?
You definitely hadn't found any of it attractive at the time. You'd been too busy being terrified. Too busy trying not to imagine what would happen if Steve–if any of you—didn't make it home.
But afterwards?
Now, a few years later, safe in your room with a glass of wine and absolutely no sense of self-preservation?
Well. Now your mind could wonder. And god, did it like to.
Steve had looked wrecked that day—hair matted with sweat, jaw tight, his usual charm stripped away—but strong. Too strong for someone bleeding in another dimension.
You remembered the split skin across his chest. The way he'd dragged himself upright despite every reason not to. The way his first concern had been everyone else. Nancy. Robin. Any of you. All of you.
Fuck. Your breath hitched.
Yes, he was hot. Broad shoulders, strong arms, sun-kissed skin and a smile capable of causing minor structural damage to your common sense. Yes, he was handsome. Sharp jaw, warm brown eyes, impossibly good hair and the sort of face that made complete strangers trust him immediately.
But beautiful?
Beautiful was different.
Beautiful was the way kindness seemed woven into him. The way he always made room for one more passenger in his car, one more problem to carry that was never his to begin with.
Beautiful was the way he laughed with his whole chest. The way he looked at the people he loved like they hung the damn moon but never expected it in return. The way he threw himself in front of danger without a second thought if it meant somebody else got to go home.
Beautiful was Steve Harrington, entirely unaware that he was.
God, you needed to get over Steve. Or at the very least get your mind off him. And while you couldn't exactly follow Eddie's advice to a tee, you did have something better than another man.
Something pink, buzzing, and stashed in the bottom drawer of your nightstand—purchased on a whim after one too many late-night fantasies involving a certain ex-jock-turned-bat-wilding-hero. Your fingers twitched toward the drawer before you hesitated, glancing at the still-open bedroom door. A reckless laugh bubbled up—since when did you care about locking doors?
The house was empty. It was only slightly ajar; enough that you’d surely hear if your mom came home early. Though she never did on book club nights; her and Belinda always cracking open a few too many bottles and turning what was supposed to be a two-hour book discussion into an all-night event she needed picking up from no earlier than midday the next day.
Your fingers fumbled against the drawer handle—once, twice—before finally yanking it open with a little more force than absolutely necessary. The vibrator was cool against your palm, its smooth surface already warming as your thumb flicked on the lowest setting then the next.
The first press between your thighs was electric, blunt and insistent through the thin fabric of your shorts.
Your breath stuttered out as you arched into it, your free hand gripping the sheets beneath you. The movie’s dialogue blurred into static, replaced by the low, persistent hum vibrating against your skin.
Fuck, you’d forgotten how good it felt—or maybe you’d just never let yourself just be in the moment, too wrapped up in the fantasy of someone else’s hands, someone else’s mouth.
But this?
This was all you.
Your fingers curled tighter around the toy as you slipped it beneath your waistband to drag it against your already damp panties; shorts discarded halfway down your thighs.
Adjusting the angle of the toy until your hips jerked up on their own accord—until the pressure was perfect, relentless, too much and not enough all at once.
The sound that escaped you was embarrassingly loud—half-moan, half-sigh—but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when you were home alone, not when the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter and–
You bit your lip, hard, but it did nothing to stifle the next noise, high and breathless as your hips stuttered against the mattress.
God, you were close—so close you could already feel the tension building, tightening like a spring in the pit of your stomach—but you didn’t want it to end just yet.
Your fingers fumbled for the dial, twisting it down—just enough to take the edge off, to draw it out—and you groaned at the loss.
Your free hand drifted up, fingers skimming over your stomach, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt—your touch hesitant, almost unfamiliar–God, it really had been far too long.
Your breath hitched when your fingertips brushed over your nipples—already peaked beneath the fabric—and you rolled one between your fingers, testing the pressure.
Fuck.
Fuck, you were—
“Henderson?”
Steve knocked twice before trying the handle.
Nothing.
He frowned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The lights were on. Dustin knew they had plans tonight. Dustin had already forgotten they had plans last week, leaving Steve sitting outside the arcade for nearly forty minutes before he realised the little asshole had completely forgotten–he better not have stood him up, again.
"Dustin?" he called through the door.
Silence. With an exasperated sigh, he pushed the door open. It moved without any fight. "Mrs. Henderson?"
Still nothing.
The house wasn't empty. It couldn't be. Door unlocked. The television was playing somewhere upstairs, faint enough to be distant but loud enough to carry down the hallway.
Knowing exactly how much your mom hated shoes in the house, Steve carefully shut the door behind him before toeing off his sneakers beside the mat.
"Dustin?" he called again as he wandered further inside, reaching the kitchen—which quite frankly looked like a war zone.
Flour dusted the countertops. Mixing bowls sat abandoned beside the sink. A cooling rack crowded with freshly baked cookies occupied most of the available space, and an almost-empty bottle of wine stood proudly amongst the chaos.
Immediately, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
You.
This had you written all over it.
He could practically picture you here. Music blaring. Dancing around the kitchen. Leaving a trail of destruction in your wake while baking something sweet. Without thinking, he reached over and stole a cookie. For investigative purposes. Of course.
"Henderson?" he called again, louder this time.
The smile slowly faded.
Normally he'd have gotten some sarcastic response from upstairs by now. A yell telling him to help himself. A complaint about Dustin. Something.
Instead, the house remained strangely silent.
Then he heard it.
The sound was faint. Barely audible over the television upstairs. Soft. Unfamiliar. His brows immediately pulled together. "Henderson?"
Still no response, but then it happened again. His stomach dropped–you sounded distressed or hurt. And then suddenly every possible worst-case scenario flashed through his mind.
Had you fallen? Burned yourself? Passed out? Those were some of the tamer possibilities.
Steve's mind had spent entirely too much time fighting monsters and interdimensional horrors to jump to reasonable conclusions anymore. "Henderson!"
The next time it happened he was moving–fast–crossing the living room and heading for the stairs.The television continued playing somewhere above him. Another similar sound drifted down.
Softer this time. Weaker. Definitely coming from your room. Concern tightened violently in his chest.
Steve Harrington had never been particularly good at ignoring people he cared about when they might need help. And he was even worse at ignoring you.
By the time he reached the top of the stairs, his heart was hammering against his ribs. The hallway stretched out before him, your bedroom door sitting slightly ajar at the end.
You'd never been particularly good at shutting doors. Still, Steve slowed as he approached, his stomach twisting tighter with every step.
"Henderson?" he called again, voice softer now.
Nothing.
Then another sound came from inside the room, and Steve's concern sharpened instantly because that had definitely not sounded right.
Without thinking, he pushed the door open and nearly passed out at the sight in front of him.
“Henderson?”
The word left his mouth before he could stop. He stood frozen in your doorway like he’d just walked into yet another alternate dimension. Because this—this—was not happening. Couldn’t be happening. Not with you. Not with him. Not you with your back arched off the bed, pajama shorts rucked down around your thighs, one hand shoved beneath your shirt and the other disappearing past the waistband of your—Jesus Christ—underwear.
His brain short-circuited.
So did yours. Evidently. As your hands stayed in the same place for another half a second.
Steve's knuckles went white around the doorframe. His pupils dilated—dark and drowning—before snapping up to your face. Trying and failing to look like he hadn't seen anything.
Your body locked up, legs snapping shut with a mortified squeak, yanking your hand out from under your waistband so fast you nearly elbowed yourself in the ribs. Pulling your shorts up to recover some form of modesty. The vibrator clattering to the floor—still buzzing—but neither of you moved to grab it.
A sharp inhale. Then—silence. Well silence bar the buzzing. The kind that makes your ears ring. The kind that makes you wish a Demogorgon would burst through the ceiling and swallow you whole.
The wine haze evaporated in an instant, replaced by the kind of embarrassment that makes your skin feel two sizes too small.
Steve cleared his throat. Twice. "So." His voice cracked. "Uh." His gaze skittered away—past your shoulder, over your bed-frame, to the wall—anywhere but down. "Cookies were good."
You wanted to disappear, to fall through the floor all the way to the upside down to–your eyes involuntarily moved down.
Oh. God.
Did your mind make this up? Did your fantasies catch up to you?
But the grey sweatpants. The thick outline pressing against the fabric. The way his fingers twitched slightly—subtle, reflexive.
You needed him to leave. Now. Not so you could finish—Christ, no—but so you could plan your escape from Hawkins immediately. No way were you ever facing anyone again—let alone him. You were going to live the rest of your days at a convent somewhere far, far away until the sheer level of embarrassment overwhelms you and you die.
But your traitorous body didn’t get the memo.
Heat pooled low in your belly, your thighs pressing together instinctively—like you could trap the ache between them and suffocate it. Spoiler: it didn’t help. Not in the slightest.
Not when Steve’s nostrils flared slightly, his grip tightening on the doorframe like he was physically restraining himself from—from what? Entering? Leaving? Dropping to his knees and finishing what you’d started?
No. Your brain screeched. No no no. This is reality. Earth-shattering. Life-ending reality.
Then—movement. Steve exhaled sharply through his nose before stepping forward—not out—into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with finality.
He took another step, then another until his knees bumped against the edge of your mattress, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
“So,” he said again, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it and his fingers brushed against the hem of your shirt, tentative, questioning—shaking.
Your pulse hammered against your ribs as his thumb traced the dip of your hipbone through the fabric. Testing the waters. Giving you time to push him away—to laugh it off—to pretend this wasn’t happening—but your body betrayed you (or, more accurately, did you a favour) by arching into his touch instead.
Hey, maybe you could pretend this was just another fantasy. That the wine had gone to your head. But you knew the wine had left your system the second you heard your name in that breathless, low voice of his.
“Fuck,” Steve breathed before his hand slid down then slipped beneath the hem of your shirt. Warm. Calloused. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t have been possible—not when he’d never touched you like this before. Or really at all.
The TV flickered—Westley’s face melting into static—casting shadows across Steve’s expression. His lips parted slightly as his fingers brushed over your stomach, tracing a line upwards. “Is this okay?” he murmured, and you nodded (a little too quickly).
Steve chuckled lowly, completely not believing that this was really happening and in the glow of the television, you could truly see how red his cheeks were. His hair—always perfect, always soft—was mussed from nervous fingers running through it.
You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat—if he knew how loud it was—how fast—how yours matched the frantic rhythm of his own pulse beneath your fingertips when you finally reached for him.
His breath hitched when your hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until his knee pressed between your thighs and the heat of him seared through the barrier of your shorts.
You weren’t sure who moved first—maybe it was him, maybe it was you–it probably was—but suddenly his lips were on yours, hungry and insistent, swallowing every gasp, every moan, every desperate noise you didn’t have the sense to be embarrassed about anymore. He’d seen worse just moments ago.
His knee pressed harder between your thighs—an accident, perhaps, but one that made your hips jerk forward, chasing the friction, chasing the relief you’d had to put on pause.
Steve groaned against your mouth, his fingers tightening on your waist as your hips rolled against him—slow at first, then faster—each grind drawing another ragged sound from him, another whimper from you.
"Jesus—" His breath hitched when you arched up again—his praise coming out in rough whispers between kisses—"fuck, Henderson, knew you’d be like this” His fingers tangled in your hair, gentle but firm, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. "Knew you’d be a good girl—god, knew you'd be perfect—"
The words sent a shiver down your spine—how long had he thought about this? How long had he imagined you like this?—but the thought shattered when his thumb brushed over your nipple, sending sparks skittering across your skin.
You gasped and Steve grinned against your lips, chasing the sound with his tongue before pulling back just enough to murmur, "Yeah? That good?" His knee pressed harder between your thighs—without a doubt not an accident—and your fingers curled into his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach. "C'mon, baby—let go for me."
And you do. So hard and so sudden you didn’t even realise you were that close.
He gently eases his knee back, but his mouth doesn’t leave yours. His thumb traces idle circles against your hipbone as you come down, as your breathing slows. “Sound better than I ever imagined,” he murmurs, voice rough with something like wonder, like he can’t quite believe you’re really here with him, like this—after so many years being so close yet so far.
He’s not the only one.
You blink up at him—dazed, boneless—and Steve’s grin turns crooked, smug in a way that should be infuriating but just makes your stomach flutter instead. His free hand drifts up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your forehead, “You good?”
You nod and his thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone before he leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then your nose. Then your forehead.
Then he pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes, and you both smile. Then laugh. Quiet at first, huffed against each other’s lips, before it bubbles up properly—giddy and disbelieving—until you’re both breathless again for entirely different reasons.
Your fingers tighten in his shirt, wrinkling the fabric further as he shifts slightly but his grin falters when his gaze drifts lower. A slow blink. Then—"Oh." His throat works. "That’s—uh." His fingers twitch against your hip. "Still going."
Your brain catches up a beat too late—the buzzing still faint but unmistakable—and your mortified squeak cuts off abruptly when Steve abruptly slides off the bed. Not to leave, but to scoop the vibrator off the floor with a curious tilt of his head. Like he’s inspecting some alien artefact.
“Huh," he murmurs, thumb brushing over the controls before glancing back at you—your breathing still too fast, your thighs still trembling—and his grin turns certifiably wicked. "Ever used the highest setting?”
Your breath hitches—sharp and punched-out—before you’re lunging for it, but Steve twists away effortlessly, holding it just out of reach.
"Steve—" His name comes out embarrassingly close to a whine, but he just laughs, warm and breathless, before leaning back in. His lips brushing your ear as his free hand skims up your thigh.
"C’mon, Henderson," he murmurs, voice rough with amusement and something darker. "Thought you liked a challenge?"
The man knew you far too well.
You pout because yes, you enjoyed that, but you wanted more. Quite honestly you wanted him. You’d waited long enough.
Your fingers curl into his shirt once again, tugging him closer; peering up at him with eyes so readable Steve hesitates before his grip tightens on your hip, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. "Hey," he says softly, suddenly serious in a way that makes your stomach flip.
"I wanna do this right," he murmurs, and your brows pinch together—confused, impatient—until he continues, voice rough with sincerity. "The first time—our first time—I want it to be right. For you. For us.”
He paused, before seeming to get lost in his own thoughts as he rambled, “I want us to go out on a real date first. Dinner-or-or a picnic. Whatever you want–I mean not whatever whatever. Golden dragon with the killer egg rolls and the duck you love. Then we’d go to the drive-in and see The Princess Bride” - you blush even deeper, eyes briefly flickering behind him,“or Sixteen Candles or honestly whatever cheesy rom-com is on because I know those are your favourites even though you never admit it.”
And he's still going.
"And if it rained, we'd just stay in the car. Bring blankets. Hot chocolate. Maybe sneak in extra snacks because the food at the drive-in sucks. Then I’d drive you home and–"
You wanted him to keep going–forever preferably–but "Steve." You needed him to take a breath.
He blinks, face screaming that he’d said way more than he ever intended. "...What?"
“You thought about this?” You can’t hide the shock and quite frankly awe in your voice as you stare up at him all starry eyed.
"I have." His eyes stay locked on yours, impossibly open, impossibly honest. He pauses. Takes a deep, deep breath before adding, "...A lot."
You can't help the smile that spreads across your face. He’d thought about this. Not, just a brief oh that would be nice–no, he’d planned it. Curated it for you. Remembered your favourite food, your favourite movies.
Steve takes your silence as something else entirely–you can practically see his mind going a hundred miles-per-hour—so, slowly, you reach up and tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. Then you let your fingers drift through his hair.
You swear your heart does a complete somersault at the look in his eyes–softer than you've ever seen them–and the way he unconsciously leans into your touch. You’d thought about doing this—brushing your fingers through his hair, being this close, kissing him—for years. And now here you are.
You really needed to pinch yourself subtly because there was absolutely no way this was real.
You think if this was all you could ever have of Steve–a quick fuck because he’d caught you touching yourself–you honestly don’t know if that would be better or worse than having never had him at all.
Better because at least you knew, in some capacity, he felt something for you too; even if that was just base-level attraction.
Worse because you knew what it was like to have him so close. You knew how he kissed. You knew the exact shade of brown his eyes turned when he looked at you from this close.
Before you could pretend. Now you knew. And you knew you’d never be able to forget a moment of it.
But here he was. Telling you outright that he didn't want this to be all you had. And not just that—he wanted more. Had planned for more. Planned for all of it.
And somehow, impossibly, he wanted it all with you.
So, could you wait?
Yes. Yes you could.
Especially if you got a free chinese.
"I'd like that," you murmur. The words barely audible–inaudible if his face wasn't inches from yours.
His eyes widened, looking genuinely shocked, as if the last few minutes had been wiped from memory. Or maybe as though he'd never expected you to want this.
To want more.
“Yeah?” The single word is so hopeful, so achingly sincere, that it makes something in your chest squeeze painfully tight.
“Yeah.”
The smile that breaks across Steve's face is immediate–the kind that made his nose scrunch slightly at the bridge. For a moment, you just stayed like that. Smiling at each other like the lovesick idiots you were, caught somewhere between disbelief and happiness.
Then the faint buzzing seeps back into it.
Your eyes flicked to it simultaneously, the object still clutched in his hand, then back to each other and then you were laughing, breathless and giddy, foreheads bumping as he exhaled sharply through his nose.
His thumb hovered over the power button of the vibrator, his breath still uneven from laughter. "We can stop—" he started, already moving to switch it off, but your hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist with a boldness that surprised even you.
"Or we could..." Your grip tightened slightly, guiding his hand back toward you. "...not?"
Steve’s throat worked visibly. Frozen in place once again, his eyes locked on yours as your legs parted slightly.
Then he moved. Fast and clumsy and perfect all at once. His free hand cradled the back of your neck as he kissed you again, deeper this time, all heat and barely restrained want. You could feel the shape of his grin against your lips when you arched into him, your thighs bracketing his hips as he leaned over you.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts with a reverence that made your breath catch—not tugging, not demanding, just resting there, warm against your skin, waiting. Your hips lifted instinctively and Steve exhaled sharply through his nose before dragging the fabric down inch by torturous inch, his knuckles brushing the inside of your thighs as he went. The air was cool against your newly exposed skin, but the heat of his gaze more than made up for it.
The vibrator buzzed faintly between his fingers as he pressed it against the damp cotton of your underwear, the sensation muffled but still electric.
You gasped into his mouth, your fingers twisting into his hair—soft, always so damn soft—as he kissed you with a focus that bordered on worship. His lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then lower—to the pulse point beneath your ear, to the hollow of your throat—each touch igniting a fresh wave of heat under your skin.
Your hands roamed over him greedily, mapping the familiar slopes of his shoulders through his t-shirt before slipping beneath the fabric. His skin was warm, taut with muscle that flexed under your touch as he adjusted the angle of the toy, pressing harder just to hear you whimper.
"Christ, Henderson," he muttered against your collarbone, his free hand skimming up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. "You’re su—" The rest dissolved into a groan when your nails scraped lightly down his back, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, the rough drag of his sweatpants against your inner thighs sending sparks up your spine. “–fuck–good girl.” He scraped out.
The tension coiled tight in your stomach snapped all at once. A sudden, shuddering release that left you gasping against Steve’s shoulder, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. Your second orgasm hits you even harder than your first.
Distantly, you registered the choked noise he made against your neck, the way his hips stuttered against yours, the tremble in his thighs where they pressed against the mattress. But the haze was too thick, your own satisfaction too consuming, to parse what it meant well until your hand drifted lower.
You hummed dazed, still riding the aftershocks and reached for him, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants with clumsy intent. But before you could slip beneath the fabric, Steve’s hand covered yours, peeling it away gently.
You blinked up at him, confused, until you caught the flush creeping down his neck—the way his chest rose and fell just a little too fast. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but all that came out was a shaky exhale. Then you looked down.
Oh.
The realisation hit you like a bucket of cold water. The strained fabric. The damp spot. The way his thighs tensed when he shifted slightly.
Steve let out a breathless chuckle, his grip on your hip tightening reflexively as you couldn't stop the little breathless giggle you let out.
His cheeks burned brighter at the sound, one hand coming up to scrub awkwardly at his face as he exhaled sharply through his nose. "Christ," he muttered, voice rough with embarrassment and lingering arousal. "That's—uh—never happened before."
The admission made your stomach swoop—equal parts giddy pride and aching tenderness—and you reached for him instinctively, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. Steve's breath hitched when your knuckles brushed his stomach, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. And you really couldn't help yourself when you said:
“Better last longer next time Harrington, or I might regret saying yes.”
Steve groaned but caught your wrist gently, pressing your palm flat over his thundering heartbeat. "Shut up," he muttered, but there was no bite to it, just a breathless warmth you wanted to hear everyday for the rest of your life.
His thumb stroked over your pulse point absently before he exhaled and rolled onto his back beside you, staring up at your ceiling. The silence stretched, comfortable yet still charged, until he turned his head slightly, cheek pressed against your pillow. "So. Drive-in next Friday?"
The casualness of it—the normalcy—startled a laugh out of you. As if you hadn’t just—as if he hadn’t—
The laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest—hysterical and breathless—and you nodded, pressing your cheek into your pillow as you turned to face him.
“Yeah,” you managed between giggles, the word dissolving into another helpless laugh when Steve grinned and kissed you again, his nose bumping yours awkwardly in his haste. It was messy and off-center and somehow still so goddamn perfect—his lips still curved with laughter as they moved against yours, the taste of shared amusement sweeter than any wine.
Jesus you were down bad. But luckily for you, so was he.
Dividers by @designlikenonsense (aka me hehe… had to do some shameless self promo)
P.S. Did not expect the reaction to the teaser... hope whoever interacted with that is not disappointed...
P.P.S. Playing around with paragraph lengths! I always write longer paragraphs, but thought that made it harder to read on here so I've been chopping them up but... I've seen discourse to the opposite so im trialling (what I call) 'mid-length paragraphs'
summary: steve can’t keep his eyes off his neighbor every time she goes for a night swim
warnings: smut, perv!steve, male masturbation, dubcon (?), peeping tom vibes, cursing
word count: 1.5k
from jen: i love this one so i hope you guys do too!! angst and maybe one more smut fic coming tomorrow. as always, with love <3
Look away. Look away. Look away. Look away.
Steve’s angel on his shoulder is screaming at him, begging for the man to listen but he doesn’t. He can’t.
Because less than a hundred feet away from him, you’re there. Carefree and beautiful, swimming and floating around in your pool.
Never mind that it’s almost one in the morning. Every night for the past two weeks, you’ve stepped onto your patio and swam laps around the pool while Steve watches from his window.
He can’t tell if it’s a blessing or a curse that his bedroom window has the perfect view of your backyard, and the pool you’ve occupied lately.
Steve doesn’t know you well. You moved into the house next to his only a few months ago – renting it from the Belmont’s he’s grown up living next to.
You seemed nice, kind even. On the first week, you had knocked on his door with a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. You introduced yourself with a dizzying smile, and a syrupy sweet voice – he physically had to stop himself from drooling.
And once you were fully settled in, your routine began. You worked at the diner in midtown, and he only knew that because saw you wearing the uniform dress and apron while he was checking the mail – not because he was watching you (he absolutely was).
You seemed to take the mid shifts for the most part. You left for work around 2PM and came home at 9PM, four days out of the week. He wasn’t sure what you did once you were home but once midnight hit, you were in the pool – every night like clockwork.
And tonight’s no exception.
Steve is standing in front of his window, far enough to not be seen unless you’re really looking, but still close enough to see you clearly. There’s not much light outside – most of it comes from the reflection of the moon and a warmer light you’ve installed in your own backyard.
You’ve been swimming for almost thirty minutes now and not once has his eyes wandered from the sight of you. Despite the darkness, he can see you perfectly. You’re floating on your back now and your body is on full display to him.
You’re wearing a red bikini and the color is so stark, it almost glows against the water. Your arms are moving slowly under the water to keep you afloat, your knees and ankles moving carefully to help tread the water.
He can’t tell if your eyes are open or not, and it’s hard to focus on anything except your tits.
Steve inwardly cringes at himself, and tears his eyes away from you – choosing to stare at a patch of carpet on his bedroom floor instead. He’s being disgusting and disrespectful. You’re in the comfort of your own home, doing something that brings you peace and he’s invading that. Even if you don’t know it.
He should close his blinds– no, he’s going to.
Just as Steve looks back up to close the curtains, his eyes land back on where you were floating but something’s different.
You’re still floating, easily treading water but this time, without your fucking top on.
Steve’s mouth goes completely dry and his already half hard cock, hardens even more – straining against the waistband of his sweatpants.
He sees the bikini top you had on barely two minutes ago now hanging off the small stonewall ledge of the pool. For a second, he wonders if you took it off for him. But that would be ridiculous. Surely if you had even an inkling of him watching you, you would storm right up to him and smack him across his face – probably yell obscenities at him, maybe even call the police.
Right?
Steve swallows harshly and despite telling himself to shut the blinds a few moments ago, he grabs the chair from his desk and slides it to in front of the window. He settles into it without much more thought and watches as you move through the water.
He knows he shouldn’t but all common sense has left his mind and has been overtaken by hunger. Steve’s hands find the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, swiftly tugging them down past his thighs.
The cool air hits his skin and just barely offers him some sense of relief. He can feel the bead of precum wet on his tip. Keeping his eyes on you, he raises his hand and carefully spits into his palm. He wraps his palm around his cock, slowly twisting his wrist as he jerks himself off.
“Fuck,” He breathes aloud. The relief is immediate, and even though he wishes it was your hand instead of his, he welcomes it.
His wet hand keeps working around himself, and he watches you descend under water. You stay under for a few seconds, long enough to make him miss you. Finally, you come back up, your hands raising to push your drenched hair away from your face.
Steve doesn’t even try to silence the moan that spills from his throat. His eyes follow the way the water cascades from down your face, down your throat, all the way till it falls over your tits. Your mouth is just barely hung open, very clearly so you can inhale fresh air, and water slides over your rosy pink lips.
Steve’s hand moves faster as he keeps his gaze glued to you. His room fills with the sound of his slick hand fisting his cock, his hand stroking himself up and down, up and down.
He whines into the air as you lean backwards again, your chest and torso displayed to him again and he’s so, so fucking grateful.
“Oh fuck, mhmm,” Steve groans, his hand moving faster. The lewd schlick sound of his wet palm stroking his cock surrounds him, it’s so loud he’s almost worried you’d be able to hear it.
His breathing getting heavier as he tracks the way you move. His eyes threaten to squeeze shut but he can’t bring himself to look away from you, even for a second.
You keep moving, slowly swimming from the shallow end to the deep end. Your body moves to effortlessly, so beautifully and his mind begins to wander.
He imagines how you’d look riding him. He imagines how your tits would bounce in clear view of his face, perfect for him to grab and squeeze as you fuck yourself on his cock.
His hand tightens around his shaft, a thin layer of sweat building at his temple. He keeps thinking of how you’d look as he fucked you.
He could fuck you in that same pool – push you against the stone wall, holding your hips in place as he fucks into you. He imagines every pretty sound that would slip past your lips, how you’d whine and beg for more.
“S-Shit. Yeah, just like that, baby,” Steve hisses as he moans mindlessly, his hand pumps his dick faster, rougher. He’s so close already.
He focuses back on you. You’re floating in the shallow end again, and Steve’s gaze is fixated on the way your hand rises out of the water, the tips of your fingers gently gliding across the west skin of your stomach, up the valley of your breasts, carefully circling the skin around your nipple.
His hand is frantic now, stroking himself relentlessly as he stares at you. He’s a moaning, blubbering mess as he watches the way you touch yourself. It’s a show perfectly made for him.
Steve felt that rush of adrenaline coursing in his veins, traveling through his chest and all the way down to his cock. He was right there, and as he watches you emerge from the pool – water soaking your tanned body, droplets sliding down your skin, he’s thrown over the edge.
His stomach tightens, head thrown back as he whines your name into the air. He barely has time to throw his shirt upwards, exposing his stomach as warm ropes of cum spurt from his cock, coating his skin.
His chest heaves, and he keeps his hand moving over his skin, drawing out his orgasm. It takes him a few seconds for the ringing to leave his ears and come back to reality. His hand uncurls itself from around his dick, and he lets it drop against his sticky stomach.
Steve tracks you as you step out of the water and reach for a towel. He’s sad as you cover yourself up, but as his mind catches up with his body, he realizes he should feel guilty. His face burns with shame and he moves to clean himself up.
He grabs a few napkins from his nightstand, wiping his cum off his skin, and tells himself this was a one time thing and it will never happen again.
All the while, you continue to dry your own skin off, with a devious smirk covering your face because you got exactly what you wanted. The same fucking show he did.
summary: during the chaos of herogasm, you are forced to distract a triggered soldier boy and hold him off until homelander arrives.
content warnings: ( 18+ ) mdni. explicit sexual content. no use of yn. ptsd mention. dubious consent (seduction for a mission/ulterior motive). unprotected p in v. rough sex. dirty talk. overstimulation. orgasm denial/edging. oral sex (both receiving). praise/degradation kink. pet names. size difference & super-soldier physiology. age gap/generational gap. property damage (tearing of clothing).
word count: 3.4k
The air in the Vermont mansion was thick with the scent of cheap champagne, expensive lube, and the copper tang of blood. Outside the heavy oak door of the bedroom, the chaos of Herogasm was reaching a fever pitch, but inside, the silence was much more dangerous.
Soldier Boy was standing by the window, his back to you. His frame was massive, shoulders blocking out the moonlight. But it was the hum that terrified you. A low, rhythmic thrumming was vibrating through the floorboards, emanating directly from his chest. His fist was clenched so hard the wood of his shield creaked under the pressure.
"Hey," you whispered, your voice trembling despite your training. "You need to breathe. Butcher and the others… they're still clearing the floor. You can't let it go yet."
He turned slowly. His eyes weren't just blue anymore; they were glowing with a volatile, golden radiation. The PTSD was hitting him like a freight train.
"I don't take orders from you, sweetheart," he growled, his voice a gravelly rasp. "And I sure as hell don't 'breathe' my way out of a fight."
You felt the need to check your comms after hearing that.
"Y'need to get him under control, luv," Butcher's voice crackled in your ear like you expected. "He blows now, and we lose our shot at Homelander. Cunt's not 'ere yet."
Soldier Boy's interest was still not on you. So you turned your back to him and quickly whispered, "I'm sorry but how the hell am I supposed to 'get him under control'?"
"Just find a way to distract him, will ya?" he said it like it was the easiest fucking thing to do.
Well, figures you don't have any other choice than to try to distract him for a while—who knows for how long—So, you nodded your head even though Butcher couldn't see it. You were sure that he already knew that you would find a way, like you always did.
You looked at the man in front of you. He looked like a god on the verge of a tantrum. Normal tactics wouldn't work. You had to give that pent-up energy somewhere else to go. You had to ground him.
For God's sake—yeah, you definitely didn't want the boys to hear the next words that were about to come out of your mouth. So, you sighed and decided it would be the best to turn your comms off.
"You're right," you said, slowly but surely stepping into his space, heart hammering against your ribs. "You don't take orders. You've been complaining about how soft this century is, haven't you?" You reached out, your fingers grazing the cold tactical gear over his chest. "I was just wondering if… if you could show me exactly how they did it in the '40s?"
The humming stopped instantly. Soldier Boy's eyes narrowed, the golden glow flickering but staying dim. A slow, dark smirk spread across his face—the look of a predator who just found a much more interesting prey.
"Is that right?" He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. He smelled like tobacco, old leather, and pure power. "You think you can handle a man like me? Or are you just tryin' to be a hero, little girl?"
"I'm not trying to be a hero," you breathed, sliding your hands up to his neck, feeling the immense heat radiating from his skin. "I'm just trying to be yours. I can't get it out of my mind… Since the first moment I saw you alive with my own eyes."
Well, that wasn't completely a lie. He was an asshole, for sure. But he was an extremely good-looking asshole. And the thought of how it would feel to have him inside you—as just a normal human—might have crossed your mind once or twice.
In a blurred movement, his hand went to your throat—not enough to choke, but enough to claim—and slammed you back against the wall.
"You dirty little girl," he rumbled, leaning down so his lips brushed against your ear. His breath was hot. "And here I was thinkin' you kept givin' me all those glares because you fuckin' hated all Supes. But you were just eye-fucking me with dirty images flashin' in your mind, weren't you?"
He didn't wait for an answer—for any other thing. His mouth crashed onto yours, tasting of bourbon and suppressed rage. It wasn't a soft kiss; it was a conquest. He bit your lower lip until you gasped, using the opening to deepen the kiss, his tongue marking his territory with a ruthless hunger.
His free hand moved to your waist, his fingers digging into your hip with bruising force as he hoisted you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, feeling the hard line of him pressing against you.
"That's it," he muttered against your skin as he moved his lips to the junction of your neck and shoulder. "Cling to me. I want to feel how much you're shaking."
He threw you onto the massive bed after a few minutes of kissing and biting you there, not bothering with any grace. And before you could even catch your breath, he was over you, his heavy weight pinning you into the mattress. He began stripping his gear with efficient, practiced movements, his eyes never leaving yours.
"I'm gonna teach you a lesson about playin' with fire," he said, his voice dropping an octave, pure silk and gravel. "By the time I'm done with you, you won't be able to stand, let alone worry about Butcher or any of that stuff you're always worryin' about."
As he moved between your thighs, his large, calloused hands guided yours above your head, pinning your wrists against the headboard with a single hand.
"What? Scared?" he rumbled, that crooked smirk back on his face as he dropped the last of his clothes, standing before you only in his black boxers.
You shook your head, with your eyes roaming over between his now bare chest and his face.
"Didn't quite catch that, darling?" he said teasingly.
"No," you replied, trying to sound confident. "I'm not scared."
The smirk on his face sharpened, turning into something predatory and primal. He liked the defiance, even if it was wrapped in a trembling voice. He leaned down, his chest brushing against your breasts, the heat coming off him feeling like a literal furnace.
"Good," he growled, the vibration of his voice rattling your bones. "Because I don't like it when they break too easy."
His free hand didn't go for your buttons or zippers. He wasn't in the mood for the patience of this 'soft' century. He gripped the fabric of your shirt and yanked, the sound of tearing material filling the room as he exposed you to the cool air and his scorching gaze, making you gasp in shock. He didn't wait before unclasping your bra and throwing it on the floor carelessly, alongside with your ruined shirt.
You didn't even have time to protest when his hands reached the waistband of your pants. He stripped them down with a violent efficiency, leaving you in nothing but your lace underwear.
He paused then, his eyes dark and heavy as they traveled over your body. "Will you look at that," he muttered, his thumb tracing the line of your hip, pressing hard enough to leave a mark. "I've been in a cage for decades, sweetheart. Y'have no idea how much trouble you're in right now."
His hand slid lower, hooking into the delicate fabric of your panties. With a single, brutal tug, the lace gave way, the sound of it snapping loud in the quiet room. He tossed the scrap of fabric aside like it was nothing, leaving you completely exposed under his shadow.
"Jesus—" you opened your mouth this time. "Can you stop tearing up my clothes?"
He almost laughed. "Well, there's nothin' left to tear up now." You wanted to roll your eyes, wanted to be annoyed by him—but you couldn't even do that.
"You wanted the '40s?" he whispered, his hand sliding between your thighs, forcing them wider. "Back in my day, we didn't waste time asking for permission when a girl was lookin' at us the way you look at me."
Before you could even draw a breath to respond, he disappeared beneath the hem of your vision. He gripped your thighs with hands that could crush steel, pinning your legs back until you were completely open to him.
When his tongue first made contact, you let out a sharp, broken cry, your hips bucking off the mattress. He was ruthless. He didn't ease into it; he used his tongue with the same aggressive authority he used his shield. He swiped across your center with long, firm strokes, his stubble grazing your sensitive skin, adding a delicious, stinging friction to the heat.
"You like that, don't you, little hero?" He muttered against your slick skin, his voice muffled but dripping with amusement. And then—he decided to add a finger, and it wasn't long before the second one came along.
He was brutal but efficient. His tongue wasn't gentle; it was firm and rhythmic, lapping and sucking at you with predatory hunger. His fingers, those same hands that had crushed skulls, were now dipping into your heat, sliding deep inside you, testing how wet you were, stretching you, while his mouth continued its merciless assault on your clit.
You were shaking, your mind dissolving into white heat. You couldn't think about the mission, about Homelander, about anything but the massive man between your legs and the pleasure he was wringing out of you. You clamped your thighs around his shoulders, your breath coming in short, needy pants.
"Yeah, scream for me," he rumbled against your wetness, the sound muffled but vibrating through your entire nervous system. "Let the whole damn house hear you. Let Butcher know exactly what's keeping you so busy."
He reached up, grabbing your wrists again, pinning them back so you couldn't do anything but endure the pleasure. He sucked at you with a rhythmic, bruising hunger, his fingers digging into your glutes to hold you steady.
"You're so fucking wet," he growled, pulling back for a fraction of a second to look up at you, his face glistening, his eyes hooded and dark. "Did you get this way just thinkin' about me? Thinkin' about how a real man would handle you?"
He didn't wait for an answer, diving back in, his pace quickening. He was relentless, driving you toward the edge with a focused intensity that made the golden glow in his chest flicker again—not with rage this time, but with a raw, sexual heat. Your breath came in ragged gasps, your head tossing back against the pillows as the first waves of the climax began to roll through you.
"That's it, doll," he growled, pulling back just enough to look up at you, his beard wet with your juices. His expression was primal, utterly dominant. "Come for me. Come like the dirty little girl you are."
He resumed his pace, faster now. His tongue was relentless, his fingers buried inside you. You couldn't hold on. Your head fell back, a loud, broken cry escaping you as your body clenched, riding the waves of an orgasm so intense you felt your consciousness flicker. He didn't stop, even when you were coming, his tongue continuing to lap at you until the last shudders faded.
You were dazed, your body humming with aftershocks, but you knew what you had to do next. You didn't wait any longer before scrambling onto your knees, looking at him. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed your mouths together again. Slowly lowering him back against the pillows with the company of open-mouthed kisses. He was already semi-hard, thick and intimidating.
You leaned over him without a word, feeling small against his bulk. You wrapped your hand around his length, his skin hot and smooth. You lowered your head, your tongue running up his shaft, testing the waters. A low rumble of approval came from his chest.
You took him into your mouth without wasting any more time. He was thick, and you struggled to take him all in, your jaw aching as you worked. But he wasn't a man of patient; one of his hands came down and wrapped around your hair, his grip firm as he guided your movements. He thrust his hips slightly, forcing you deeper, testing your limits.
"Yeah, you like that," he dirty-talked, his voice choked. "Take it, all of it. Good little slut."
You worked him, sucking and lapping, using the lubrication he'd provided to pleasure him. His rumbles of approval turned into choked groans. But then, he pulled your head back, looking down at you with a mix of hunger and possessiveness.
In one swift, powerful motion, he flipped you, throwing you onto your back. He crawled over you again, his weight immense, his eyes locking onto yours with terrifying intensity. He gripped your thighs, spreading you so wide you thought your hips might snap, and settled between them.
He didn't have a condom. He didn't ask. Soldier Boy didn't need to ask for permission. He lined himself up against your wet entrance, his tip probing.
"I'm gonna fill you so full you won't remember your own name," he growled, his voice a promise of complete domination.
He didn't ease into you. He thrust, hard and fast, burying his entire length inside you in a single, brutal motion. A sharp gasp and a loud curse tore from you, but he didn't slow down. Instead, he started moving; his movements rough and powerful, each thrust hitting you with the force of a battering ram.
He was huge, stretching you completely, filling you so deeply you felt him hit your cervix. But it was the heat that was the most intense—the radiation was humming just beneath his skin, making every inch of him feel electric, dangerous, and incredibly pleasurable.
"You're so tight," he hissed against your ear, his breath hot and fast. "Too damn bad that I'm gonna ruin you for anyone else, doll."
His hands were all over you—digging into your hips, pinning your shoulders, his thumbs rubbing your nipples as he pounded into you. He was relentless, his pace maddening. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your nails digging into his back, matching his raw energy with a desperation you didn't know you possessed.
"Soldier Boy," you gasped, your voice broken.
"Say my name," he growled, biting your neck, marking you. "Say it."
"Ben," you choked out, your body tightening again. "Ben, please."
He didn't slow down. The humming in his chest was getting louder, a low rumble of power that vibrated through your entire body. He was close, and so were you.
"Please what?" he rasped, his voice ragged. "Use your words, sweetheart."
"Please... don't stop, Ben. Harder," you sobbed out, any shred of your remaining composure completely shattering under his weight.
Hearing his real name on your lips combined with that desperate plea did something to him. The crooked, arrogant smirk vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated dominance. The golden hum in his chest flared, a sudden surge of heat radiating through his skin that made your vision blur with pleasure.
"You asked for it, doll," he growled, his voice dropping into a gravelly register that vibrated right through your skull.
He didn't just pick up the pace; he turned—even more—brutal. He reached down and grabbed your knees, forcing them all the way up toward your shoulders, pinning you into a position that left you completely, helplessly open to him.
Then, he began to drive into you with terrifying power. Every single thrust was a calculated assault, his heavy hips slamming against yours with a loud, fleshy rhythm that echoed over the distant sounds of the chaos outside.
"Look at you," he rasped, leaning down so his sweating chest dragged against your sensitive nipples. "Takin' all of it. Built just right for a real man."
You couldn't even form words anymore. Your hands clutched wildly at his back, nails digging into his skin as you rode the line between agony and absolute ecstasy. He was stretching you to your absolute limits, hitting your cervix with a relentless, bruising force that made your entire lower abdomen clench in desperate waves.
"Ben—oh God, I-I'm gonna—"
"Not yet," he ordered, his fingers digging into your jaw, forcing you to look directly into his eyes. "You hear me, doll?"
When you didn't—couldn't—answer, his free hand came down to your clit without mercy, making you cry out in both pain and pleasure.
"Answer me," he demanded.
"Yes—yes! I hear you! Please…" you cried out, your voice breaking as his thumb applied a ruthless, grinding pressure to your swollen clit.
The dual assault of his thick length punishing you from the inside and his calloused fingers overstimulating you on the outside was pure torture, a devastating blend of pleasure that had your mind completely short-circuiting.
"Good girl," he growled, a dark, satisfied grin cutting through the intense focus on his face.
He didn't ease up on his fingers, using his thumb to circle and pinch your hyper-sensitive core while his hips resumed their heavy, battering rhythm.
"Look at me," he commanded, his grip on your jaw tightening just enough to keep your tear-filled eyes locked onto his gaze. "Look at who you belong to right now."
Your nails dug deeper into the heavy muscle of his shoulders, your back arching off the mattress as you tried to either push him deeper or pull away from the unbearable friction—you didn't even know which anymore. You were entirely at his mercy, weeping softly from the sheer intensity of it.
"Ben, please," you begged, your hips bucking instinctively against his. "I-I'm coming—"
"Yeah, you are," he rasped, his breathing turning completely ragged, his chest heaving against yours. "Let me see it."
With a sudden, violent shift in momentum, he let go of your jaw and hooked his arms under your knees, pulling them all the way back to your chest to open you up even wider. He drove into you with everything he had, his heavy frame slamming against you with a raw, primal force that completely stole the air from your lungs.
His thumb gave one final, sharp and heavy slap against your clit, and that was the breaking point. Your vision went completely white as your body gave out, exploding into a violent, clenching climax that squeezed him like a vice.
"Fuck, yeah, that's it!" Ben roared, his own control shattering at the tight, pulsating grip of your walls.
He didn't slow down for your orgasm; he used it. He pounded through the contractions, his thrusts becoming frantic and shallow as his muscles locked up. With a deep, guttural growl that vibrated from his chest straight into yours, he buried himself to the absolute root and came, unloading a thick, burning heat deep inside you. His hips shuddered against yours in powerful, desperate spasms as he filled you completely.
For a long minute, the only sound in the room was the heavy, synchronized gasping your breathings. Ben collapsed on top of you, his massive frame crushing you into the mattress, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he let out a long, exhausted sigh that smelled faintly of bourbon. Your thighs were trembling, covered in a mixture of sweat and the heavy heat he had left inside you.
"Holy fuck," you finally breathed out.
"Yeah," Soldier Boy said with a low chuckle.
The crushing weight of his massive frame slowly lifted as he rolled off you, the mattress groaning under his shift in movement. He settled onto his back beside you, one heavy, scarred arm slung carelessly behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. His chest was still heaving, covered in a slick sheen of sweat.
A slow, arrogant smirk crawled back onto his face as he looked down at you, his green eyes full of pure, smug satisfaction.
"For a girl who says she hates Supes, you sure as hell didn't have any problem wrappin' your legs around one," he rumbled, his voice a gravelly, post-coital purr that vibrated warmly against your bare shoulder.
You opened your mouth to snap back, but you had to close it back when you couldn't find anything to say.
He chuckled darkly, a low sound that came from deep within his chest. "I wonder what Butcher would say if he knew his favorite little soldier was in here getting ruined by the biggest Supe of 'em all."
a/n: first time publishing on tumblr, kinda nervous ngl. hope it was good enough, you can always share it with me if you enjoyed it!!
i also want to say that i have a hate-love relationship with soldier boy (i think they ruined his character in s5). but it's jensen ackles so i simply couldn't resist the urge to write this.
SUMMARY: Dean always thought the end of the world would come with exploding suns and the walking dead—not in the shape of his best friend suddenly flirting with him. 9.7k
WARNINGS: best friend!reader. friends to lovers. suggestive language. pining. fluff. humor. dean's self-deprecating shenanigans. masturbation. implied smut. dry humping. breeding kink if you squint really hard. this was very random but i ended up loving it. set somewhere mid s2.
Dean is scared. Like really, really fucking terrified.
He’s faced everything a person can be afraid of. Vampires, ghosts, weird one-of-a-kind monsters. He’s fought enough demons—both physical and metaphorical—to drive the strongest man crazy. He fucking had to build the pyre where his father’s body would eventually turn to ashes by himself, for God’s sake.
But nothing, nothing has scared the shit out of him more than you flirting with him.
The first time it happened, he didn’t even notice you were flirting. His mind was just so closed off to the possibility, the idea so far-fetched and insane that even now—weeks later, as he stares at the peeling painting on the wall, ruminating—it still blows his fucking mind.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You and Sam had been talking non-stop the whole ride from Tennessee to a dingy motel in rural Virginia, completely engrossed in your brainy shit. Dean caught bits and pieces of it every so often, when the thin but comforting fog that a long drive provides to his brain dissipates enough for him to actually register your words.
But it’s not like it mattered if he paid attention, it’s all Greek to him anyway.
It was only once he stopped at a gas station, leaning against Baby’s side while he waited for the tank to fill, that he actually tried to follow your conversation.
He opened the driver’s door and rested his arms on Baby’s roof, pressing his forehead against the crook of his elbow and peaking down at his baby brother and his best friend, the cold leather of his jacket a relief in the southern summer heat.
Sammy was leaning against the front seat’s backrest so he could meet your eyes, long limbs all twisted and his face still exhausted with everything that’s happened in the past year. His eyes were glittery as he nodded along to whatever you were saying, shaggy hair flopping around his head, and once again Dean has to wonder just how the fuck Dad pretended for Dean to kill the kid.
The memory of John’s words always leave him wilted and venomous, Dean tries so hard not to think about them. He turned his eyes to you instead. You were draped across the backseat—long legs bare thanks to your tiny shorts, socked feet pressed against the left door, your back resting against the right one.
You always make sure to take off your shoes before propping them up on the bench, without Dean even having to ask. You just seem to instinctively sense how much he cares for Baby, working as hard as he does to keep her clean and pretty. Dean doesn’t dwell on it.
He also didn’t dwell on how good you looked then, with the afternoon sun flaring behind you and making your hair glow, all sprawled out in his car. He’d gotten over the fantasies of climbing on top of you and kissing you until the two of you melted into the Impala long ago, around the time he’d gotten over any hope of you ever wanting him back.
Still, seeing your smooth skin against the black, shiny vinyl sent a shudder down his spine. If only.
His life lately has become nothing but just a long, boring list of cobweb-covered If-Only’s.
He quickly drew his attention to the words leaving Sammy’s mouth and away from your chest in that thin, translucent tank top.
“Blue eyes are genetic mutations to adapt to the sun.” The kid sounded the exact same as he had in middle school. Dean wondered if the reason why he didn’t get bullied more often was because two rogue teenage boys staying in the town’s cheapest motel was always a scary enough tale that kept most ruffians away. “Just like dark skin.”
“Yes! That’s also why people who live near deserts have longer, thicker eyelashes. It’s a mutation to protect their eyes,” you chimed in with an eager little smile. Dean almost saw you pushing phantom reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. “And, actually, lighter skin would be the mutation, since humanity originated in Africa.”
Sammy nodded enthusiastically, just like he did whenever he was presented with new information. Dean remembered then why, when you were younger, he used to memorize random fun facts in the library and then report them back to you two after a bad hunt or a nightmarish evening.
That pair of bright, dorky, always-too-wide eyes staring at him with that exact same awe always did wonders to keep the venom in his blood from spilling.
“How did you even get there?” he asked, voice dripping with laughter. “The last thing I heard from you was Halle Berry.”
“Of course it was, horndog.” You rolled your eyes, a wide smile tugging at your lips. The teenage instinct to puff up with pride at the sight stirred, he stomped on it until it stopped moving. “We were talking X-Men. Genetic mutations just kind of fell into place.”
“Right, obviously.” He scoffed. “You’re gonna infest my car with your nerd-virus, geeks.”
“May I remind you of all the Marvel Comics hidden in the trunk, under all your porn ones?”
“No, you may not.”
You snorted, crossing your arms and turning back to Sammy, widening your eyes as if saying: Can you believe this guy?
“I thought you’d be interested in the topic, Dean. Since you seem to try and prove Darwinism in every motel mini-fridge you find.”
Dean glared at his brother, one hand leaving Baby’s roof so he could flip him off. It only made you laugh harder. If Dean preened then, it’s between him and the voices in his head.
“I’d think you Winchesters have a genetic mutation that calls for trouble. The Winchester gene.” You pulled your knees closer to your chest, leaving him with a perfect view of your ever-bruised knees. He wanted to kiss them away, he wanted to leave more. The heat was getting to him. “Call Professor X, I’ve found a new mutation. Gene-W, which stands for Worst Fucking Luck in the Whole World.”
You’re such a fucking idiot.
How was Dean supposed to spend almost every waking moment with you, and not love you? It was impossible. Dad had to know he couldn’t do it, even when he yelled at Dean to get his head out of “some random chick’s cunt and man up. Focus on what’s important.”
God had to know as well, even when He made Dean fundamentally unlovable. It has to be divine punishment, sending him the perfect girl and making her so holy that she was untouchable, especially when Dean’s hands are coated with sacrilege.
“That’s three W’s.” It was the only thing his brain could spit out that wasn’t pleasepleaseplease.
Just once, just one time.
I need you so bad, it’s killing me.
Please.
“I’ll call it the 3W-gene, then.” You shrugged, wiggling in your place until you were sitting with your feet on the car floor. You stared at him then, eyes scanning his face with a nebulosity that he’d never seen before. They burned on his skin, hotter than the sun and more intoxicating than the scent of gasoline. Finally, your lips twisted upwards. “Which I’d have to guess makes up ninety percent of your DNA. Though it looks like you were made for the desert as well.”
Dean frowned, blinked down at you, wondered if you were having a heat stroke.
“But I’m… white? I mean, I know I don’t really get sunburnt, and I tan easily, but—”
“No, I mean—” You gaped at him, like you were trying to figure out if he was intentionally playing dumb. Dean didn’t realize what he was missing, the truth so far removed from every stone-set belief in his head that it seemed ridiculous to even go there. You had to sense his genuine confusion, because the disbelief vanished and left behind only giggling. “I was talking about your eyelashes, dummy.”
Ouch. Dean tried to hide the pang that traveled down his ribs, his lips pressed together in what he will never admit was a pout. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”
“Jesus Christ.” You sounded exasperated as you huffed, but also fond. Dean felt adrift. “Forget it, Dean.”
“No, no. Wait!” But you were already sliding out of the car, walking across scalding concrete and spilled oil toward the restrooms, too far away for him to stop you. He bent down and tried to read some answers out of Sammy's face, but all he got was a mocking smile.
He searched for you again, but by then you were already walking into the gas station’s Dunkin Donuts. Still, he yelled after you.
“What’s wrong with my lashes?!”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
He didn’t get it the second time either.
Actually, it took him until the third time you shamelessly flirted with him for Dean to catch up with the situation. But it was just so… unimaginable.
Dean spent every waking moment of his younger years trying to charm you. Well-trained grins and lingering hands, compliments spilling like honey from his lips and pick-up lines flying your way like perfectly-aimed bullets.
But Dean missed every time.
You used to laugh, hiding your smile behind your hand and shoving him back like he was just being silly. At first, he was. You were gorgeous, and Dean was nineteen and horny. He could tell there was something different about you, with the quick hammering of his heart and the fuzz that tingled his brain when you walked in the room, but he paid it no mind.
Being a hunter meant that knocking on love’s door would always be risky. Being a Winchester meant that door was closed and locked forever. Being Dean meant that there was no door at all.
Love wasn’t an option, but he could have sex. He took that small grace and ran with it.
He never expected more than a night with you, maybe a fortnight if he was lucky enough. Then you could leave, or stick around for a while and ditch them when you got tired of him, and Dean wouldn’t mop over it. He’d gotten what he wanted—or all he could afford to want—and you’d just be another speck of dust on his rearview mirror.
But then you’d turned every single one of his advances down, always with a teasing but sweet smile on your face, and you’d stayed.
Through his twenty-first birthday, through Sam’s escape to college, through Dad’s death. Dean has been rattled with grief a million times since then, breaking down into pieces and glueing himself back together with scotch tape and stale beer, and still you stay by his side.
Dean doesn’t get it, but once again, he takes the grace—miracle, he would call it—and does everything he can to keep it.
No more flirting, no more secret touches under tables, no more trying to sleep with you.
It soon became evident that having you in his life meant more than casual sex could ever mean, and so Dean buried all of his desire so deep down that he thinks it might’ve backfired and infused with his soul instead of disappearing. He pretends it did, though, never letting his sickness get in the way of your friendship.
He’s good at pretending. It’s all he’s ever done.
At some point in time, that desire began to transform, bubbling up and becoming syrupy—like tar. Dean keeps throwing dirt over it like a dog trying to hide the bones of his last meal, fangs still bloody. It’s barely enough.
All of this to say, you’ve had a million opportunities to make a move on him.
Back in that shack in Oregon when you were twenty, or ten months ago when Sam had just entered your lives again and Dean was getting sloppy, giving you sultry looks over diner menus, his bantering quickly taking on a seductive undertone whenever you went back and forth. He’d pulled himself together soon enough, but you had still brushed him off just as easily as you had back in ‘98.
Because that’s just how the universe works—Dean swallows it all down until something escapes him and then you turn it down. You don’t flirt, and you sure as fuck don’t call his eyelashes long and thick or his face pretty.
That time… yeah, Dean should’ve probably gotten it then.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You were sitting in the bed of a rusty-red pickup truck, parked in the middle of nowhere Virginia, just a week after the first incident.
You were already a quarter down your way to North Carolina when Sam remembered the witch’s shadow book he’d forgotten back in the motel. You’d all considered just leaving it, but the risk of some poor maid coming across it and wandering down a dark and dangerous path was too big. So Sam had left you in some ghost town in the middle of the woods, taking off with Baby before Dean could regret offering her to him.
Dean had stolen a truck, driving you out of the road and between the trees until you’d found a small clearing near a lake, far away enough from town that no locals would give you trouble.
It was still hot as fuck, the air thick and humid, leaving your hair frizzy and Dean’s throat dry. The sky was clear, a million stars winking down at you, and so you settled on the bed of the truck, desperate for as much fresh air as you could get.
Sam at least had the decency to let you pull a few things out of the trunk before he sped away, including a big blanket that you spread over the dirty metal before climbing inside, Dean following close by.
You laid on your back with a flashlight in one hand and a book propped up over your face in the other, bathing in the moonlight as your eyes hungrily absorbed every word in those pages. Dean lit up a cigarette and watched the smoke travel with the breeze, listening to the familiar buzz of the forest and fidgeting with his M1911.
His back was pressed against the bedside, leaving him with the perfect view of the tree line. And you.
You looked like an angel. Definitely divine punishment.
At some point your legs ended up tangled, blissfully-bare skin against stubborn denim. You knocked your knee with his but kept your eyes on the book, Dean watched you. The way you held the flashlight between your teeth when you needed to flip the page, the light that reflected on the paper and highlighted the curve of your throat, the scar on your cheek from when you jumped between Dean and a knife the witch had thrown at him.
“Watcha reading?” He couldn’t keep the words down, they swirl in the air along with the smoke. This time you spare him a glance.
“Gothic horror. Very Americana, fits the vibe perfectly.” With your hand still holding your book open, you gestured to your surroundings. Dean chuckled. “You’d like it, if you could read.”
“Hey!” He kicked you softly in the shin. “I know how to read, thank you very much!”
“You do? Woah, news to me.”
“I’d be the worst hunting partner if I didn’t. Research would take us ages.” Your eyes went back to the book. It was unbearable. “At least have the decency to look at me when you insult me, you little dweeb.”
You dropped the novel next to your head, getting up on one elbow so you could finally meet Dean’s gaze. The flashlight kept pointing up, enveloping everything in faint yellow light. Dean’s hair stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, his white ratty t-shirt suddenly too tight.
“Sam and I always do the research anyway.” You flexed your leg, your knee now hooked over his as you laid on your side. Dean was an adult, he could handle this.
“So what’s my job then, attack dog?”
A small frown crossed your face, it was quickly replaced by a teasing smirk. “Nah. Your job is to sit there and look pretty.”
The overwhelming quiet of the wilderness and the haziness of the tacky night made it all feel like a dream. Dean had to be hallucinating the slight tilt of your face, the warm glint in your irises, your teeth grazing your lip.
“What?”
“Every team needs The Pretty One. Makes it easier to be approachable, you know how a shining smile can do wonders.” Dean almost wanted to clear his ears with his fingers. What the fuck was happening? “Though you just had to be pretty and good at fighting, you could fill all the team’s positions if you wanted. I blame it on the 3W-gene.”
A lot was going on, Dean’s brain would start leaking out of his nose if you didn’t stop.
“You think I’m pretty?”
Not his smoothest moment. He’s not proud.
You scoffed, and if Dean was a little more certain of anything at this point, he’d thought you blushed. “Please, Dean, everyone thinks you’re pretty.”
No they don’t. They think he’s hot, or handsome, or badass. He’s heard beautiful a few times. Pretty… he doesn’t hear that one often. For some reason, it sent lightning down his spine.
“You have never said it, though,” he whispered, mellower than intended. He took one last drag of his cig and stubbed it out against the bedside. He quickly grabbed another one, if anything, just to keep his hands busy.
There was a slow, terrifying moment of silence before you spoke again, and Dean held his breath until the smoke burned in his lungs.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t see it.” Something haunted flashed on your eyes, Dean felt the need to float closer until he charred within it. “That I don’t know it.”
His world started to crumble, the ground under him shaking. You finding Dean attractive—pretty, even… it was life-ruining.
All of his defenses started to crack.
“You’ve seen me covered in enough fluids to make the toughest surgeon vomit.”
You giggled, the sound breaking through the still air like a bullet. Dean’s grip on his gun loosened, his whole body melting.
“It’s that freakin’ Winchester gene, I’m telling you. Good looks, bad luck, weird ass charm.”
“So you think Sammy’s pretty too?”
He wished his voice hadn’t been that bitter. You rolled your eyes before picking up your book, flopping back down on your back as your eyes left him. Dean shivered even though the air was stuffy, musk and salty heat filling his nose.
“You’re the prettiest, De. You should know that.”
Well, he knows now.
He smoked half his pack of reds and you got through another third of your novel before you decided to get some shut-eye. Dean agreed to lie down next to you after you plead with him, even if he knew he would stay up all night regardless. Your pouty expression was too much for him to resist, he’s only human.
You didn’t have any pillows, but Dean was stubborn and he took his jacket everywhere, even when it was a thousand degrees. He bundled it up and offered it for you to use. “It’s not the comfiest, but it’s something.”
This time, Dean was sure he saw your cheeks reddening.
He kept on watching the clouds and listening in for any dangers as you got ready to sleep, throwing a thin sheet over the two of you and curling into yourself at his side. He put out his last cigarette against the sole of his biker boots, refusing to take them off even after you nagged at him for it.
He’d learned long ago to always be ready to escape. Old habits die hard.
“I wish you’d put them out on me.”
The words barely reached him, getting lost in the whistling of the wind. He quickly turned his head toward you, eyes wide and breath ragged, but you had already fallen asleep by then.
Your face was hidden against his jacket. It stayed there all the way until morning.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The few days after that had been torture. Even now, Dean still isn’t sure that last part was even real, the words too good to be true.
If only you could be as sick as him, if only under your skin lived a beast as rabid as his, if only the immensity of his desire and obsession could be reciprocated instead of abhorred. If only.
But by the third incident, Dean had enough evidence to believe he heard right and he didn't need to get hooked on antipsychotics. And oh, what a thought that is.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was working on Baby, two weeks or so after Virginia.
You’d driven to South Dakota a few days ago after ganking a vampire nest in northern Iowa, still waiting for Ash to get back to you with any demonic omens. Bobby had welcomed you with open arms and a cooler full of beer, and God knows Dean needed the break.
He didn’t know how long he could keep handling being locked in the Impala with you, your clothes getting skimpier and the days getting longer. Your head stuck out the window, your hair floating in the wind, your voice echoing in his head.
“You’re the prettiest, De.”
Even motel rooms didn’t serve as a relief. You’d still walk out of the shower with your skin flushed and bare, filling the boy-stinking room with your sugary smell and girlish sweat. It was hell, it was paradise. Dean had to rush into a cold shower every time.
He thought that being at Bobby’s would stop the avalanche of prohibited thoughts. That once there was a bit more space between you—other people around and open windows and air conditioner—he could go back to pretending that your strange confessions in the past few days hadn’t shattered all of his careful guards.
But it only took you flashing a smile across the dining table or your shape lounging by the bay window for all his pent-up frustration to claw at his throat. He was restless, fingers twitchy and temper irritable, his whiskey glass almost cracking under his hand when you strode down the stairs in a tiny skirt and a tight top, clearly not wearing a bra.
Before his head could explode, he grabbed a cold beer and dashed out the door and into the salvage yard, Baby’s keys in one hand and his crumbling sanity in the other.
He’d been at it for hours, tinkering here and there with the Impala’s undercarriage, the old car creeper he’d stolen from Bobby’s garage stiff and bumpy under him. He welcomed the distraction.
There was nothing to fix, really. Baby wasn’t up for an inspection for quite a while, and Dean knew exactly when she needed work done. She was golden.
Still, he fidgeted with the exhaust and turned a few screws uselessly, stalling. The sun beat down on him, his shirt was stained with oil and sweat, his vision was getting splotchy. The smell of metal and dirt was comforting, familiar, manly. No soft vanilla or flowery shampoo. Just Dean and his life on the road, no space for anything else.
But being trapped under an engine only made the heat even worse, his throat closing up and his eyes stinging. He finally decided to slide out and into the fresh air, sitting up with a gasp as he reached for his beer, the condensation dripping from the bottle a small heaven.
He chugged the drink down and threw the bottle on the ground, wiping his forehead with the hem of his dirty shirt before dropping back down on the creeper, his eyes scanning his arid surroundings. Big mistake.
Because there, stepping out of the house to his right, were you. The stupid skirt left him as breathless as it did the first time, the little perk of your nipples under the soft fabric of your top still filling his mouth with saliva. There were two beers in your hands, your skin glistening as you stepped in the sunlight, Dean’s grip on the wrench tightened.
“Brought you some libation, so you don’t pass out under that thing.”
“Hey! Put some respect on her name.” Dean petted the underside of Baby, your laugh washing over him like a waterfall.
You reached his side and handed him one of the beers, the caps already off. He took a long swig of it, mostly to keep that syrupy tar from spilling. He was still lying on his back, with you towering over him. Dean focused on the sharp dig of metal against his spine and not the way he could almost, almost peep under your flowy skirt.
“What are you working on, anyway?”
He didn’t have a real answer, so he spit out some bullshit excuse full of technical words that he knew you wouldn’t really understand, hoping it was enough to keep you from asking more questions.
“Uhm—right…” You nodded, like you’d understood anything Dean had just said. It made him smile, how you always tried to pay attention even when the topic couldn’t bore you any more.
The two of you stayed there for a few more moments, sipping on your beers and letting the seconds trickle by. You swayed to a phantom tune in your head, Dean could nearly hear it. It was nice to know you could still have moments like this, when your minds swirled into one and you didn’t need words to communicate, like tuning into the same radio station.
If Dean was a little cheesier, he’d say you’re soulmates.
Because he’s Dean, he says you’re just trauma-bonded.
A small but glorious breeze glided between you, making your skirt and hair twirl and lifting Dean’s shirt halfway up his chest, his torn-up jeans laying low on his hips like a good mechanic.
Dean watched as your eyes caught the movement, drinking in the sight of golden skin and scar tissue. You ogled shamelessly, from the ridges of his ribs down to the V of his hipbones, licking your lips as you followed the trail of faint hair that disappeared down the waistband of his boxers, the elastic peaking out of his jeans slightly.
Too much, it was too much. Your teasing had made him reckless, this was his last straw.
“Take a picture, darlin’. It’ll last you longer.”
Instead of snapping back into yourself and running back into the house, you just hummed mindlessly, gaze slowly moving up to Dean’s face. Your cheeks were pink, it could be just the incandescence. The darkness of your eyes differed.
“Left my phone inside. Such a shame.” He wasn’t expecting that. He laughed hoarsely, trying to pass it off as a weird joke. Friends could joke like that, it wasn't that crazy. Your expression remained consuming. “You shouldn’t stay out here for too long, De. You’re gonna roast under all that metal.”
Dean thought you sounded hungry, he finished his beer in one go.
“Hey, it’s a good way to go.” He gave you one of those relaxed, I’m-not-freaking-out-you-are smirks. “I’ve always wanted to die under a hot girl or a cool car.”
Okay, he walked right into that one. He was trying, okay?
This time, you laughed. It was velvety, stickier than summer and more addictive than any adrenaline rush. Dean became a junkie after just one hit.
“Great philosophy, really.” You chugged half of your beer, stepped a little closer, stood with your legs parted. Dean kept his eyes firmly on your face. “Well, you can choose now. Which one will it be?”
For a second, Dean wondered if he’d drink more than he remembered. Only when he was really, really hammered did he daydreamed this vividly. But he’d barely had three beers today and half a glass of whiskey, he was nowhere near wasted.
His breath hitched, he gaped up at you. His brain racked for excuses, for another explanation to this that wasn’t your best friend who you’re inescapably in love with is making a move on you.
There wasn’t any. There’s only so much you can lie to yourself before the truth becomes imminent.
“I’m just a hardworking mechanic, ma’am. I’m trying to do my job here.” It was so easy, to just fall back into the playfulness that’s been dying to crawl out of his mouth and wrap all over you for years.
“Mhm.” You grinned foxily—which was new—and then stepped even closer, a foot on each side of his extended leg—which was even newer. You were still too far away for him to actually see anything, but the scene was still too familiar, from grainy videos in Sam’s laptop and raunchy magazines. Oh god. “I think I have a problem for you to check out, Mister Mechanic. Don’t worry, I can pay you well.”
You winked at him, and Dean’s breath grew ragged. The line of just-friends had started to blur long ago, but this was definitely stepping over it. He wanted it so badly, that was always a sign that it shouldn’t happen.
He tried to convince himself you were just joking around, making fun of his cliche porn indulgences, calling him out for being a little freak.
“You can’t just come into my workshop and demand to be served, ma’am. That’s no way to treat a humble, blue-collar man.”
Another one of those laughs, Dean relished in the ecstasy of it. “I think I know how this blue-collar man likes to be treated after all these years.”
His mouth was full of spit and tar, he swallowed it all down. It still spilled.
"You’re gonna let me take a look, then?”
Surely, this is where you drew the line. It was all fun and games up to here, just a little healthy flirting between best friends with a broken silent understandment—nothing unfixable.
This, this is where everything could go up in flames. Dean was delirious, frothing at the mouth and begging to be put down. To be woken up from this dream, to go back to when everything ached but was familiar, to have you snap his neck in mercy.
Instead, you drenched everything in kerosene.
With a wicked smirk that screamed danger, you crept higher up his body. Your foot resting between his legs moved and installed itself next to his shoulder, until you were completely straddling his frame, right over his head.
Shadows covered his face, the ruffles of your skirt fluttered, that musky smell of vanilla and salty skin enveloped him. Dean panicked.
There was no coming back from this. He wasn’t ready to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him. He wasn’t sure this was even happening in the first place.
He shoved himself back under Baby, a yelp logged in the back of his throat, his eyes still shut closed even when all he could sense around him was rusty metal and motor oil.
That laugh again, vivid and electric, now muffled by the car shielding Dean from the demon that's taken the shape of his best friend.
“I thought I—I heard a rattle.” He’s not sure his words even reached you with how scattered they were. You sighed in delight.
“Of course, Mister Mechanic. I’ll stop bothering you.” You softly kicked his boot in goodbye, even that made Dean’s breath stutter. “Don’t stay here too long, or you’re actually going to faint.”
“Sure.” He sounded wrecked. Goddamnit he can be pathetic.
You giggled, this time tender and almost… enamored. Dean seriously needed to go see a shrink.
He listened closely as you walked away, waiting until the back door of Bobby’s house clicked shut before rushing out from under Baby. He got on his feet so fast that his head spinned, his vision blurring as he made his way between the maze of broken-down cars and hills of old tires.
He found a sun-bleached school bus that looked like it had been there for ages, big enough to conceal his form as he leaned against its side, fumbling at his belt with shaky hands.
He came a few minutes later, with his back against scalding, yellow-painted steel and his dick fisted furiously in his hand. He kicked dirt over his cum on the ground, still trying to catch his breath and process what the hell just happened.
His cock twitched at the memory of you climbing over him, he pulled his jeans back up and darted into the house, locking himself in his room until he was able to function again.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean had been able to bury the cum well-enough that day, but you’ve done irreparable damage to his desire’s grave. No matter how hard he scratches at the earth and tries to cover the bones, you’ve resuscitated something invincible.
He’s doomed, even more than before.
Because it’s not just desire anymore. Now it’s also a sunrise on the beach, quiet mornings in a suburban kitchen, soft kisses that promise more than just a good time. Now Dean wants more, he wants everything.
Oh, what have you done?
It was hard, moving on from that day. After a lot of self-reflection and many, many jerk-off sessions, he’d gotten to the conclusion that you were, indeed, flirting.
He knows, he knows. Give him a Nobel prize.
The knowledge is almost impossible to live with. He wants to put his head through the wall, he wants to scream until his lungs give in, he wants to kneel at your feet and ask you why.
Why now, why not before, why not never. Why when he was finally getting the hang of it, why when he had just gotten used to the ache of longing, why when he’d ultimately made his peace with never having you.
He didn’t know how to act after that, not when he was holding his guts inside his body with trembling hands and he didn’t know exactly what you needed. Because that’s the scariest part of all.
Just to what extent do you want him?
At first, he assumed you wanted the same he did at nineteen—to fool around.
Maybe you’re lonely. Dean hasn’t seen you leave the bar with anyone in months, hasn’t caught you sneaking out of your motel rooms, hasn’t heard you talking about that college boy you became friends with during your Hook Man case in Iowa.
Maybe you’re wired, and needy, and Dean is a safe choice. No awkward introductions or dangerous meetings. Just the pleasure of skin against skin and the haven of being with someone you know like the back of your hand.
Dean isn’t sure if he could handle casual, after all these years, after you’ve wiped away his dumbest tears and patched up his ugliest wounds. For once, Dean might not be able to muzzle the beast under his skin.
So he panicked, and tried to put some distance between the two of you. But his line of work doesn’t accept mental health leaves, and you were back in the Impala just a few days after. You didn’t mention Mister Mechanic again and Dean didn’t quite look you in the eye, but everything went virtually swimmingly, aside from Sammy’s occasional side-eyes.
Still, the taste of worry lingered on his tongue and the beast wailed with every glimpse of you in the rearview mirror. More if-only’s made it to the list.
If only he was a better man, maybe you’d want all of him.
If only the yellow-eyed demon had never existed—that one wasn’t new, but it always stung like it was.
If only you could love him, the way he loves you.
That one was the most terrifying of them all. It made Dean want to throw up all of his innards and flush them down the toilet. He wondered if he’d even be able to focus on the case with your face hovering over him flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked.
But then, incident four happened.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was struggling with his necktie.
He fucking hated dressing up as FBI. Even the priest costume had been more comfortable than this cheap rental suit and too-small dress shoes. It was still way too hot for a suit jacket, and the white shirt buttoned all the way up made him feel like he was choking. The stupid tie wasn’t helping.
He stood in front of the mirror, clammy fingers tugging at the fabric fruitlessly. Dean had known how to tie a necktie since he was six, when Dad was too drunk or hungover to do it himself. By the time he’d gotten old enough to start wearing the disguises himself, he’d been pretty fucking good at it.
But his hands hadn’t stopped shaking since that day in the salvage yard, and he really, really didn’t want to go deal with useless small town sheriffs and sobbing widows. Especially not when you’d be staying behind, deciding to take over research while Sam and Dean collected as much information as they could on the five married men who’d shot themselves within the past week.
Sammy was out getting all of you some coffee, everyone exhausted after the drive all the way down to Berthoud, Colorado. So when the door creaked open, Dean scoffed without turning away from the closet mirror.
“I can’t tie this stupid thing, Sammy. C’mere and help me.”
He was expecting the ribbing chuckle that followed his words, but he didn’t expect it to be so high-pitched and lovely.
He spun around on his heels as the door closed, messy knot making the collar of his shirt pop around his neck, eyes wide as he took you in.
“Hello there, Agent Dracula.” You were leaning back on the wooden door, hands behind your back and a little smile on your face. You hadn’t been alone in the same room since Sioux Falls, Dean secretly started to pray to any deity that would listen.
“Hey.” He hoped he didn’t sound as sulky as he thought he did. “How did you get in?”
You stared at him for a few seconds, long lashes fluttering—and Dean wished he could turn back time and tell you that no, you were made for the desert. But once again, he was too late.
You chuckled, seemingly incredibly amused by a silent joke that Dean missed, and knocked your knuckles twice on the door behind you before walking toward him.
“Sammy gave me the second key, just in case.” Dean stayed frozen in place as you approached him, wondering if this is how deer felt when they heard the snap of the trigger. Your fingers latched onto his collar, and you grinned at him as you started to fix his tie.
“The little fucker told me nothin’.” Your fingers were swift and delicate as you twisted the navy blue fabric around them. Dean swallowed harshly, your thumb brushed against his Adam’s apple. “You should knock, y’know. I could’ve been changing.”
You hummed, your smile widening. Dean wanted to lick behind your teeth, he wanted to rip all of his out. “And we wouldn’t want me seeing that, would we?”
He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Whatever game you were playing, Dean knew he’d lose. He might as well give up now.
Of course, you couldn’t even give him that.
You finished with his necktie, adjusting it against the base of his throat before fixing his collar. You tugged on the fabric, hard, until his chest was almost pressed to yours and your faces were just inches apart.
“There you go, agent. Handsome and ready to go dazzle all those poor mourning widows.” You ran your hands across his shoulders and down his biceps, smoothing out the wrinkles of his button-up. Dean bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
“What better pillow talk than all the gory details of your past husband’s suicide, am I right?” At least he could still joke. That was a relief. “You might wanna give that key back, so you don’t walk into one of my private investigation sessions.”
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for with that. He hadn’t brought back a girl in years, always keeping his encounters in dark alleyways or the chick’s home. Encounters which, he’d never admit, were starting to happen less and less.
It was hard, keeping your name off his tongue when all he could think about was you, even when he was balls-deep inside someone else. It had gotten him kicked out a few times, he never took it personal. It was all a distraction, one that was barely working now.
You frowned, your fingers around his arms twitching. Your eyes stayed fixated on his tie for a long moment before they flickered up to his, swirling with something that made the tar start to boil.
“You don’t need to do all that. You’re smart, you’ll find another way to make them talk.”
Your voice was too solemn for the comment to be brushed off as a joke. Sweat started to bead up on his hairline, he’d have to turn on the ceiling fan as soon as you left.
If you left. Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted you to.
“I thought I didn’t know how to read?”
You giggled, leaning closer until your bodies were flattened against each other and Dean could feel the warmth of your skin through your clothes.
“You can be an idiot sometimes. You can also be a genius when you want to.” Your breath brushed against his lips with every word, his lips parted on instinct. Another beat passed by, your hands slid up to cup the back of his neck. “Don’t fuck any widows, Winchester.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
The words were barely audible, Dean tried to close the distance between you, hands wrapping around your waist. His lips just grazed yours before you tilted your head back, shaking it almost imperceptibly. He had to bite down the urge to whine.
He whispered your name, pained.
“Not now,” you whispered back. Outside the room, Baby’s engine roared before shutting down. You pulled him closer again, turning your face until your lips were pressed against his cheek, leaving a feathery kiss against his just-shaven skin. It was still sensitive, Dean exhaled harshly. “Just—come back to me tonight, mh?”
Before he could say anything, the door opened and you took a step back. His arms awkwardly stayed in the air long after you’d made your way to the door, still holding the shape of you. Sammy walked in after you beelined out of the room, giving him a suspicious look.
Dean was just as lost.
But one thing was for sure, whatever this was, it wasn’t casual. You were right, Dean could be smart when he wanted to, and he knew damn well you couldn’t fake that look in your eyes.
He came back that night, alone, as soon as interviews were over. Sammy was left behind getting copies of the mortuary reports and at least two ladies ended up alone and kindly rejected in their homes—all for you.
He knocked on your motel door, your pretty head popped up after a second. You quietly gave him an up and down look, eyes glistening under the streetlights as a satisfied beam made its way into your mouth.
“Good.” You nodded before winking at him, already retreating back inside your room. “Good night, De.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
And so that leaves him here, the morning after, lying shirtless on scratchy motel sheets and staring at the water-stained ceiling in search for answers. Sammy is deep asleep in the bed next to him, the kid’s soft, familiar snores doing nothing to keep Dean anchored in time.
He feels like a teenager, he feels a million years old. He wants to barge into your room and childishly demand an explanation, he wants to retire to a monk monastery and find divine wisdom. He wants to tear his own heart out and for you to keep it in a glass vial forever.
If-only’s start to spiral into maybe’s. Fears turn to hopes and hopes to fears. He tosses against the pillows and the cheap mattress springs dig into his back.
With an agonizing groan, he leaps out of bed.
His boots are still on his feet, of course, so it’s easy to pull on his dirty jeans and dart out of the motel room. The early morning sun welcomes him with a wave of warm air and a brief second of blindness, his skin already growing damp as he sits on the curb of the lonely parking lot.
He’s already reaching for a smoke before his vision even gets used to the sunlight, the torrid pavement burning his skin through thick denim. He blinks back white spots as he takes a long drag, letting the taste of tobacco erase the traces of angst clinging to the corners of his mouth.
The parking lot is almost empty, barely any cars waiting for their owners to be done with whatever they were doing on a Wednesday at eight in the morning inside a pay-by-the-hour motel. So when footsteps start to slowly get closer, light and measured, he knows exactly who it is. His eyes stay glued to a far away billboard with a generic anti-smoking slogan printed in the center.
The first thing he sees is your boots, stepping down the curb right next to him. Then your bare calves, miles of smooth skin, the muffled sound of fabric dropping. Purple-peppered knees bend as you lower yourself on his right side, that soft smell of sugar and sun-kissed skin mixing with marlboro and mildew. And then, when his eyes flicker just a little closer but not quite land on your shape, he sees white cotton and lacy edges.
He chokes on the smoke gliding up his throat.
“Jesus Christ.” He coughs, finally turning his head to take you in completely. A tiny cup of coffee held in your hands, thin white tank top hugging your bare chest, soft cotton panties, boots. Nothing else. “What the hell?”
“It’s hot as fuck.” You shrug, gazing toward the same billboard. You’d dropped one of the motel towels over the spot you’re sitting on, the fabric frayed but thick enough to keep your skin from burning in the concrete. “You’re naked too, you know?”
“I’m more modest than you, that’s for sure.”
With languid movements, you set the porcelain cup down between the two of you and reach for his cigarette, your fingers stroking over his as you steal it and press it against your mouth. Your eyes meet his as your lips wrap around the filter, just where Dean’s were a second ago.
“I was using that, you know?” Maybe one day he’ll be able to talk to you again without his voice failing him. You chuckle. “I could’ve just handed you a new one.”
“But where’s the fun in that?”
“Give it back.” You smile lazily, tilting your head and taking a long drag, goading. “Fucking—whatever.”
His hand fishes into his front pocket for the pack smokes. You lean closer, again, just enough for Dean to feel your skin reflecting the warmth of the sun. Your hand wraps around his thigh, making him halt. Delicate fingers pull the cig away from your perfect mouth, and suddenly your parted lips are brushing his.
“Stop being a baby. Open up if you want it so badly.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
His answer comes in smoke being blown into his mouth. He breathes it in, starving for the slightest taste of you between all the earthy bitterness.
“Why do you think?”
He’s way too dizzy to process the words, and it isn’t until you’ve pulled away enough for Dean to see your whole face that his brain starts to work again.
“Because you want me dead?”
You laugh, so fucking sweet and heavenly. Dean allows himself to revel in it this time.
“I love you, Dean. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” The way you’re looking at him makes him feel even more naked than he is. Dean stutters.
In concept, yes, he knows you love him. As a friend, as a partner, as family. In the lives you lead, there’s only so many people you can trust, and when you finally find them—yes, it’s easy to love them. Especially when the rest of the world is either too ignorant to feel real or too cruel to keep close.
“I know.” He gulps, the words stinging on his tongue. “I—I love you too.”
He’s said so very few times in his lifetime. Kneeling by your hospital bed after a rugaru left you bloody and with a raging concussion, on the phone the night Sammy left for Stanford and he got hammered by the seaside, the day Dad died. It was always secretive—with the shadow of sorrow hiding the severity of the words, protecting him from their consequences.
But here, when he’s shirtless under the brightest, hottest sun of the year, there’s nowhere to hide.
You drop the cigarette to the ground, cupping his cheek in your palm instead. Dean leans into the touch like a stray puppy, heart pounding against his ribcage.
“How do you love me?”
He murmurs your name dejectedly. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Please, Dean. I—” You take in a trembling breath, and for the first time, the confident mask you’ve been wearing since this whole thing started falters. “I need you to say it.”
“I love you more than anything. I love you like a best friend, I love you like family, I love you like a piece of myself. You’re part of me, darling. The better, lovelier part of me, the part I would go insane without. I love you like I dream of spending my last days on earth with you. I love you like I have never loved anyone before, and it scares the crap out of me. But fuck, I don’t care, because I fucking love you.”
Tears glint in the corner of your eyes. Before Dean can blow his brains out for making you cry, you lunge yourself into his lap, knees hitting the pavement on each side of his hips hard enough to scrape skin.
“Fuck, fuck.” You sound crazed as you cradle his face in your hands. Dean can barely follow what’s happening. “I love you too. I love you so fucking much, Dean. Goddamnit.”
Dean’s hands have barely landed on your thighs when you’re already engulfing his mouth with yours. It’s desperate, feral, long-awaited. Teeth clashing and hands groping, years and years of longing spilling from the seams and sealing the two of you together.
“What the fuck—” His words are licked away, he bites down on your tongue in retaliation. It only makes your hips grind down onto his. Instant karma. “—is happening?”
Your laughter this time is low and fevered. Dean’s hands can’t stop mapping all the exposed skin offered to him—calloused fingers wrapping around barely-clothed hipbones and slipping under flimsy fabric and drawing shapes against silky forearms. Your flesh dips under his fingertips, he finds scars he didn’t know of before, his mouth waters.
“I’m in love with you, Winchester. So in love I’m fucking dumb with it. That’s what’s happening.”
Dean drags you closer and drapes himself around you, arms encircling your middle and face buried in your hair, taking the moment in. Just a second to breathe, and make sure he isn’t dreaming.
“What changed your mind?”
You chew on his question, your hands doing some exploring of their own. His back pricks with the scorch of the sun and your adoring touch, your bodies stick together with sweat and Dean’s tar, now flowing freely from his chest and coating all of him.
“I’ve always loved you. I think I was born loving you.” Your nails trace every dip of his muscles. Dean flexes for you, you smack his shoulder with a giggle. He nuzzles his nose against the line of your jaw. “But when you used to flirt with me—well, you know your reputation, De.”
He does, he spent decades crafting it. He leaves a kiss on your cheek before pulling away enough to look into your eyes.
“It wasn’t like that, not with you. Maybe at first, but now… I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
“I know,” you whisper, your lips pressing against his in a chaste peck. “I know now.”
“How?”
It’s hard to focus on talking when you’re sitting on his lap in nothing but sheer undergarments, but his curiosity is slightly stronger than his craving.
“Do you remember that time Sam got cursed? The truth spell you tried to convince me was a contagious diarrhea curse?”
Dean remembers, unfortunately. Sammy couldn’t stop spitting out every thought that crossed his head, and Dean knew that if the kid was in the same room as you for even a second, his meticulously-concealed love would be bared before you quicker than Dean could knock his brother out.
So he’d made up a lame excuse as to why you shouldn’t go back to the motel until Dean had a cure, and prayed that taking Sam’s phone and locking him in their room would be enough to keep everything from falling apart.
Until a second ago, he was sure it had been.
“You’re a good liar, Winchester, but you can’t lie to me. I knew something was up.” Your hands find their way to his hair, Dean represses a grunt when you tug on it softly. “So I picked the lock to your motel door and had a very… insightful conversation with your brother.”
“You really took advantage of the poor kid, baby?”
The endearment brings a beautiful flush to your cheeks, he’s rewarded with another smoky kiss.
“He looked quite eager to share, actually. Told me all about you keeping a picture of me in your wallet and calling other girls my name.”
Dean plops his forehead down on your shoulder, groaning. “I’m gonna gut him.”
“No, you’re not.” You thumb at his sideburn. Dean grumbles unintelligibly against your skin, teeth grazing the spot right beside the strap of your top. “Because without him, we wouldn’t be here.”
He hums in the back of his throat, getting lost in the enchanting sensation of having you all around him. “What was all the torture about, then?”
“Well, I had to test you first. Make sure you actually feel the same way.” You drag him back by the hair, until your noses are brushing and Dean can count every mole in your face. “Because I love you so much it kills me, Dean. Does it kill you, too?”
Dean takes a slow breath, his arms tightening around you. “Not anymore.”
You kiss him again, this time slow and deep. No more rushing, no more fear. There’s nowhere to be, nothing to escape. For as long as you’re with him, sitting on his lap and holding his bleeding heart in your hands, never letting go—you’ll be okay.
“You know,” He sucks your lower lip into his mouth, you whine lowly. Dean should really get you off the dirty curb and into your room. “I demand a redo in the whole Mister Mechanic thing. That wasn’t fair.”
You giggle breathlessly, your clothed crotch rubbing against his lower stomach. Dean grips the back of your thighs hard enough to bruise. “I still can’t believe you freaked out so bad.”
“I can.” He leaves featherlike kisses down your neck, already obsessed with the way you squirm in his arms. “Look at you, of course I freaked out. Still, I’m ready for it now.”
“Calm down, cowboy. Patience is a virtue, and we have plenty of time for that.”
“Do we?” He reaches the hollow of your throat, lips sliding lower over your tanktop, the fabric now translucent and sticking to your skin with perspiration. “Because I might have a list of things I want to try.”
“Of course you do, horndog.” Your mouth hovers over his ear, making his eyes flutter shut. “We can try whatever you want. I’m yours, De. I’ve been yours for a while.”
“That’s a dangerous offer, baby girl.” His hands find your ass, fondling the tender flesh before he squeezes, making your pretty cunt grind against his torso again. “You’d really let me do anything I want to you?”
“It’s—A-ahh. It’s that 3W-gene. You could charm me into anything.”
Dean chuckles, low and husky, still guiding your hips down on his.
“You’re really obsessed with that.”
Your lips brush the shell of his ear, gnawing on his lobe before you whisper. “What can I say, I want my kids to have it. Though it’d be good to dial back on the bad luck.”
Dean’s brain stopped working after kids. Your kids, with his genes, because they’d be both your kids. You, carrying his baby. Him, putting a baby in you.
“That’s it.”
With a guttural growl, Dean jumps to his feet, taking you with him. You shriek when he throws you over his shoulder, nails clawing at his sides and feet flailing in the air. He smacks your ass once, a warning to stay still. You bite down on his lower back in revenge.
Thankfully, you’d left your room’s door open. Dean kicks it shut behind him and makes sure to lock it before he throws you onto the bed, crawling over your giggling form and shutting you up with his tongue.
Baby’s keys get thrown somewhere on the floor when he kicks off his jeans, Dean doesn’t bother picking them up. He doesn’t plan on leaving this room any time soon.
Suicidal husbands can wait, Dean’s been waiting for too damn long.
Now, when you whisper filthy words in his ear that make his cock weep, he doesn’t feel scared anymore.
The door he thought didn’t exist at all swings wide open, and Dean will never be terrified again for as long as you hold the key to it.
NOTES: this literally originated from me and my cousin talking about genetic mutations to adapt to different environments. you can tell why i'm a virgin loser. I MISS THIS FICTIONAL MAN SO BAD.
my classes have been cancelled because we're snowed in, so I had time to finish and edit this quicker than I expected. YAY!
anyway, thank you sm for reading, and I love you all!!! mwah<3
Summary: Your father, chief of a dwindling Dúnedain faction, betrothed you to King Thranduil of Mirkwood in a last-ditch effort to save your tribe from extinction. But those plans become severely upended when Smaug kidnaps you and holds you captive in Erebor.
Now sixty years later, after Thorin's company liberates the mountain from Smaug, Thranduil, surprised to find you alive, has every intention of picking back up where you left off.
Somehow, you didn't get that memo.
Read More: Part 2
A/N: Oh my lord, it has been a while since I have posted anything. I am so sorry my loves! I hope you enjoy this latest offering...new fandom, who dis. This will definitely be a 2-parter and I'll try to get part 2 up in the next week or so. But I may add more...stay tuned.
The sounds of agony rampaged around you as the surviving citizens of Dale, Erebor, and Mirkwood collected their dead and sobbed over their missing loved ones. You would have joined them, but you were too focused on staring at the great carcass of the dragon, Smaug, floating in the lake from the vantage point of one of Dale’s remaining towers.
It had been years, no decades, since you had been allowed to be outside this long. And while you couldn’t deny the suffering and grief enveloping the land, you also felt as though you weren’t able to share in it.
Because you were free. Free at last.
Tears welled in your eyes as you watched Smaug’s carcass floating around Laketown. To say your feelings were a mixed bag was the understatement of the century. In your decades-long captivity, Smaug had been the only creature you had seen and interacted with. He had kept you frightened and caged inside the mountain, but at the same time, if it hadn’t been for his company, you surely would have gone mad with loneliness.
Yes, Smaug had been your captor, and for that, you would always despise him. But in a twisted way, particularly in the final half of your captivity, he had become something of a…friend. Although you hesitated to label him as such, it was the best label you could find that fit what he had been to you. While you were mostly glad to see him gone, part of you was devastated. He was not always kind to you. You had several scars all over your body as proof of how deadly his anger could be, particularly the times you had tried to escape the mountain. Yet, during your captivity, he had provided for you as best he could. He had healed you after you had been burned by his fire, and had brought you food on his trips outside of Erebor. He had told you tales of his long life to entertain you and had let you lay next to him when nightmares took your sleep.
Smaug was undoubtedly an evil creature. But for some time, you had thought that maybe there was something more to him. Unfortunately now, you would never get the chance to find out.
“My Lady,” Gandalf called from behind you. You surreptitiously wiped your eyes and took a deep breath.
Gandalf was one of the few living people that you had met prior to Smaug kidnapping you, and subsequently, he was the only person who recognized you now. Thorin’s company had found you when they entered the mountain, but by that point, your story had faded into legend. Once the Battle of the Five Armies had begun, you were once again left to your own devices to figure out your survival.
“Yes, Mithrandir?” you asked, softly, not taking your eyes off the lake.
Gandalf moved slightly into your field of vision, forcing you to turn your head to acknowledge him.
“My Lady, it is good to see you again,” Gandalf said, voice thick with emotion, “I just wish it were under better circumstances.”
You nodded.
“As do I,” you mumbled, “I regret that retaking the mountain came at such a cost.”
You and Gandalf were silent for a moment before he spoke again.
“I am sorry to burden you further. I cannot fathom the hardships you have endured, but I must ask. What are your intentions now that the dragon has been slain?” Gandalf questioned.
You shook your head.
“I have absolutely no idea, Gandalf,” you admitted, “Truthfully, I did not think I would live long enough to see this.”
“Your strength is remarkable,” Gandalf complimented, and you bristled a bit. Compliments were not something you were used to.
“My strength was simply due to the dragon’s foul magic,” you muttered, darkly, “I may be a Dúndedain, but even we cannot endure six decades of captivity on sheer willpower alone.”
Gandalf placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, and you turned to stare at it, willing yourself not to completely break down in front of him.
“My Lady, we will find out what the dragon has done to you,” he vowed, “And we will reverse the effects of his dark curse.”
“The dragon has extended my life,” you murmured, “For how long, I do not know. I am unsure if the effects ended with his death. I simply know that I was brought to the mountain at the age of 32. I leave the mountain now at 93, and I look no older.”
“You have the blood of Númenor,” Gandalf argued, “Slower aging is expected.”
You chuckled darkly and shook your head.
“I am nearly a century old, Mithrandir,” you said, “Even the most spry of Dúnedain begin to show signs of age at this stage of life.”
Gandalf’s eyes searched your face before he replied.
“Perhaps…some time with the elves may help you to recover. King Thranduil…”
You stiffened at the sound of his name, a wave of panic involuntarily seizing hold of your body.
“No,” you hissed, shrugging Gandalf’s hand off your shoulder.
“My Lady, I urge you to reconsider,” Gandalf insisted, “King Thranduil has personal experience with the Fire Drakes. Surely, he would have insight into your condition.”
“I said no,” you barked, “King Thranduil left me to rot in that mountain sixty years ago. I see no reason to expect that he would show me any courtesy simply because I happened to defy his expectations and survive that ordeal.”
“On the contrary, My Lady, I think you will find the King much changed,” Gandalf countered, “The King of the Woodland Realm has few regrets, and your disappearance is one of them.”
You laughed.
“I find that incredibly hard to believe,” you drawled, “King Thranduil was none too pleased at the prospect of having to marry a human, even if I happened to be attached to a rather ridiculous sum of money. Smaug simply took care of that problem for him. He got his money without the hassle of a bride.”
Gandalf frowned at your crass phrasing, but you didn’t care. You had sixty years to stew over this and be bitter about it. Your betrothal to Thranduil, someone who showed no interest in remarrying after the death of his wife, had been nothing more than a business transaction. Your tribe, though wealthy, was on the verge of extinction, and your father had struck a deal with the Elvenking in a last-ditch effort to secure protection in Mirkwood for the tribe’s remaining members. You had met King Thranduil once, and that had been when he had visited your tribe’s settlement to sign the contract with your father and collect the dowry payment. He had been respectful to you during that meeting, but had expressed little interest in getting to know you, and had immediately returned to Mirkwood once negotiations had concluded and the money had changed hands.
You had planned to travel to Mirkwood with your retinue shortly thereafter, but you were ambushed by Smaug as soon as your party neared Erebor. Contrary to popular belief, dragons didn’t just hoard gold. They hoarded all manner of pretty things, and that apparently, as you had learned the hard way, included women. Smaug had killed most of your companions, kidnapped you, and imprisoned you in Erebor with him.
Once word of your disappearance had reached your father, he had pleaded with Thranduil for help to rescue you. But Thranduil, ever the elitist, was not willing to risk precious elven lives to rescue a human bride that he didn’t even want to begin with. Your father and his remaining guardsmen had made several attempts to rescue you, but had all perished at Smaug’s hands. It was hard to not blame King Thranduil for your predicament and your father’s death when he was perhaps the only king on this side of the Misty Mountains with the resources to face the dragon. And yet, like the dwarves of Erebor, he had abandoned you to your fate.
You wanted nothing to do with him. Unless he planned to return the money he had so callously taken from your father. Money that, by all rights, now belonged to you.
“You will not tell King Thranduil of your survival?” Gandalf asked, frowning.
You shrugged.
“I have not decided,” you said, truthfully, “However, King Thranduil is currently in possession of my original dowry, a large sum of money. Considering that he did not marry me, he has no right to it. I want it back.”
Gandalf’s frown deepened.
“You care only for gold?” he accused, and you flashed a harsh look at him for that.
“Do not presume to lecture me about greed, Mithrandir,” you hissed, “Three armies nearly obliterated each other for their share of the treasure buried in Erebor. I will not be shamed into expecting that I should also receive what is rightfully owed to me so that I may rebuild my life.”
Gandalf sighed.
“My concern is only for how the dragon has affected you, My Lady,” Gandalf clarified, “I do not wish for you to succumb to the Dragon Sickness.”
You fought to roll your eyes. If six decades sitting in Erebor with Smaug didn’t give you Dragon Sickness, then there was no way that you were going to catch it now. While you didn’t wish to speak ill of the dead, you were not as weak as some of the dwarves had been. Your survival had depended on you keeping your head on as straight as possible.
When you didn’t say anything further, Gandalf continued.
“My Lady, will you allow me to inform King Thranduil of your survival? Perhaps, with proper delicate dialogue, at least part of your dowry can be returned to you,” he offered.
You returned your gaze to the lake in the distance. A significant part of you did not want to face Thranduil after all these years, especially after his betrayal of you and your father cut so deeply. You had learned over the years that, despite not being trained as a warrior like so many of your Dúnedain kin, you were still strong enough to handle things that would have crippled most men. But after all this time, after suffering years of dragon fire, fear, and anxiety, you were concerned that finally meeting Thranduil again might just be the thing that broke you.
But you were not going to give that selfish elf the satisfaction. Smaug might have been an evil creature, but he taught you many things, and he certainly taught you better than to cower before just anyone. Especially when you were the injured party.
“If you feel that is best, Mithrandir, I shall not stop you,” you said.
Rather than stay in the city of Dale, you sought refuge in the camps of Dáin, Lord of the Iron Hills and soon-to-be King Under the Mountain. Despite Thorin’s distrust of humans, your father had always maintained a good relationship with most of the dwarven kingdoms, including the Iron Hills. In fact, as you would later learn, Dáin had offered to send some of his best warriors to aid your father’s attempts to rescue you from Erebor. But your father, not wishing to risk further loss of life, had refused.
Selfishly, you knew if the Elvenking came looking for you, Dáin’s camps were the absolute last place that he would look, or at the very least, the last place that he would be willing to venture into.
Dáin became emotional when he saw you and welcomed you into his camps with open arms.
“Lass, if only your father could see you now. He would be so proud of you,” he had exclaimed.
Dáin had tried to force several of his soldiers to set up a separate tent for you with as many amenities as they could, but you insisted that you were fine with sleeping in a normal bedroll. You refused to spend another night inside the mountain, and Dáin’s forces had few supplies. You were not going to take more than what you needed.
You spent the next several days assisting Dáin’s men in the cleanup of the area just outside of the main gates of Erebor. It was gruesome work, sifting through the mass of dead orcs, elves, and men to find the bodies of the slain dwarves and prepare them for proper funerals. Several of the dwarves you discovered had known you as a child and had been very kind to you. It did not help the overwhelming sadness that threatened to consume you at any moment, but a part of you felt blessed that you could give them the proper funeral they deserved.
Dáin had invited you to dine with him in his tent on several occasions. The food was simple, but it was the best tasting food you had had in decades.
“Lass, I must know,” Dáin started, taking a sip of his ale, “How did you survive the dragon?”
“With great difficulty, My Lord,” you replied, “I relied as much on Smaug’s good will as I did my intellect.”
Dáin snorted.
“That damned beast has no good will,” he spat, “If you survived, it meant you did so on your own cleverness.”
“Perhaps,” you conceded, “But he had ways of keeping me subdued. When I was kidnapped, I knew I had to be clever and that the moment I stopped being amusing to him was the moment he would kill me.”
Dáin hummed.
“Your father raised you to be a smart one,” Dáin praised.
“Maybe,” you mumbled, “I just learned quickly what Smaug’s boundaries were. I tried to escape a couple of times in the first decade or so. Each time, he would burn me…and then he healed the burn a few days later so I wouldn’t perish from the infection.”
Dáin was impressed by your ability to relay the tale without breaking, but at this point, it had happened so long ago that you had blocked most of your emotions out of your mind.
“Lords above, Lass,” he swore, “I cannot imagine what you endured.”
“Smaug used to take me outside the mountain on rare occasions so that I could hunt for food,” you continued, “Usually always under the cover of night, and under his watchful eye. I tried to escape the first time he let me leave Erebor to go hunting by myself.”
Dáin raised an eyebrow.
“And why did you not succeed?” he questioned.
You sighed.
“Dragon magic,” you said, “My proximity to the beast allowed him to…imprint on me, I suppose. When I ran away from Erebor, I was suddenly overcome by a splitting headache, unlike anything I had ever felt. It nearly crippled me, and I was barely able to move. The only way to relieve myself of the pain was to crawl back towards the mountain. The closer I got to Erebor, the more the pain faded. Suffice to say, I never made the same mistake again.”
Dáin shook his head in frustration.
“That damned beast. It’s all the better it is dead now,” he growled, “He will never haunt you again.”
You weren’t sure about that. Smaug haunted your dreams constantly, even in death. You were not sure that you would ever be truly free of him.
“And what about that king you were supposed to marry?” Dáin continued, refilling his ale.
“The Elvenking of Mirkwood,” you mumbled. Dáin’s eyeroll was practically audible.
“That smarmy princess,” Dáin spat, “Does he know you’re alive?”
You shrugged.
“I am assuming that Gandalf informed him,” you speculated, “I’m not sure if I should have allowed him too. I’m not particularly keen on meeting the Elvenking again.”
“As long as you are under my protection, you won’t have to,” Dáin vowed, “That sissy bastard doesn’t scare me. You just tell me what you want us to do about him, and we’ll see that it is done.”
You smiled, gratefully.
“I am truly grateful for all of your hospitality, Lord Dáin,” you said, “Please let me know how I may repay your kindness.”
Dáin waved his hand dismissively.
“Ah, nonsense,” he exclaimed, “I may not have been able to assist your father in your rescue, but I can ensure that you are safe now. And that, Lass, is what I intend to do.”
Dáin kept his word fiercely. One morning, you woke from your makeshift tent – a spare blanket folded across a stick that had been wedged between some rocks – to a commotion at the edge of the Ironfoot camps. Frowning, you peeked your head around the blanket to see what was happening. Three elves were standing at the edge of the camp arguing with one of Dáin’s generals. Your heart started to pound.
“King Thranduil seeks an audience with the Dúnedain princess,” the head elf guard said, “We have reason to believe that she may be staying here.”
Dáin’s general guffawed.
“And what makes the King of the Elves so sure that she is staying with us, let alone gives him the right to demand anything of her?”
Arguing broke out as the elven guards jumped in to defend their king. Dáin’s general refused to back down, and it warmed your heart at how fiercely the dwarves had risen to your defense. Eventually, the rabble died down as Lord Dáin himself strutted over to the scene to investigate the commotion.
“I hear King Thranduil wishes to meet with one under my protection,” he boomed.
“We are to escort the lady to the king’s tent,” the guard replied, “We will see that she is safely returned after her meeting.”
“King Thranduil has no power here,” Dáin barked, “The lady shall meet with him only if the lady deigns to meet with him. Should she agree, I will not stop her. But in the meantime, I suggest you return to your king and see to your own business.”
With that, Dáin turned and strolled back to the center of camp, barking orders at his men to continue their work as he went. The elven guards were momentarily stunned by how easily they had been dismissed and lingered for a few moments before accepting defeat and returning to their own camp emptyhanded.
You rolled onto your back and stared up at the makeshift ceiling of your tent, willing your anxiety to quell. That Dáin would keep his word had never been in question. But the confirmation that the Elvenking was indeed looking for you incited a panic in you that you hadn’t felt since your early days of captivity. In that moment, you wished Smaug were still alive, knowing that the Elvenking would not dare to come near you with him around. Without Smaug, you felt exposed…vulnerable.
But a reunion with King Thranduil was inevitable. You could only put it off for so long.
You spent the rest of the day helping the dwarves prepare for the funeral for the line of Durin. You bowed deeply as they wheeled Thorin, Kíli, and Fíli’s bodies into the mountain to be displayed one last time for their companions. You opted out of attending the ceremony inside the mountain, as you did not feel that it was appropriate for you to be there, not having known the three dwarves well. Instead, you went to the city of Dale and found an aid distribution site that had been set up by the elves. You grabbed a plate of bread and cheese and wandered over to a small alcove to sit and eat your snack.
Peoplewatching in Dale was interesting. Humans had a much shorter lifespan in comparison to elves and dwarves, so their customs changed as quickly as the wind changed directions. Although the people of Dale were primarily peasantfolk, their fashions still changed over time. You noticed more muted colors and more layers than had previously been around a century ago. You weren’t sure if that was due to the climate of Esgaroth or a collective desire to change their dress patterns.
Despite feeling desperately out of touch, blending in with the people of Dale was certainly going to be easier than with the dwarves. Most of the citizens paid you no mind as they went about their business. You even caught a glimpse of their leader, Bard, as he stopped by to check on those receiving aid. He seemed like a good man, and you were glad that he had assumed charge of the small human colony.
You watched, absentmindedly, as Bard was approached by a fully-armed elf with long, silvery hair. You bristled for a moment before reminding yourself that Thranduil would usually make a spectacle of his arrival, so it couldn’t possibly be him. Perhaps hanging around Dale was a bad idea. The place was crawling with elves, several of whom had undoubtedly been given your description and were probably searching for you.
“Prince Legolas, how may I help you?” Bard addressed.
So, this was Thranduil’s son. It made sense. They shared very similar features. You wondered how Legolas must have taken the news of his father’s betrothal and your subsequent kidnapping.
“My father is looking for someone. Perhaps you have seen her,” Legolas started. He then proceeded to give a very detailed description of you, and you cursed under your breath.
Gandalf was a right bastard and Thranduil was a coward. Either way, you had no desire of being caught. You quickly stood up, clutching your snack, and abruptly turned to wade through the crowd in the opposite direction, trying to find a place to lay low. Unfortunately, you were not as subtle as you thought you were because Legolas caught your hasty movements out of the corner of his eye. He interrupted his conversation with Bard and moved to follow you.
Legolas eventually found you sitting against the wall inside one of the cramped watchtowers. From Gandalf’s description, you were unlikely to take his approach kindly, so he would need to be cautious.
“My Lady,” he called softly. You were in the middle of eating a piece of cheese, and he watched as you swallowed your food and let out a long sigh.
“You must be Prince Legolas,” you stated, sitting up a bit straighter. Legolas moved to stand as far away from you as he could manage. He didn’t want to crowd you.
“Indeed, I am,” he confirmed, “It is an honor to finally meet you.”
“And you as well,” you said, politely, “Forgive my bluntness, Your Highness, but I am assuming your father sent you to look for me?”
“Father has asked all of his guards to keep a watch for you in case you decided to leave Dáin’s camp,” Legolas revealed.
You sighed at that.
“I’m not surprised,” you muttered, “I suppose I should expect no less from him. Are you ordered to bring me to him?”
“Technically, yes,” Legolas said, “But I will not escort you there unless you wish it. My father’s business is his own and does not concern me. I am here for more selfish reasons.”
You raised an eyebrow at that.
“Is that so?” you questioned, slightly skeptical.
Legolas nodded.
“I have a few questions for you, My Lady. As a Dúnedain, I believe you are the best person to answer them,” Legolas continued.
“Then I shall try to answer them to the best of my ability,” you offered.
“I am to ride north soon,” Legolas said, “Are you familiar with the one they call Strider?”
You frowned, searching your memory, trying to recall anyone who went by that name. Unfortunately, you came up empty.
“I am sorry, Your Highness,” you sighed, “I do not know anyone by that name. But please keep in mind that I have not had any contact with my people for sixty years. If he was born after Smaug’s siege of the mountain, then I would not have met him.”
Legolas nodded, expression shifting to one of sympathy.
“Perhaps you may be familiar with his father, Arathorn,” Legolas ventured.
Now that name did ring a bell. But you probably didn’t have any information that would be of use to him.
“Little Arathorn, all grown up,” you chuckled, “Yes, I knew Arathorn. But he was a child. He would have been around seven years old when I was betrothed to your father.”
Legolas frowned, doing the math in his head. You might be an infant by elven standards, but by the standards of men, even Dúnedain, you were old.
“I knew Arathorn’s father, Arador,” you supplied, “He and my father were good friends…well…as good of friends as two chieftains of disparate Dúnedain factions could be. I watched and entertained Arathorn a few times when our fathers had meetings.”
“Your people are not rangers?” Legolas asked, confused.
You shook your head.
“The Dúnedain are a divided people, forever scattered into ever dwindling tribes,” you explained, “Our people split into two major factions, that of the south and the north. Within those factions, several tribes emerged. My tribe is descended from the Dúnedain of the North, but as I understand it, one of my ancestors heavily disagreed with the chieftain, that is, Arador’s direct ancestor. We became our own clan and settled between Erebor and the Iron Hills.”
Legolas nodded and bid you to continue.
“The Dúnedain are a dwindling race,” you continued, “We were rapidly losing numbers sixty years ago, so I can only imagine the state of our population today. Arador made attempts to unite the Dúnedain of the North, but was unsuccessful. He was barely able to unite the Rangers, let alone the other tribes that had settled beyond the Misty Mountains. I am imagining that since you only have me to ask about the Dúnedain lineage, little progress has been made over the past several decades.”
Legolas nodded in confirmation.
“You are the first of the Dúnedain that I have met,” he admitted. You hummed at that.
“May I ask for what purpose you need this information?” you questioned, “Is it your intention to seek out this…Strider, son of Arathorn?”
Legolas pursed his lips and eyed you for a moment.
“Perhaps,” he replied, cryptically, “My father mentioned him.”
You wrinkled your nose at that.
“Unfortunately, Your Highness, your father will absolutely know more than I do on this matter,” you confessed, “My information is likely outdated by over a half-century.”
“You have provided me more context than you realize,” Legolas praised, “Despite appearances, my father does not, in fact, know everything.”
You chuckled at his statement.
“I cannot claim to know your father well. I shall have to take your word for it,” you said.
Legolas was silent for a moment before he spoke again.
“My Lady, I cannot begin to fathom the ordeal that you have gone through,” he began, “Please allow me to apologize if your suffering was elongated at the hands of the Woodland Elves, particularly my father’s.”
You shook your head at his apology.
“Your Highness, as you so astutely pointed out earlier, your father’s business is his own and does not concern you,” you replied, “You owe me no apology. Your father can speak for himself.”
“That he can,” Legolas agreed, “But I fear he may not express his regret so plainly. So, please allow me to convey it for him.”
You were a bit shocked by Legolas’ kindness. You weren’t sure how someone as cold as Thranduil would be able to raise someone so considerate.
“Thank you, Prince Legolas. Your words mean more than you know,” you whispered, voice heavy with emotion, “I wish you luck in your travels.”
Legolas placed a hand over his heart and bowed slightly.
“Until we meet again, My Lady,” he said.
And with that, you were once again left alone.
You strode across the city of Dale towards the elven outpost that had been placed at the city’s entrance. It had been almost a year since the Battle of the Five Armies had ended and Dale was starting to come together under the leadership of the newly installed King Bard. Dáin had been proclaimed King Under the Mountain not long after Thorin’s funeral and, despite his gruff exterior, had wasted no time in establishing diplomatic relations with both Bard and the Elvenking.
The same Elvenking that you were now going to go visit in Mirkwood.
After a few months of successfully dodging his guards, Thranduil finally seemed to get the hint that you would only approach him when you were good and ready. He was reportedly particularly vexed to not encounter you at Erebor when he had made a diplomatic visit three months ago. He would have been forgiven for expecting that you would be there to receive him. King Dáin had appointed you a temporary ambassador, and sent you back and forth between Erebor and Dale to administer aid and negotiate with King Bard, a post that your education as the daughter of a Dúnedain leader had more than aptly prepared you for.
While Erebor was a beautiful kingdom, you had absolutely no desire to spend any more time in the mountain than was absolutely necessary, and instead had taken up lodgings in Dale. Both Bard and Dáin were grateful for your steady presence however your lack of willingness to even be in the same room as the Elvenking was posing a slight issue. None of the dwarven or other human ambassadors were well-received in Mirkwood, leaving you, as Thranduil’s one-time betrothed, the only viable option to send to the negotiating table. You wondered if this was Thranduil’s plan all along—make negotiating such a pain for Bard and Dáin’s advisors to the point where they would have no choice but to send you to Mirkwood.
King Dáin had been patient with you in your recovery from Smaug’s captivity, and while you still had an incredibly long way to go to heal from the experience, the worlds of men and dwarves were too fast paced. You had had a year to get comfortable with the idea of encountering your former betrothed once more.
While you couldn’t say that you were enthused about this trip, you were definitely in a less emotionally vulnerable state than you had been a year ago.
When you approached the elven outpost, the guards saluted you and one of them stepped forward to address you.
“My Lady, it is an honor to meet you. I am Feren, and I shall escort you today,” he introduced.
You raised an eyebrow. Thranduil hadn’t just sent anyone to bring you to him, he had sent one of his best generals.
“Lord Feren,” you addressed, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance as well. Thank you for escorting me to meet your king.”
The journey from Dale to Mirkwood would normally take two days, with one day devoted primarily to skirting around the ruins of Laketown. However, you had requested to travel by ground only. Smaug’s carcass was still floating in the lake, albeit mostly sunk by this point, and you had no desire to go near it. The more circuitous route would add a third day to your journey, so you and the elves mounted your horses and set off as quickly as you could. Your elven companions were pleasant company throughout the journey, but didn’t say much. You only engaged Feren in conversation long enough to ask about Thranduil’s preferred norms of engagement.
On your final day, you felt your anxiety rise as you approached the palace, and you found yourself unable to be impressed by the beauty of Mirkwood despite having wished to see it for many years. Your only goal was to get through this first interaction with Thranduil and the rest could be dealt with later.
Feren was the only one to escort you into the great hall, where Thranduil was seated upon a massive throne at the top of a small staircase. It was clearly meant for intimidation and it worked. You, who had survived the torture of a dragon, were struggling to face the elf who had left you in that mountain to begin with. You had feared that this would happen, but you had no option but to continue.
You bowed, grateful for the excuse to look at the floor while Feren announced your presence.
“My King, I bring the Lady of the Dúnedain, ambassador to Dale and Erebor,” Feren announced.
“Rise, My Lady,” Thranduil invited, voice surprisingly soft. You did as you were bid and you took the opportunity to square your shoulders and look at the Elvenking directly.
There was no denying that Thranduil was an incredibly handsome elf. You had always thought him so, however after seeing the cruelty he was capable of, you weren’t really sure what to think of him now. The softness on his face as he looked at you was definitely unexpected, and you weren’t sure what to make of it.
“You may leave us, Feren,” Thranduil ordered, and immediately Feren bowed and left the two of you alone.
You inhaled shakily before addressing the king.
“Your Highness, I bring sincerest regards from Dáin, King Under the Mountain, and Bard, King of Esgaroth. I hope that our discussions over the next few days will prove productive,” you said, reciting a line that you had practiced over and over again in your head over the past few days.
“I accept their regards and send mine in return,” Thranduil parried, smoothly, “I imagine that your journey was long and you will need rest. I have arranged for our talks to begin tomorrow morning if that is amenable to you, Ambassador?”
Thank the Valar .
“You are most kind, Your Highness,” you said.
But Thranduil was not done.
“I hope that before you retire, you will do me the honor of joining me for dinner.”
Great .
The king had graciously given you some time to freshen up before requesting your presence at dinner. You arrived in his personal dining room almost half an hour early so you could have a few moments to survey the space and collect your thoughts. You weren’t entirely surprised by Thranduil’s obvious ploy to meet with you privately, and had anticipated that he would try something like this at some point during your visit. You just didn’t expect it to happen this quickly.
Following your release from captivity, your initial feelings towards Thranduil were ones of hostility. The sheer mention of his name caused you not only anxiety, but a blinding rage, the likes of which you had never before experienced in your life. Not even Smaug elicited such a reaction from you, even when he had roasted your father alive. It had taken several months of reflecting and advice from Gandalf before you were able to calm down and examine why. Ultimately, you had expected no better behavior from Smaug. Killing those who he considered beneath him was standard practice for his kind.
That was not the case for Thranduil. You had heard many stories of his gallantry in battle, his devotion to his late wife, and his protectiveness towards his people. While you weren’t entirely blind to his faults, the stories had fomented an image of Thranduil as a noble, brave figure. His actions following your kidnapping flew completely in the face of a king who had sworn to your father that he would protect you. He had even signed a contract to that effect.
It took time before you realised that you weren’t truly angry. You were disappointed. Gravely disappointed. And worse, you weren’t the only person who Thranduil had let down so deeply. The dwarves of Erebor had felt thoroughly betrayed by his refusal to also come to their aid. It was unclear if Thranduil didn’t understand just how badly he had treated his allies or if he simply didn’t care.
It would take time for these feelings to go away, and you had accepted that you would not get the closure you felt that you needed. Thranduil had kept your dowry, and if you wanted it back, you would have to pry it from his immortal hands. That might have been a hill you were prepared to die on a year ago, but not so much now. You were slowly starting to rebuild your life. You didn’t need Thranduil’s pity or the money he took from your father to find a purpose for yourself.
The door to the dining room opened suddenly, forcing you to push your thoughts aside. King Thranduil stepped inside the room, dressed in his typical royal finery, with an attendant behind him. You bowed respectfully at his entrance and waited for him to address you.
“I hope I did not keep you waiting,” he said, as his attendant began pouring wine for both of you.
“Not at all,” you replied.
Thranduil nodded and waited for his attendant to leave the room before gesturing towards your chair.
“Please, sit,” he invited, pulling out his own chair. You followed suit and took a sip of your wine for lack of anything better to do.
There was a long pause after that, but you weren’t keen on breaking the silence. You weren’t planning on leading this conversation. After all, he had invited you to dine with him. If he wanted to talk to you, then he could talk. You didn’t plan to say anything to him that couldn’t already be said in front of his council of advisors.
“I am pleased you accepted my invitation,” he finally said, “You are a…most difficult woman to find.”
Ah, straight to the point then. You could appreciate that at least.
“I hope you can forgive me. Adjusting to life outside of the mountain has not been easy,” you replied, “Especially now that I know that my tribe is functionally extinct.”
You tried your best to keep the bitterness out of your tone, but you were sure that Thranduil picked up on it nonetheless.
“There is nothing to forgive,” Thranduil stated, “It was a miracle to discover you alive. We had all thought that you had perished at the dragon’s flame.”
If you weren’t an ambassador, sent to negotiate trade agreements on behalf of two kingdoms, you would have rolled your eyes at that stupid comment. You elected to keep your mouth shut because any reply you might have given would certainly derail negotiations before they had even begun. Thankfully, King Thranduil seemed more than willing to talk enough for both of you.
“I imagine that you are asked to answer this question regularly, but I must know. How did you survive the dragon?” he probed.
He wasn’t even going to let you eat something before forcing you to reopen old wounds. Typical. You took another sip of wine before you spoke.
“A combination of sheer willpower, intellect, and blind luck,” you drawled, “And no small amount of dragon magic, I’m guessing.”
“Is it the dragon’s magic, then, that has allowed you to age more slowly than your kin?” he pressed.
You sighed and nodded.
“That is the most likely explanation,” you answered, “How long the effects will last is unclear. I may live for several centuries more or I may perish tomorrow.”
Thranduil frowned at your explanation.
“Have you consulted healers? Lord Elrond may be able to help you find the answers you seek,” he suggested.
You shook your head.
“With respect, Your Highness, if I am to live a natural Dúnedain lifespan, then I shall know in a few short years,” you countered, “Most of my people live to be just over a century. I am not far from that.”
“If by some miracle, the dragon magic could allow you to live much longer, why would you not wish to know this?” Thranduil continued, “Dragons are immortal beings, perhaps there is a way for you to emulate their lifespan.”
It was your turn to frown. You had absolutely no idea where he was going with this line of questioning.
“Your Highness, why exactly would I want to pursue immortality, especially if it isn’t forced on me?” you asked, confusion evident in your voice.
Thranduil narrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head to study you, confusion also etched onto his face. His stare made you uneasy and you took another drink of your wine in the hopes that it might calm your nerves.
“We are still betrothed,” he explained, slowly, “I will be incredibly displeased if my new wife died so suddenly after our marriage.”
Wait.
You barely stopped yourself from choking on your wine as you processed exactly what he had just said.
What??
At that moment, the attendants returned carrying your dinner.
Warning/tags: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, MINORS DNI - Soft Thranduil, established relationship, you ride Thranduil on his throne to help him de-stress
A/N: I spent way too much time looking at Irish Elks and Thranduil’s throne room for this one
Masterlist
The Great Hall of Mirkwood was a cathedral of twisted roots and carved stone, with its towering throne carved into the root of an ancient tree. Antlers embellished the head of the throne, mimicking that of the Irish elk, the largest deer to ever have lived. Their carved presence alone spoke of Thranduil’s dominion over the woodland realm. Tonight, the throne room was empty, for the Elvenking’s sharp command had dismissed all of its usual guards and advisors. The last rays of twilight filtered in from above, casting its fading warmth onto the stressed king that perched upon his throne. His silver-blonde hair cascaded down over his emerald robes, a symbol of magnificence, though his face was etched with tension. The forests of Mirkwood were succumbing to darkness, and the growing weight of the circumstances left him restless, his piercing blue eyes clouded with strain.
You, his beloved consort of several hundred years, knew that look all too well. Even before the time your relationship was forged, Thranduil always had peculiar situations placed upon his plate. Some were more pressing than others, but in all your time of knowing the king you’ve never seen him as stressed as he was at this moment. Clad in a flowing gown of dark amber, you approached the throne, your footsteps silent as you ascended the stairs. Thranduil's gaze snapped to you, softening only slightly, but the burdens that swirled within were unmistakable.
“My king,” you murmured, your voice soft, almost melodic, as you climbed the last of the steps to stand before him. “You carry too much. Let me bear it with you.”
His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but his hand extended, long fingers curling around your own. “You think to ease me, meleth nín?” he questioned, voice like velvet yet laced with the day's exhaustion. “The burdens of a king are not so easily lifted.”
You stepped closer, standing between his parted legs, the throne’s grandeur framing him like a god. “Then let me try,” you whispered, your hands moving to rest on his shoulders, feeling the tension that coiled within his lithe frame.
His eyes darkened, a spark of intrigue cutting through the fatigue. “On my throne?” he inquired, his brow arching as he asked the question. His hands, however, were already sliding to your hips, pulling you towards him. “Bold, even for you.”
You leaned in, your lips brushing his pointed ear as you spoke. “You need this, meleth. Let me serve you.” Your fingers worked the clasps of his robes and tunic, the fabric parting to reveal the pale, sculpted planes of his chest. He didn’t stop you, instead, his grip on you tightened, a low hum of approval rumbling in his throat.
Straddling his lap, you settled onto the throne, the hard wood beneath him a stark contrast to the warmth of his body. His hands guided you, lifting your gown to pool around your thighs, exposing the bare skin that awaited beneath. “No undergarments?” he commented, a rare playfulness in his tone. “My consort plans her seductions well.”
“Only for you,” you replied before kissing him deeply, your tongue teasing his own. He tasted of wine and elderberry, a sweetness that had you craving for more. He kissed you back with just as much passion, fierce and possessive, fingers digging into your hips that urged you to grind against him. You did.
You shifted in his lap, feeling his strained arousal through his garments. With practiced ease, you freed him, hands traveling along the length of him. Long, slightly curved, and elegant, just like the rest of him—perfectly suited for the Elvenking. His eyes connected with yours, intense and commanding, as you positioned yourself above him, teasing his tip with your slick entrance.
“Ride your king,” he ordered, voice low and rough, hands moving to help guide you, careful instead of forceful. He wanted you to take control, to take care of him as much as he takes care of you, to ease his worries and remind himself of only you, if at most for a fleeting moment.
You sank down slowly, savouring the stretch, the way he filled you completely. A moan escaped you, echoed by his sharp intake of breath. “Thranduil…” you gasped, bracing yourself on his shoulders as you began to move, your hips rolling in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
His head tilted back against the throne, eyes half-lidded but never leaving yours. “Yes, meleth… like that.” His voice was a caress, but the strain beneath it told you how close he was already. He’d hold out, though, for you. His hands roamed up your sides, cupping your breasts through the gown you wore, thumbs lightly brushing over them until they peaked against the fabric.
You moaned, loud and uncaring. Your nails clawed against his chest as you rode him faster, adjusting your position until he pressed against the spot that made stars appear in your vision. Every twitch and throb had you clenching around him, the new angle making you feel even fuller than before. You knew you weren’t going to last much longer.
The entire time he watched you, as if you were the embodiment of all that was ethereal. And to him, you were. He watched as you slid yourself along his length, slick glistening along the base. He watched as your breasts bounced with each movement, hands still caressing them gently. And lastly, he watched as your eyes fluttered shut, face contorting into pure bliss as you came around him, crying his name like a prayer. “My queen,” he rasped, the word a vow as much as it was an endearment.
“Let go for me,” you whispered, coming down from your high, leaning onto him to nip at his sensitive ear, a gesture that always drove him wild. His hands took over, fully guiding you along his aching length. His hips bucked up to meet your own, an attempt to drive himself deeper. A guttural moan tore from his throat, echoing throughout the throne room as he finally let go, body shuddering as he spilled into you. His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you flush against him as he pulsed within you, giving you the last of his warmth. You collapsed against his chest, both of you panting as he finally stilled, feeling your combined juices leak from where you were still connected, creating a mess along your thighs.
You could stay like this for hours if he’d let you, with his arms wrapped around you, his lips brushing against your temple as you both basked in the afterglow of your shared time together. “You’ve saved me tonight,” he murmured, voice soft enough just for you to hear, the king now replaced with the man who loved you. “This throne feels lighter with you upon it.”
You kissed his jaw with a tender smile, resting your head along the crook of his neck. “Don’t get too comfortable,” you hummed, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin that laid there. “I’m not done ruling you yet.”
He laughed, a rare, rich sound that warmed you more than the rays of the sun ever could. “My insolent wife,” he teased, but his eyes shone with gratitude and love. “I am always yours to command.”
