Summary: After a hunt goes wrong because of your powers, Dean gets injured, and you’re the one cleaning him up. A few curious questions lead to something else.
♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, angel!user, inexperienced!user, virgin!user, smut, thigh-grinding, wing play, corruption kink, innocence loss, sexual tension, suggestive comments, religious themes, nothing too kinky, pet names (baby, angel), oblivious!user, no mentions of y/n, reader-insert.
wc: 3.5k | : obviouslyyy i had to make some tweaks to the canon angels (lolol) but i hope you guys enjoy <3 this is for the anon who asked me sooo long ago to make a wing play fic :’) trust me on it!!!
The weight from the hunt is heavy on your shoulders, and so are the wings that are aching to come out of your back.
It wasn’t a good hunt, not at all; you, Dean’s guardian angel, allowed him to get hurt while in your hands, and now he’s sitting at a sink in the motel room, and you’re trying your best to stop the bleeding seeping from his lower stomach.
“Why don’t you work your angel juju or somethin’?” Dean asks, his eyes gazing at yours, but yours are elsewhere; his bare stomach, and the blood that’s pooling by his waistband. “Isn’t that… your whole existence?”
“I tried to, Dean,” you tell him, peeking up at him. “Did not work, I don’t know why,” you mumble, shaking your head.
“Sky daddy pissed off with you?” He teases, trying to ease the moment, but he sucks in a deep breath, groaning softly when your finger nudges the wound.
“I don’t know,” you say and shake your head, shifting a bit closer to Dean. “Seems like… something is wrong with my powers right now,” you explain, biting your tongue as you examine the wound.
“So, you’re just playin’ doctor right now? No angel magic?” He asks, grinning at you.
You shake your head. “No angel magic.”
The bathroom is quiet as you work, your nimble fingers swiftly working to clean up the mess of blood—Dean got hurt pretty badly, a nasty slash from the claws of a monster, and now you were the one looking after him. You were his guardian angel after all.
Dean watches you closely, his eyes focused on your hands instead; soft, covered in his blood, but small compared to his body. He swallows hard and looks at your face instead, but you’re occupied with something else, like saving his life.
He was fascinated with you—your grace, your elegance, your purpose, your innocence. You were really an angel incarnate, the perfect mix of everything he shouldn’t want to corrupt, and yet, he wanted to, more than he’d like to admit. It was hard not to, not when you looked up at him with those wide, trusting eyes, all while telling him your only purpose was to protect him.
“What about the wings?” Dean asks, making small talk as you work on fixing him up, grabbing damp cloths and holding the wound. “They still workin’, or did they snatch those from you too?”
You bite the inside of your cheek, ignoring the question from Dean, too focused on stopping the flow of blood right now. He’s being an idiot; he’s always being an idiot; sly comments and filthy remarks, and you barely knew what they meant, not until Sam would roll his eyes and apologize on behalf of his gross older brother. You’d just nod.
“Angel,” Dean murmurs, the stupid nickname that’s too accurate making you look up. “You listenin’ to me?”
“No, I’m working,” you say and shake your head, sticking your tongue out as you reach for a bandaid. “What’s wrong, Dean? Are you okay?” You then ask, looking up at him, fingers peeling open the package.
“Yeah—yeah, you don’t have to say my name at the end of every sentence,” he laughs, but it fades into a groan when you touch a tender part of his stomach.
“Why?” You ask softly, carefully slapping the bandage over the cleaned wound. “That’s your name.”
“Do I call you by your name all of the time?” He asks, watching you take a small step back from him.
You shake your head. “No, you call me other things, though… should I call you other things?”
“No… no, I’m just sayin’ you don’t have to act so formal all of the time. I get the angel gimmick, and how your purpose is to serve. You don’t have to talk to me like you’re in HR, though,” Dean teases, his hand carefully tugging down his t-shirt.
“Okay,” you nod a little, and start to walk off, but his hand reaches out, and he grabs your wrist.
“Still didn’t answer my question,” he lightly presses, tilting his head to the side. “The wings? How they workin’?”
You sigh quietly and take a small step back, and Dean lets you, grinning when he knows you’re about to show them off, and you do.
They’re smaller than the others; white and soft, behind your back, a physical manifestation opposed to the shadows they usually cast, and Dean’s lips part at the sight of them. He almost stands up from the sink, but you shake your head.
“Guess daddy isn’t that mad,” he jokes, his eyes averting their gaze, focusing on the odd wings behind you. “Does it… feel weird?”
“No,” you shake your head. “Doesn’t feel like anything.”
“Can I feel ‘em?” Dean then asks, his eyes curious, and he tilts his head to the side, a boyish expression crooked into his features. You nod.
A few steps closer have you near Dean again, and he’s still sitting on the sink, perched up on it like a kid. He wets his lips and reaches out, two rough fingers pinching at one of the white feathers, and you shift on your feet.
“You feel that?” He asks through a laugh, eyebrows raised.
“Mhm,” you nod, swallowing hard. “Tickles… kind of,” you tell him, nodding again.
“Ah,” he nods in understanding, taking his hand back and resting it against his thigh. “I thought they’d be sensitive, somethin’ like that,” he adds on.
“They are,” you tell him, your eyes staying on his. “It’s like having open nerves on my back; it’s why they aren’t supposed to be seen by you, or touched.”
“Then why can I touch and see ’em?” Dean quips, grinning, his canines pressing to his soft lips.
You shrug. “I don’t know.”
“You’re an angel, but somehow… know nothin’. Does daddy keep a lot of secrets from you?” He asks, and your wings flutter, and he laughs.
“Yes,” you reply, nodding. “I have faith, though.”
Dean licks his lips again and looks away, rubbing his thighs, his palms pressing into the denim. You’re well aware of his wariness, his hesitance in believing in a higher power, your father, and your existence only makes it harder to believe; this beautiful girl before him, all soft and elegant, mindlessly following orders to somebody you haven’t seen, or spoken to, and not even knowing how your body functions, or why your wings are visible to a human right now.
“What do they look like?” Dean then asks, and your eyebrows furrow in mild confusion.
“Can you not see them, Dean?” You ask, your voice soft yet concerned, worrying about his vision. He snorts.
“No, idiot… like, what they look like comin’ out of your back, I’m curious,” he replies, blinking slowly.
There’s little to no hesitation; your hands reach down, and you’re lifting your shirt, carefully peeling it off of your head, and his eyes widen at the sight of you; you stand there in just a bra now, and you turn around.
“Holy fuck,” Dean breathes out in surprise, standing on his feet and off the sink. “Have… have you seen how fuckin’ badass this looks?” He asks in disbelief, his eyes staring at the centre of your back, just above the clasp of your bra.
Dean is absolutely enthralled by how it looks; the two wings, emerging from your skin, right by your shoulder blades, and sweeping out to either side of you. He’s so fascinated, he reaches forward, a fingertip grazing the place where they bulge out of your back.
“Ah—“ you breathe out, your back twitching, and the wings flutter in response. “I told you… they’re sensitive, really sensitive.”
Dean takes his hand away and looks at you. “My bad…”
“It’s okay,” you mumble and shake your head. “Not used to people touching them; nobody has.”
“So I’m your first,” he replies, a smirk working into his lips, but the innuendo goes unnoticed ok your end.
“Yes, you’re my first,” you say casually, glancing over your shoulder and at him.
“You don’t know what you’re sayin’,” Dean laughs, and lifts his hand again, instead using his knuckles to graze where they protrude gently.
“Dean,” you whisper when he touches you again, and he looks down, noticing the slight arch in your back, and the light flutter again.
“How sensitive are these things?” He asks, lightly bringing his knuckles to the wings, just a few inches from your back.
They’re way too sensitive, apparently, and there’s an odd sensation going through your body right now, your innocent mind unable to process any of it; the sensitivity from the wings, clashing with the vessel’s body, and the arousal that stems from sensual touch. You swallow hard and shift again.
“I guess… very sensitive,” you reply, feeling a light warmth flood your cheeks, and you lift your hand, looking into the palm. You’re feeling human emotions.
“You okay?” Dean checks in, noticing the puzzled expression knitting into your brows.
“Yes,” you reply and nod. “I feel good.”
Dean raises his eyebrows at your response and bites his lip. He’s trying not to take it the wrong way; he returns to poking and prodding at the wings, mostly the base, where the skin is tender and ripped out, slightly raw from the wings emerging from them. He steps a bit closer to you and rests a hand on your bare hip.
“The wings are pretty,” he says quietly and nods. “Makes you… look like a real angel,” he adds on, smiling.
“I am an angel,” you reply, your eyes peeking down; you can see the tips of his fingers dipping around your hip, lightly pressing against the front of your body.
“Yeah… I get that,” he nods, and then begins to massage lightly, just two fingers gently rubbing. “How does this feel?”
The noise that leaves your lips gives it away: it feels pretty damn good; a soft moan twisted into a whine, and Dean squeezes your hip in response to the sound. He breathes out, and quickly realizes it isn’t just ticklish; it’s a bit more than that.
“Guessin’… that felt good,” Dean jokes, trying to ease the tension that’s arising.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you tell him, and his lips part at your words.
“Wrong with you?” He repeats back in disbelief, his hand now gently rubbing your hip. “Nothin’ is wrong with you… you’re… God’s divine creation, c’mon.”
“Not me,” you clarify, shifting on your feet. “My vessel.”
“What’s… wrong with your vessel?” He asks, his eyebrows furrowing. “I think she’s pretty hot, nothin’ wrong with that.”
“I am very hot,” you agree and nod. “And.. I’m sweating a lot, and I feel weird; something is happening,” you explain, looking over your shoulder.
“You’re probably turned on,” Dean says plainly, grinning like an ashaole. “I was always gonna ask if you ever do… you’ve walked in on me a bunch of fuckin’ times, and walked out like it was nothin’.”
He realizes he’s been talking too much, and mostly being an insensitive prick—an angel is having a crisis in front of him, partially because of his touch, and all he can do is laugh and poke fun at her for it. He sighs and scratches his jawline.
“Okay,” he starts, rubbing your hip still. “You’re fine… It’s just warm in here,” he reassures, patting your hip, and he notices the wings flutter a bit more.
“I don’t know,” you whisper and shake your head. “I haven’t felt like this before, Dean, and… and I don’t know what to do,” you add on, your words bleeding into a soft whine.
“Hey… hey, you’re okay,” he reassures quietly, his hand on your hip carefully moving you, turning you around to face him. “What’s goin’ on?”
You breathe out. “Uhm… I’m really hot, and… and it feels all weird,” you tell him, and Dean nods.
He’s carefully guiding you back into the main part of the motel room and setting you onto one of the beds. It groans when you sit against it, and he’s sitting beside you too, his eyes focused on you.
Dean’s eyes glance down, noticing your thighs squeezing together, your hips moving, and he puts it all together, quicker than he’d like to; it’s arousal, the human feeling where you suddenly feel a little bit hotter than normal, and there’s a dull ache between your thighs, and he clenches his jaw.
His hand lifts, and it presses against your lower back, missing the wings that are still behind you, fluttering a bit more. His thumb rubs the bare back, grazing the nobs of your spine, and he keeps his eyes on the side of your face. He can feel the sweat glistening on your skin, and he knows you’re struggling.
“You’re fine,” he whispers to you, his other hand lifting your chin. “It’ll… go away,” he reassures, but his hand accidentally drifts a bit too high, and his thumb nudges it again, a part of your wing.
A soft whine leaves your mouth, and you lean into Dean, your face pressing against his shoulder, and he’s not sure if you’re succumbing to it or trying to escape—he chooses to keep going, lightly drawing circles where the celestial fragment extends from you, poking the tender skin. He’s in awe; you’re moaning.
“Dean,” you whimper into his shoulder, and he’s almost too shocked to pull his hand away. “Why… am I feeling like this?”
“You’re supposed to,” he says automatically, and swallows hard, gazing down at your hidden face. “It’s your vessel… it’s feelin’ what it’s supposed to feel.”
“What?” You ask softly, and Dean is still doing it, silently torturing you with his thumb, and your thighs shift, and your hips squirm.
“What’s happenin’ between your thighs?” Dean then asks, his eyes noticing the way they’re rubbing together in response to what his hand is doing. “Feels good, yeah?”
“Yeah… mhm,” you admit and nod quickly, leaning into him, and he’s gradually pulling you in, focusing on touching your back still, occasionally touching a stray feather.
“Good, angel… want you to feel good,” he mumbles, admitting an underlying desire he has for you.
He’s had to watch it all; you battling, fighting, crying, a smile only appearing on your face when he was okay, when Dean was fine, when Dean had won—your emotions depended on him, and for once, he was the one making you feel good, and it wasn’t because you put yourself on the line, and in return saved him. No, it’s because he’s doing it to you.
“It does… feel really good,” you breathe out, shifting closer to him and leaning into him. “Don’t know what it is, though…”
“Don’t worry about it,” he dismisses and shakes his head, urging you to come a bit closer, his hand leaving your wings and moving to your hip.
Dean carefully moves you towards him, and he pulls you onto his thigh, helping you sit onto it. He looks up at you, his eyes wide; an angel sitting atop him, wings casting soft shadows, all beauty and innocence wrapped up into a whiny thing, whose vessel is telling her to rock her hips against his thick thigh.
“Woah—hey… hey,” he whispers, one hand on your hip, and the other returning to rest against your back. “What’re you doin’?”
“I don’t know,” you whine softly and shake your head, having a bit of a dilemma. “Feels… really good, really good,” you whimper.
Dean bites back a groan of his own, and he drifts his hand up your back again, and he’s doing it; fingertips roving over the delicate feathers, and you’re moaning now, a hand reaching for his shoulder. You grip it, fingers curling into the fabric.
“How’re you feelin’?” He asks quietly, feeling you rock into his thigh, gentle grinds, back and forth. “You know what’s happenin’?”
“No,” you admit and shake your head, just knowing that the friction feels good, and that the hand on your hip feels good, and that a hand on your wing feels good—Dean Winchester feels good.
“You’re… gettin’ off,” Dean mumbles, looking away from you when he realizes his poor choice of words. It’s not every day he’s walking an angel through thigh grinding.
“I’m… on top of you,” you whisper, your eyebrows knitting in confusion, and he smiles again.
Dean scoffs. “Yeah… you’re right,” he replies, licking his lips. “That… ache? You feelin’ somethin’ between your thighs?”
“Mhm…” you mumble, still grinding back and forth.
“Doin’ this makes it feel better, right?” He questions, noticing the way you’re almost speeding up.
“A lot better,” you whisper, nodding. “Wanna… do this all day with you,” you tell him, unaware of what this even means—this isn’t something you do all day, not even close.
“Can’t do this all day with you,” he replies, laughing again. “We… we can do this now, though.”
“Okay, Dean,” you breathe out, holding both of his shoulders, hastily keeping your balance, still moving back and forth. It feels too good to stop right now.
Dean watches in awe now; lips parted, realizing he hadn’t been with a woman who had something remotely similar to this. Yeah, he’d pick up chicks from bars, and you’d watch, but the way you’re just getting off on his thigh, moving back and forth, he just watches, wanting nothing more than for you to finish.
“What’s goin’ on in that head?” He then asks, and brushes his knuckle against another feather, hearing a whine.
“Uhm—just… I feel so good,” you whisper and nod. “Like… better than when I’m… doing other things,” you admit, nodding again, your head tipping back.
“Like when you’re servin’?” He asks, his teeth gritting.
“Yeah… this feels better,” you confess.
Dean’s slightly taken aback by your words; you’d always praised yourself on the battles you went on, the fights you fought and won, how proud you felt for conquering whatever stood in the way—God’s orders, Dean’s victory.
But this, grinding against his thigh, listening to his deep voice while he touches your wings, and touches your body… that feels better. He knows he’s making a monster, a corrupted angel.
“Daddy isn’t gonna like that,” he mumbles and shakes his head, half-joking, but wanting to see your reaction.
“I know… mhm, don’t care,” you whimper and shake your head, noticing the way Dean is purposely driving his thumb into that tender part of the wing.
He’s running off of this odd desire to prove something, to prove that your own will and ability to do what you want should override any false command. His hand holds your hips, guiding you to go quicker, helping you along, listening to hushed whines and moans leaving your mouth now.
“Keep goin’,” Dean encourages now, realizing that this is a lot more than an angel discovering what feels good. “You’re doin’ good, angel…”
The way your hips move is fluid and slow, but intense and hungry, and he can tell it’s all-consuming, the pleasure you’re feeling. He’s watching your eyelashes flutter and bat, your mouth hanging open now, and he can’t help but want to make you finish—he’s trying his hardest to.
Dean notices the flash in your eyes, and he realizes that you’re feeling something different now; probably a knot in your stomach, a tightness that you’re suddenly holding in, and he encourages you to go even faster, patting your hip.
“C’mon,” he mumbles, and he’s almost smiling at the way your wings flutter. “Almost there, baby, you got it.”
The pet name makes you whine softly; your mouth hangs open as you helplessly grind back and forth, feeling the best you ever have since you ended up in this god-forsaken place, and Dean is pretty sure he feels the same way too.
“Dean—“ you groan out, shaking your head, your nose scrunching up. “I—“
“It’s okay—it’s fine, baby, just… just do what feels right,” he tells you, and he can see the reluctance on your face, the way you’re unsure of what to do.
And then you do it, what feels right; you finish.
The motel room is all high-pitched, curious whines and moans, a whimper following quickly afterwards as you practically fall into Dean’s arms, and the wings disappear, immediately going back to where they came from. His hand rests where they were once protruding from, and he’s almost confused.
Dean can feel the dampness on his thigh, seeping in through the denim, and he knows not to make a big deal out of it. He just holds you there, realizing the innocence he just took from you, how he’s slowly corrupting you and breaking you down. He feels a hint of guilt and rubs your back.
“You okay?” He asks again, turning his head slightly, hesitantly placing a kiss to the temple of your head. “Feelin’ better?”
“Uh-huh…” you breathe out and nod, panting softly.
frank castle is hung. it’s long and thick when it’s soft, but when he’s hard, it’s almost intimidating. there’s a curve in his anatomy, and his veins give the shaft natural ribbing. how is that supposed to fit inside of you? first time he fucks you, he only lets you have the tip, and you’re still whining about how full you feel.
second time he fucks you, he decides he can put half of his cock inside of you, but not before putting his length against your belly and saying, “this is where i’m gon’ be, baby…” getting half of his cock is enough to have you drooling, babbling incoherent nonsense as he thrusts.
it takes multiple sessions before he actually sinks his full length in between your folds and stretches you around his cock. “m’not going to thrust just yet, sweetheart. why don’t you get used to the feeling of me all the way inside?”
he feels you spasm beneath him, eyes clamping shut as your walls tighten around him. you didn’t mean to finish, it’s not like he’s actually pressing his hips against yours to stimulate that special spot. he’s doing absolutely nothing except letting you stretch around him. just the imagery of his leaky tip as deep as he can go inside of you prods an orgasm. “you’re giving me one already? atta girl… made just for me, isn’t that right?”
Summary: Your dad’s best friend Beau has been secretly fucking you for weeks. One dinner, one under-table foot rub, and one guilty “we can’t do this anymore” text later, he climbs through your window drunk, and proves he never meant a word of it.
ꨄ Warnings: MDNI, NSFW, 18+, age gap, power imbalance, dads best friend, secret relationship, dumification, babying, soft degradation, finger sucking, drunk sex, praise kink
wc: 2.3k
Beau had always come over for dinner, the kind of easy, expected thing that never needed explaining.
It wasn’t unusual at all, and you looked forward to it every single time he showed up.
But now that the two of you had started hooking up, the evenings carried a new kind of weight. You could see the guilt sitting on him, quiet and constant, though that guilt never seemed to stop him when he was inside you.
You were half-watching some show in the living room, legs crossed on the couch and leaning into the cushion, when the doorbell rang.
“Go get it, it’s Beau,” your dad called from the kitchen, the sound of a steak sizzling on the grill filling the house.
You stood with a quiet sigh, brushed imaginary dust from your tank top, and walked to the door. When you opened it, the grin came easy, until you caught the look on his face. Guilt sat heavy in his eyes, but that didn’t stop him from letting his gaze drag slowly over you.
“Hey, kid,” Beau said, pulling you into a quick, almost careful hug that ended with a light pat on your back.
“Hey, Beau!” your dad called from the kitchen without looking up from the steak. “Got the drinks?”
Beau lifted the pack in answer and stepped inside, heading straight for the counter. He set the bottles down, then adjusted the front of his jeans with a small, restless shift.
“Gonna use the bathroom,” he mumbled, already moving past you.
Your dad glanced over. “Go set the table.”
You nodded and slipped into the pantry for napkins, rising onto your toes so the tank top rode up just enough. A sharp slap landed on your ass a second later. You turned with a smirk already forming.
Beau’s hands slid around your waist, rough and familiar, groping as he pulled you back against him.
“I like your top, baby,” he murmured against your mouth before kissing you hard and quick.
“Thank you…” You blushed and looked away, heat climbing your neck.
“Go get those napkins your daddy asked for,” he said, voice low, eyes dark. Then he released you and stepped back like nothing had happened.
You grabbed the napkins and hurried toward the kitchen, the ghost of his hands still burning on your skin.
Once dinner was finished and the plates were set, the three of you settled around the table. The steak still steamed a little in the center, and the low hum of the kitchen fan filled the quiet moments between bites.
You picked at your food more than you ate it, watching the two of them fall into easy conversation the way they always did.
“How’s work treating you these days?” your dad asked, cutting into his steak. “Still pulling those late shifts?”
Beau nodded, swallowing a bite. “Yeah. Busier than usual. Couple new guys on the crew who still don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground, so I’m covering more than I should.”
Your dad chuckled. “Sounds about right. You always end up carrying the slack.”
While they talked, you slid your foot carefully under the table until it found Beau’s leg. You rubbed slow and deliberate, up and down the length of his calf, then higher.
Beau’s eyes flicked to yours for half a second. When your dad glanced down at his phone, Beau mouthed a sharp stop across the table.
You only fluttered your lashes at him and kept going, the side of your foot dragging higher along his thigh.
He shifted in his chair and gave your foot a firm kick to the side. You rolled your eyes, pulled your leg back, and pretended to focus on the food in front of you again.
“You quiet tonight,” your dad said, looking over at you. “Everything okay?”
You offered a small smile. “Just tired. Long day.”
Beau cleared his throat and reached for his drink. “Yeah. We should probably wrap up soon anyway. Early morning tomorrow.”
Your dad nodded, already half-distracted by whatever was on his phone. “Fair enough. Good steak though, right?”
“Best one yet,” Beau answered, but his voice came out a little tighter than usual, and you felt the heat of his leg still lingering against yours even after he’d pushed you away.
“Thanks again for dinner,” Beau said, already on his feet and tucking his chair in with a little more force than necessary.
He was clearly in a rush. You sighed and leaned back in your seat, watching him move like he couldn’t get out of the house fast enough.
“Yeah, see you later,” your dad answered, cracking open a fresh beer as he stood as well.
“Do the dishes,” he added, nodding toward the plates still scattered across the table.
You mumbled something under your breath and gathered the plates and glasses, carrying them to the sink. The water ran hot while you scrubbed, the quiet of the kitchen feeling heavier than usual once Beau’s presence was gone.
When the last dish was rinsed and set to dry, you dried your hands and headed down the hall to your room. The door clicked shut behind you. You dropped onto the edge of the bed, pulled your phone out, and typed before you could second-guess it.
“Why did you leave so early? :(“
The reply came almost immediately.
“Listen, I just don’t think we should do this anymore. I can’t even look your dad in the eye anymore.”
Your heart dropped. You sat up straighter, frowning hard at the screen as the words sank in.
“Seriously?? You didn’t say this shit last night”
“I’m sorry, bunny.”
“Ur an asshole”
You stared at the last message for a second longer, then sighed and tossed the phone across the room. It landed somewhere near the closet with a dull thud. You collapsed back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling while the quiet of the house pressed in around you.
Around an hour later you had your sad-music playlist running low in the background, lying on your stomach across the bed with your face half-buried in a pillow, clearly deep in your feelings.
A soft knock sounded against the window. You raised a brow, pushed up onto your elbows, and peeked through the blinds.
Beau stood there on the other side of the glass, shoulders hunched, waiting.
You unlocked the window and shoved it open, already pissed.
“What do you want?” you asked, arms crossed tight over your chest.
“Listen, baby… I’m sorry. I need you,” Beau mumbled, the words coming out slurred and rough around the edges. You could smell the alcohol on him the second the night air drifted in.
“You’re drunk.”
“Yeah, but that don’t mean nothin’.”
He was already halfway through the window, one boot braced on the sill. “Help me up, will ya?”
You grabbed his hand and hauled him the rest of the way inside, then slammed the window shut behind him harder than necessary.
“You just wanna fuck.” you said, looking up at him with narrow eyes.
“You look so cute when you’re mad, sweetheart,” he answered, voice low and rough as his hand came up to cup your cheek.
You pouted, refusing to lean into the touch.
“Don’t do that,” he murmured. “You look like a sad puppy.” His eyes slipped closed for a second as he wrapped both arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. Then his hand found your chin, tipped your face up, and he kissed you, slow at first, then deeper, guiding you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed and the two of you sank down onto the mattress together.
The kiss turned messy the second your backs hit the mattress. Beau’s weight settled over you, heavy and warm and still smelling faintly of beer, his mouth dragging from your lips to your jaw while one hand already shoved under your tank top.
“Fuck, baby, missed this,” he muttered against your skin, voice thick. “Missed how soft you get for me.”
He sat up just enough to yank your top off, then your shorts and panties in one impatient tug. When you were bare underneath him he paused, eyes dark and glassy, and dragged two fingers slowly between your legs.
“Already wet,” he groaned. “Look at that. My needy little girl couldn’t even stay mad for an hour.”
He pushed those two fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep. Your hips jerked and a soft sound slipped out of you. Beau watched your face the whole time, smiling like he’d just been handed something precious.
“There she is,” he murmured. “That’s my good girl. Open those legs wider for me, yeah, just like that. Don’t think, just feel.”
He fucked you slow with his fingers, thumb circling your clit every few strokes. When your thighs started to tremble he pulled his hand free, shiny and slick, and held it right in front of your mouth.
“Suck,” he ordered softly. “Clean me up, bunny.”
You parted your lips and he slid the two fingers onto your tongue. The taste of yourself mixed with the salt of his skin. He watched you with heavy-lidded eyes, pushing a little deeper until you had to hollow your cheeks around them.
“That’s it, good girl. Look how pretty you look with my fingers in your mouth. Such a dumb little thing when you’re like this, huh? All empty-headed and wet just ‘cause I touched you.”
He pulled his fingers free with a wet pop and wiped the excess across your bottom lip.
“Say it,” he whispered, already shoving his jeans down. “Tell me what you are.”
Your voice came out soft and shaky. “Your dumb little girl.”
“That’s right.” He lined himself up and sank into you in one long, slow thrust, burying himself to the hilt. A low groan rumbled out of him as he bottomed out. “Fuck, still so tight. My perfect, stupid little girl who can’t even stay away from me for one night.”
He started moving, deep and steady, one hand cradling the back of your head like you were something fragile while the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise.
“That’s it, take it. Good girl. Just lie there and let me use this pretty cunt. Don’t gotta think about anything else. Daddy’s got you.”
Every time you clenched around him he praised you softer, dirtier.
“So fucking good for me my sweet little puppy. Can’t even form a sentence when I’m inside you, can you? Just those cute little noises. That’s all you need to do. Just be my dumb, wet baby and take it.”
He shifted, hiking one of your legs higher so he could drive deeper, forehead pressed to yours.
“You gonna cum on my cock like a good girl? Gonna make a mess for me while I tell you how stupid and perfect you are?”
Beau’s rhythm stayed deep and steady, every thrust dragging another soft, broken sound out of you. His hand never left the back of your head, fingers threaded gently through your hair like he was petting something small and precious while he fucked you.
“That’s it… there she is,” he murmured against your mouth. “My good little girl is getting close, huh? I can feel it. You’re squeezing me so tight.”
He shifted the angle just enough to grind against that spot that made your thoughts scatter. Your eyes fluttered and your mouth fell open, no words left, just those high, needy sounds he seemed to love.
“Look at you. Can’t even talk anymore. Just a dumb, dripping little toy for me.” His voice was thick with praise and something darker. “That’s okay, baby. You don’t need words. Just cum for me.”
The combination of the slow, heavy thrusts and the soft, filthy encouragement pushed you over. Your whole body locked up, thighs shaking around his hips as the orgasm rolled through you hard enough to steal your breath. You clenched around him in tight, pulsing waves, a broken whimper catching in your throat.
“Fuck—yes.” Beau groaned, hips stuttering as he fucked you through it. “Taking every drop like you were made for it.”
He buried himself as deep as he could and came with a low, rough sound, spilling inside you in thick pulses. His arms tightened around you, holding you flush against his chest while he rode it out, still murmuring soft praise against your temple.
“That’s it… take it all.”
For a long minute neither of you moved. The only sounds were your shared breathing and the quiet playlist still looping in the background. Eventually Beau’s weight settled more heavily on top of you, his face tucked into the curve of your neck. He pressed a slow kiss there, then another, almost apologetic.
“Shit,” he whispered, voice rough and suddenly quieter. “I wasn’t supposed to… fuck. I meant what I said earlier.”
He didn’t pull out yet. One hand still stroked absently up and down your side, the same gentle, babying touch he’d used the whole time.
“You’re gonna hate me in the morning,” he mumbled, more to himself than to you. “But I couldn’t stay away. Not when you looked at me like that.”
He finally eased out of you, both of you wincing at the loss, and rolled onto his side so he could pull you against his chest. His big hand cupped the back of your head again, guiding your face into the warm space under his jaw.
“Come here, baby. Just… stay like this for a minute. Let me hold my girl.”
warnings. . . MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. 18+ age gap. fem!reader. neck kissing.
Frank Castle pulling you onto his lap while you watch a movie, positioning your legs so they’re spread across his lap and your back is resting against his chest. When the characters start kissing, you’re wiggling against Frank’s restlessly, fidgeting as your eyes widen. Your focus on the screen is only interrupted by Frank’s hands covering your eyes. “You’re too little for this, baby, you can’t see this.”
It’s a game you two play. He says you’re too little, too sweet, too pure for your innocence to be ruined as if he doesn’t wake you up by licking in between your legs. Obviously, you’ve seen sex scenes in movies, but Frank gets off on your age gap. He’s constantly reminding you of the nearly twenty-something years between you two. You’re young enough to be his daughter— it’s perverse and slightly problematic, but what can you say? You’ve got a thing for the gray hairs in his beard.
Wet kissing and bodies pressing together sounds from the television. Even though Frank has your eyes covered, the noises are enough to drive your imagination wild. With a whine, you paw at Frank’s hands, moving them from your eyes so you can catch the end of the sex scene on the screen. “Frank, stop! I wanna see.”
The characters move together, their bodies in sync. Lips on lips, hands on shoulders, lips on neck… Squeezing your legs together, you turn your head just enough to catch a glimpse of Frank. His eyes are on you, reading the signs of your body rather than focusing on the movie. “You like that, baby? You want that?”
A soft hum is what you offer as confirmation. It doesn’t take long before Frank’s mouth is on your neck, his scruffy salt-and-pepper beard brushing against your shoulder. “Don’t worry, sweetheart…” Frank mumbles against your skin, his tongue sliding near the pulse point on your throat, “I’ll teach you what you like. I know you’re still learning.”
Summary: You picked a slow foreign film for you and Dean to watch, hoping he can sit still for once. He lasts about fifteen minutes before his hand starts to wonder. When you try to make him watch the movie, he makes the subtitles part of the game.
You’d learned that early. Movies were supposed to be the easy nights.
You’d picked something foreign on purpose. Slow. Subtitled. The kind of film that demanded actual attention so Dean couldn’t just half-watch while he scrolled on his phone. He settled in beside you with a beer, arm heavy across the back of the couch, your legs tangled under the blanket. For the first ten minutes he was almost well-behaved.
His fingers found the edge of your tank top and stayed there, stroking the soft skin just above the waistband of your shorts in lazy circles. You pretended not to notice.
Dean’s mouth found the hinge of your jaw first. A slow, open kiss that made your pulse jump. Then lower, along the side of your neck, lingering over the spot that always made your breath hitch.
“Baby,” you murmured, still watching the screen. “We’re watching the movie.”
“Mm.” He didn’t stop. His teeth scraped lightly, then soothed with his tongue. “I can multitask.”
His hand slipped fully under your shirt, warm palm spanning your stomach, thumb brushing the underside of your bra. You shifted, trying to keep your focus on the dialogue.
“Dean—”
“Keep watching.” He mumbled. “I’m just gettin’ comfortable.”
He wasn’t. He was mapping you. Mouth trailing lower, kissing the hollow of your throat, the top of your sternum, while his fingers worked the clasp of your bra open with the same easy competence he used on a locked door. The fabric loosened. His hand cupped your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it peaked under his touch. You bit your lip and forced your eyes back to the subtitles.
Dean hummed against your skin like he was pleased you were still trying. Then he shifted, easing you down until your back was against the arm of the couch and he was kneeling between your spread thighs, blanket kicked to the floor.
“Gonna make this more interesting,” he said.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and underwear and dragged them down your legs in one slow pull. You lifted your hips without thinking. The cool air of the bunker kissed your bare skin. Dean tossed the clothes aside and settled lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the insides of your thighs, higher, higher, until his breath ghosted over your cunt.
You tried again. “Baby, let’s just watch the—”
He licked a long, deliberate stripe up your center and the rest of the sentence died in your throat.
“Nope.” He sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked, slow and filthy, then pulled back just enough to speak. “You’re gonna keep reading the subtitles. Out loud. Every single word. You mess up, you gasp, you moan, you lose your place, we start that line over. Clear?”
Your cheeks burned. “Dean...”
He flicked his tongue against you in a quick, sharp tease. “Clear?”
“…Clear.”
You forced your eyes back to the screen. The white letters swam for a second before you locked onto them.
“‘She waits by the window every evening, hoping—’”
Dean’s tongue pressed flat and dragged, slow and thorough. Your hips jerked. The word hoping came out strangled.
He stopped completely. Rested his cheek against your inner thigh and waited, patient as a hunter.
“Start over.”
You swallowed hard, voice already shaky. “‘She waits by the window every evening, hoping the rain will bring him home.’”
He rewarded you with a deeper stroke, two fingers sliding through your wetness and curling inside you just as his mouth sealed over your clit again.
But the second your voice cracked, the second a moan slipped out or your eyes fluttered shut, he pulled away.
“Again.”
You started the same line for the third time, thighs trembling around his head. Dean licked into you like he had all night, like the movie was just background noise and the only plot that mattered was how thoroughly he could take you apart. Your fingers tangled in his hair, not pushing, just holding on. The subtitles blurred every time he did that clever little twist of his tongue, and you had to force the words out through gritted teeth.
“‘—bring him home. But the storm only grows, and she begins to wonder if—’”
His fingers crooked harder. Your voice broke on wonder.
Dean lifted his head, lips shiny, eyes dark with satisfaction. “Start over, sweetheart.”
You were shaking now, cunt aching, every nerve lit up. You dragged in a breath and began again, reading in a broken whisper while he went back to work, slower this time, meaner, drawing it out until you were dripping down his chin and the only thing keeping you from coming was the iron control he had over the pace.
Line after line. Restart after restart.
By the time the scene on screen shifted to something quieter, your voice was wrecked and your thighs were quivering. Dean had three fingers inside you, tongue relentless on your clit, and you were reading the next subtitle through clenched teeth, every word a fight.
“‘—if love was ever enough to call him back from the dark.’”
You made it through clean.
Dean groaned against you like the sound of your voice saying those words while you were this close was the hottest thing he’d ever heard. He sucked harder, curled his fingers just right, and the orgasm crashed through you so suddenly your back arched off the couch. You came with his name on your lips and the last of the subtitle still hanging unfinished in the air.
He didn’t stop. He licked you through it, slow and thorough, until the aftershocks made you twitch and soft, broken sounds kept spilling out of you. Only when you tugged weakly at his hair did he finally ease back, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your knee, then your stomach, then higher until he was stretched over you again.
He kissed you deep, tasting like you, and you could feel him hard against your hip.
“Told you the movie was better this way,” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough with want.
summary: your dad's best friend ends up showing you how real men actually do it.
content: secret relationship, age gap (reader is in her 20s, beau is in his 40s), 18+ MDNI, smut, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), praising, soft beau
wc: 1175
notes: god i love older men
Once again, another dangerous crime had shaken your town. And of course, your parents had come to the very reasonable conclusion that their twenty-something daughter was incapable of surviving one weekend alone.
Luckily for them, your dad’s best friend happened to be the sheriff.
Now he was over at your place, his mouth crashing onto yours as he carried you up the stairs, to your room.
You and Beau have been sneaking around for the past week, but your father didn’t know. Beau insisted that you keep it a secret, for your dad’s sake, he said. You couldn’t pretend it didn’t sting a little. You wanted to hold his hand in public, kiss him without looking over your shoulder, just like all your friends did with their boyfriends. But you understood. Beau valued his friendship with your dad far too much to risk it, and you respected that.
And honestly, there was something thrilling about sneaking around with him. Maybe it was the stolen kisses when no one was looking. Or maybe it was simply Beau.
After your last relationship, which was also your first, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be genuinely cared for.
“God, darlin’, missed you so much,” he groaned against your lips, pushing the door open with his back as he guided the both of you to your room. He pressed you back against the mattress, him hovering over you, your dress sliding up from the movement. “Almost forgot what you tasted like.”
“I missed you too, Beau.” you giggled underneath him, your hand wrapped around his neck. His hands were roaming your curves gently, lips kissing at your neck. His fingers found the lace of your panties, teasing, sliding a finger beneath the elastic to find you already slick and aching. He let out a low whistle.
“Look at that,” he whispered, his head pulling back from your neck to look at you. “You’re practically beggin’ for me, sweetheart.”
“Beau… stop teasing,” you whimpered, rocking your hips to feel his fingers against your skin.
He pushed the lace down your thighs, his fingers flicking your clit once before diving deep into your heat. You arched your back, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. His fingers began to move in and out, his thumb circling your clit with a rhythmic precision. Beau’s hand shifted, guiding your legs wider as he began lowering himself down your body.
Panic spiked through you. You instinctively pushed his shoulders back, distancing him from you.
Beau froze, blinking up at you. He looked confused and worried, immediately placing a hand on your cheek.
“Did I do somethin’ wrong, darlin’?” his voice was soft, filled with worry.
You looked away, your cheeks flushing a deep crimson. “No… No it’s not you.”
“Then talk to me, sweetheart. What’s going on inside that head of yours?”
You were pathetic. All your friends were bragging on about how good it feels, yet there you were, pushing the occasion away. “I’ve never… had anyone do that. Rob never wanted to do it. Said it was gross.” You paused, exhaling loudly. “I guess I just feel… embarrassed.”
Beau’s expression softened visibly. He brushed a stray hair from your forehead. “Look at me,” his command was gentle.
You met his green eyes.
“You ain’t got nothin’ to be embarrassed about, sweetheart.” His voice was steady and warm. “Your body is a goddamn miracle. And if that boy didn’t know how to appreciate it, then it’s his loss.” He placed a soft kiss to your lips. “I‘m a grown man. And I know that it’s a coward move not to make your girl feel good.”
“Yeah?” you say, feeling so small and timid.
“Yeah,” he whispered, his thumb stroking your knee gently. “Do you trust me, sweetheart?”
“I do.” You nodded almost instantly, because you really did. Beau was nothing but gentle and kind with you.
“Then, relax, kid,” he whispered, his hand moving slowly and surely up your inner thigh. “I‘m gonna show you how real men do it.”
He didn’t give you much time to overthink it. He slid back down your body, kissing the insides of your thighs, his beard tickling your soft skin. He lingered above your aching cunt, his breath ghosting over you. You sucked in a breath as his tongue finally made contact with your clit.
You let out a strangled cry, clutching the bedsheets. He lazily drags his tongue over your clit, a low humming sound vibrating from his throat, swirling around the sensitive bud with a rhythmic pressure that sent electric shocks straight to your core.
“God, sweetheart, you taste like heaven,” he mumbled against your skin, his voice muffled.
The sensation was overwhelming. One of his hands holds your thigh in place, making sure you’re spread enough, the other finding your clit and flicking it gently as his tongue dragged over your folds. When you stared down, all you could see were his green eyes staring at you and your wetness shining on his beard as he licks his lips.
It was lewd. And you loved it.
He used his fingers to open you wider, his tongue diving deep. Your legs began to shake, your hips involuntarily bucking against him. The combination of his tongue, teeth and fingers was heavenly. Fuck Rob for never wanting to do it. He didn't have a problem with your lips wrapped around his cock.
"Oh god," you whimpered, your fingers tangling in his hair. "Please don't stop, Beau."
“That’s it, sweetheart,” Beau groaned, sensing your build up. “Just let it go. Give it all to me. Doing so good f'me.”
He increased the pace, his tongue working faster, hungrier. You felt the tension building, a coil tightening in your belly.
“Beau…” his name came broken out of your mouth.
Your whimpers and cries only fed his own ego, his teeth grazing your clit and his finger pushing inside you. It was all too much. That’s when you fall apart, your body trembling.
Beau didn’t pull away immediately. He lingered, dragging his tongue once more over your folds to collect your juice before kissing the damp skin of your thighs.
All you could hear was the two of you panting for a few beats until Beau broke the silence.
“You okay, kid?” His voice was raspy, licking his lips as he moved and flopped down besides you.
“Holy shit…” you giggled. You couldn’t help it. Beau Arlen might’ve actually just melted a few of your brain cells. “That was…” You scoffed, throwing an arm over your face to hide the blush building because of what you just did. No fucking way that happened. And no fucking way it was that good. “…amazing.”
He chuckles, a low sound coming from the back of his throat. “Yeah, told you I’ll make you feel good, darlin’.”
You turned your head to look at him, a little shy. “Can we do that again?”
He was actually laughing now, pulling you closer and keeping you pressed against his chest. He placed a soft kiss to your forehead. “Anytime you want, kid. Promise.”
Summary: The party you’re at gets busted, and two cops walk in on you and your boyfriend doing… unfortunate things. One of them is Beau Arlen, your dad’s best friend.
♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, dbf!beau arlen, smut, sex (riding), drunk sex, unprotected sex, creampie, nothing too kinky, pet names (kid, sweetheart), praise, sexual tension, infidelity, moral dilemma, mentions of drugs and drinking, no mentions of y/n, reader-insert.
wc: 3.5k | : based off of a lovely request… that i’ll link when i find it!! Enjoy <33
The party is loud beneath you, a blend of loud music and singing, young adults from your shitty college shouting and drinking. You’re absolutely drunk, and whining softly as your boyfriend rocks back and forth, his hips rolling forward, doing little to provide you with any sort of relief.
It’s a random bedroom that you’re in, a random bed that you’re being fucked on, and your boyfriend is grunting and whining into your neck, sloppily kissing at it, his hips moving with little to no rhythm. You’re whining, your own hips shifting, poorly trying to adjust the way you’re positioned so maybe he’ll hit the correct spot. He isn’t.
You’re glad that you’re drunk right now, doped up on something else too, anything to make the painfully unsatisfying sex worth it—you know it won’t be; you’ve never orgasmed in your life because of your boyfriend.
He was the one who dragged you to this party, told you it would be a fun way to spend your Saturday now; drugs, alcohol, sex on a random person’s bed, and now the cops busting down the door.
Your boyfriend immediately stops the second the door swings open, and two tall men stand there, wearing their uniforms and holding flashlights; they’re staring at the two of you, eyebrows knotted in concern at what they had just walked into. Two people having sex.
The music must’ve been too loud, and you were too in your head to realize that the cops were busting the joint—probably a noise complaint, and the fact that some people were drinking, mostly the teens who snuck in from high school, and were now being shoved in the back of police cruisers.
“C’mon, get outta here, kids,” the voice drawls, and it sounds a bit too familiar. “Not in trouble… just be on your way, and you’ll be fine.”
As your boyfriend crawls off of you and you’re scrambling for your shirt, you realize who is currently standing there; it’s Beau Arlen, the head sheriff, and your dad’s best friend. Your eyes widen, your mouth agape, and you hesitantly slide on your flimsy shirt.
“Don’t look at me like that, punk,” Beau murmurs when your boyfriend nudges him, bumping the Sheriff’s shoulder, and his eyes narrow as the kid leaves. “Hurry up, c’mon, darlin’.”
Beau seems not to realize that it’s you, currently hunched over, trying to casually slide on your denim skirt, purposely bowing your head to make sure your hair falls in front of your face. You stand up and out of the random bed, and begin to walk towards him shyly. He grabs your upper arm.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, stopping you. “You okay? What’re you doin’ here?” Beau suddenly asks, his hand lifting to cup your cheek.
He gazes down at you, and all he sees are those wide, innocent eyes staring up at him, all glossed over and hazy, and he knows that you’re clearly drunk. He glances over his shoulder at the other sheriff, and sighs.
“What’re you thinkin’?” He whispers, setting his lips. “Why’re you at a party like this?” He continues, his thumb swiping beneath your eye, before he rests it against your shoulder, gently rubbing.
“Please… please don’t tell my dad,” you plead, and Beau is currently looking over his shoulder as another sheriff begins walking towards the scene. “Please…”
“Hey… hey, I won’t, darlin’,” he shakes his head and looks back at you, carefully pulling you into a hug, his hand resting against the back of your head. “I’ll let you ride back with me, okay? Ain’t gotta worry about me tellin’ on you.”
Beau holds you close to him, and you feel like you’re seventeen again; your face pressed into his shoulder, crying because of your parents' divorce, and he was reassuring you, telling you that he’d be the one to take care of you if he had to—you stayed with your dad instead, making it easier for Beau to visit every day.
“Hands behind your back,” he mumbles as she pulls away from the hug, and your eyebrows furrow. “Can’t walk past the others and have them seein’ you like this, and not handcuffed,” she explains, rubbing his scruff.
You let out a drunken groan and barely turn around, stumbling over your own feet as you lazily put your hands behind your back. Beau takes the cuffs off his belt, carefully wraps them around your wrists, and pushes them against your lower back. His eyes flick to you, watching your back arch and your head tip back.
It’s a shameful walk back to the cruiser. A few people you know are on the steps of the porch, being questioned as to why they’re smoking pot at two in the morning, a few others being caught for public indecency—yeah, you should be on that list too, and Beau is letting you off the hook, for some reason.
“You got her?” Another sheriff calls to Beau, and he nods, giving him a thumbs up, all while he leads you to the car.
“Where’s my boyfriend?” You ask, glancing over your shoulder at Beau, and he sucks in through his teeth.
“Probably gettin’ a new one ripped by another Sheriff,” he says plainly with a shrug, reaching over to open the backseat. “You’ll see him in the mornin’, sweetheart,” he reassures, his hand lightly pushing your head down, helping you into the vehicle.
The back of the car is spinning, and you whine softly, your wrists shifting in the tight cuffs, and you lean your head against the window. You can see Beau telling others about you, gesturing to the drunken girl in the backseat, and how he can handle it all—he’s covering for you, of course.
“Alright, darlin’,” Beau groans as he opens the driver’s seat, huffing as he takes a seat. “You doin’ good back there, kid?”
“Please… don’t tell my dad,” you whine again and shake your head, gazing at Beau in the rear view. “He’ll kill me… and… and he thinks I’m studying… and, oh my god, he thinks I’m a virgin… he still thinks… my boyfriend is my best friend,” you drunkenly babble, and Beau sits there, soaking it in.
Beau’s used to picking up drunk teens and young adults, easily negotiating with them, but also giving them the punishment they deserve for whatever the hell they did, but of course, he’s going easier on you, and there’s a pressure in his chest when you bring it. Virginity.
He’s not sure why he grips the steering wheel a bit harder when you mention it; he saw it with his own eyes: the girl he used to push on a swing, now being caught in a frat house, while her boyfriend fucks her in a random bedroom. It was the worst-case scenario for him, and he was trying to play off the sickness.
“Told you I wouldn’t say anythin’,” Beau reassures, pulling onto the road, the tires rumbling against it. “Secret is safe with me.”
“Thank you… thank you, daddy,” you sigh softly, leaning your head against the window, and you don’t realize the word that fell out of your mouth.
You meant to say his name, but too many thoughts were swirling in your brain; the fact he’s your dad’s best friend, the way he’s acted like your dad far too many times, and how horny you are from your boyfriend’s inability to fuck you right. And it all led to one, painfully awkward thing: calling him daddy.
“Yeah… yeah, you’re welcome, baby,” he says, his Texan accent thick and low, and he awkwardly adjusts his hips against his seat. He swallows hard and reaches over, turning up the radio to end the silence.
You lift your head. “Beau… I don’t wanna go home.”
“Yeah?” He mumbles, looking at you in the rear view mirror. “Where you wanna go? Your boyfriend’s?”
“Your place…” You mumble, staring at his green eyes, biting your lip. “I… I’ll get in trouble at mine… don’t even know where my boyfriend is…”
Beau grips the steering wheel tighter and swallows hard. “Yeah… that’s fine, kid, my place it is.”
Beau’s eyes glance in the rearview mirror as he drives down the road, peeking at you in the back; you’re quiet, handcuffed, and drunk, and he’s not used to that; you’re usually a laughing mess, even when you were just a girl.
The cruiser ends up in front of his small trailer, on the outskirts of the town, and he sighs, getting out and going around, and opening the car door for you. You would, but you’re currently handcuffed, and a bit too drunk to hold your head up.
“C’mon, kid,” Beau mumbles softly, grabbing you and carefully taking you out of the vehicle. “Watch your step.”
He takes you towards the house, watching your feet trip over themselves, your heels making it a bit harder to walk, and he smiles at your giggles, shaking his head. He thinks it’s a bit cute, how drunk you are.
“I don’t wanna sleep,” you tell Beau when you walk into the small house, your eyes gazing around his space. “Let’s… let’s watch a movie, let’s… yeah, let’s do something!”
“No way, darlin’,” Beau laughs and shakes his head, still gripping your hands behind your back, guiding you towards the couch. “You’re drunk and need to sleep off this mess.”
“No…” You whine and shake your head, feeling him carefully undo the cuffs. “Movie… we should watch one.”
“I said no, kid,” he shoots back, and you whine again, slumping over and sitting onto the couch.
Beau stands before you; his hands are on his hips, and he’s in uniform; his holster filled with weapons, his eyes slightly narrowed at the drunk girl before him, and his badge glints in the orange lighting in the small house. You tip your head back.
“Okay… no movie,” you agree, and shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest. “What… what about cuddles? Cuddles… we should cuddle.”
Beau laughs. “No… no, sweetheart, the only thing we’ll be doin’ is gettin’ you to sleep.”
He watches your eyes squeeze shut, your nose scrunching in slight defiance at his words. He feels bad, a flicker of guilt in his stomach, and he sighs, taking a seat beside you on the couch instead.
“C’mere,” he mumbles, his arm stretching behind the couch, and takes your shoulders.
Beau is big and filling up half the couch, and your eyes immediately glance down, shamelessly looking at the way he manspreads, how his thick thighs look right now, and how his belt presses against his waist. You swallow hard and lazily reach over, your hand on his badge.
“Sheriff Beau Arlen,” you drawl lazily, giggling as you rub your thumb over it. “Makes you sound like… like a scary man, like you’ll… do bad things to me.”
Beau watches your eyes flick up in the moment, and he wets his lips, blaming that look in your eyes on the drugs and alcohol in your system. He scoffs and adjusts his hips.
“I deal with dangerous people,” he says calmly and nods, looking back at you. “I need to be a scary man.”
“You don’t scare me,” you slur out and shake your head. “I don’t think you could ever scare me…”
“Scared a few of those kids at that party,” Beau smiles, biting his lip too. “Maybe you’re just a tough girl?”
You giggle. “No… I just know you.”
“Ah,” he nods, wetting his lips again and looking around his house. “Smart girl, then.”
“Smartest girl you know,” you mumble, biting your lip and moving to rest your head against his broad chest. “Mmm… am I the smartest girl you know, Mr. Arlen?”
“Uh-huh,” he nods, gently rubbing your shoulder.
“Prettiest girl you know?” You add, nuzzling your face into the fabric of his shirt.
He pauses. “Sure thing.”
You lift your head, grinning at him, and your eyes flash down to his lips; they’re slightly parted and soft, his scruff being a bit overgrown, and he notices the way you’re ogling him. He lifts his hand and gently cups the back of your head, pulling your hair out of your face.
“Beau,” you mumble, biting your lip, inching your body a bit closer to his. “You’re not gonna tell my dad I’m having sex, right?”
He pauses and swallows hard. He hesitantly nods, a bit caught off guard by how close you are, and by the way you’re looking at his lips, and biting your own. He’s already reassured you a few times.
“The sex… wasn’t even worth it,” you babble and shake your head, resting your chin on his chest. “So… so bad, Beau, my boyfriend can’t fuck.”
Beau raises his eyebrows and awkwardly looks around the room, still running his fingers through your hair.
“Ain’t my… business, sweetheart,” he shakes his head and sighs, hoping you don’t notice the bulge in his pants and how it’ll push against you if you shift a bit.
“How much did you see?” You ask curiously, smiling.
“Enough of it,” he replies, shaking his head.
“Enough to know… he can’t fuck,” you add on, and Beau inhales. He nods.
“Uh-huh,” he mumbles, sliding his hand down to gently rub your upper back.
You blink slowly and swallow hard, and you carefully drag your hand up his thigh, and then you do it, you cup the bulge in his pants. His eyes widen, and his jaw goes slack, and you can’t help but grin—he’s so hard.
“Darlin’—“ Beau starts, trying to explain, but you help him out and press your lips against his.
Beau goes against every moral he has; he’s kissing back, his lips moving slowly against yours, tasting the alcohol on your mouth, and your tongue lazily slides into his mouth. You’re fully making out now, and his hand finds your hip, helping you onto his lap. You grin.
It’s a strange thing between you, how easily you’re making out, how simple it feels, and how naturally it is for the both of you. There’s an immediate rhythm, your saliva mixing, and his lips chasing yours, your tongues colliding and locking, his hands gently holding your hips. He’s always been a gentle man.
“Ain’t right,” Beau mumbles as he pulls back, but he’s kissing your neck now, and your eyes are closing again. “This ain’t right, sweetheart…”
“Don’t care… I don’t care,” you breathe out, and you’re already rocking your hips, letting your skirt ride up, giving your body direct access to the bulge in his pants.
“Can tell you don’t… always been fuckin’ reckless,” he breathes out, his lips moving over your neck still, and his hands encourage you to move back and forth. “Not bein’ a good girl…”
There’s a pause, and Beau is already reaching down, unbuckling his belt, and you’re smiling, giggling as he fumbles with it. It’s urgent, like his hands are moving quicker than his mind, and if he can outrun his thoughts, it’ll be easier to fuck you.
You shift back, and you watch Beau pull his hardened cock out of his pants. He watches your drunk eyes widen in real time; now your jaw is going slack; he’s big, bigger than anything you’ve seen with your two eyes, and he’s trying not to get cocky.
“Oh, my gosh,” you breathe out, the drink words spilling out of your mouth. “That’s… that’s not fitting,” you mumble, shaking your head.
“Told you that you were a tough girl,” he mumbles, his eyes finding yours, and his hand is sliding up your skirt. “Prove me right.”
Your lips part, and you can feel Beau pushing your underwear aside, just a swipe of his two thick fingers, and your hands find his shoulder. You grip them tightly as your hips lift, and he’s aligning himself, already knowing you’re wetter than you should be.
You feel the thick tip, his head prodding against your entrance, and you breathe out, taking a deep breath as he begins guiding you, helping you—he almost feels bad that he’s so big, and that your face is contorting in ways that reveal only pain.
“You’re okay, baby,” Beau breathes out, holding onto your hips, helping you fully sink. “You’re… yeah, you’re okay.”
There are helpless, drunk sounds leaving your mouth; all whines and mewls as you try to adjust to his thick cock that’s somehow fitting inside of you right now. You can feel it all in your stomach, that steady pressure, and his own head tips back against the couch cushion.
“So tight, sweetheart,” he breathes out again, and now he’s guiding you to rock. “C’mon, you’re a brave girl,” he eggs on, helping you move your hips.
Your movements are silly and hesitant, barely there drunken shifts, and he’s almost smiling—yeah, your boyfriend clearly can’t fuck you properly, and your vague inexperience is shining through you.
“God, you’ve never… done this before,” he observes, and the loud whine is a confession that, no, you’ve been on top of your boyfriend. “Poor thing, Christ…”
Beau is helping you move back and forth, his thick fingers pressing against your hips, finding the fact that your skirt is just pushed up to be oddly sexy—the urgency was sexy; this whole desperate act is sexy.
“Atta girl, look at you,” he nods, looking up at you, watching your head tip back in awe, finding more pleasure in these seconds. “Keep goin’, doin’ real good for me, baby…”
He’s assisting your hips, helping you grind, all while including that little bounce that helps Beau get off too. It’s a perfect tango that neither of you want to stop, even if it’s with your dad’s best friend.
“Mmm… good girl, perfect,” he praises some more, words you usually don’t hear. “Takin’ my cock so well… that pretty body of yours… learns quickly, smart girl,” he goes on, and you’re drunk off the praises.
Beau is gazing up at you; your lips hanging open, hopeless moans leaving your mouth, all urgent and bleeding into whines, high-pitched noisss he loves more than anything. He keeps you going, keeps you rocking.
“C’mon, sweet thing… you’re doin’ so well, stretchin’ around me so good,” he adds on, lightly patting your hip. “So… so well, god, c’mon…”
It almost makes Beau mad, knowing your boyfriend has access to this all of the damn time, and gives you the lousiest, worst sex of all time. He clenches his teeth, feeling himself getting close, and he knows that you are too.
“Fillin’ you up… how does that sound, darlin’?” Beau asks, panting softly, not grunting. “Sound good? Lettin’ me fill you up?”
“Mhm—mhm,” you mumble out, quickly nodding, feeling his cock consistently hitting this one stupid spot, a spot your boyfriend couldn’t hit if his life depended on it.
“Yeah… yeah, atta girl,” he breathes out, knowing it’s coming. “Want you to feel all of me… wanna feel all of you, too.”
Beau’s eyes widen the second that you finish; zero warning, just a loud whine from you, your head bowing forward, your hips suffering, and god, the way you clench—it makes him cum, the sudden grip you have on him, and how it hugs every vein, and ridge. He groans, and tips his head back.
You’re both sitting there, spent. You’re practically collapsed against him, and he’s rubbing your lower back, panting, his eyes wide and gazing at the ceiling, his stray hairs sweaty and fraying against his forehead, his green eyes blown out. And you’re just out of it, absolutely drunk and high on Beau.
“Good… good girl,” he breathes out, not even sure of what to say, and he’s still rubbing your back. “You’re… god, I’m deep,” he groans, just realizing how deep inside of you he is right now. You’re just taking him all right now.
“I… I know, I know,” you babble, nodding, your face buried in his neck. “I… I make my boyfriend wear a condom.”
Beau’s eyes widen, realizing that you really let him do it raw, let him cum inside of you, zero hesitant, and your poor boyfriend is forced into wearing protection every time. It doesn’t matter you never cum, anyways.
There’s a soft sound of static, and Beau’s eyes narrow, and he sits up a bit, being careful—you’re still stuffed, and whining with each tick.
“Arlen?” A man’s voice drones over the walkie, and his eyes widen slightly. “Pick up—more kids are fuckin’ around at a party… been gone for too long.”
Beau isn’t sure how to explain that he currently has a drunk girl, his best friend’s daughter, full of cum, and whining every time he tries to pull away.
Summary: Ben notices how insecure you are, how you never feel pretty or 'ladylike', and he does everything in his power to make you feel that way. In his sick and twisted way, of course.
♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, smut, slight dubcon (not rlly), intoxicated sex (drunk & high), dollification, dumbification, creampie, slapping, free-use, boot humping, pussy-slapping, mentions of piss, soldier boy is really mean, pet names (doll, baby, whore, puppy, mutt), drugs, misogynistic comments, ben dressing you up, no mentions of y/n, reader-insert.
wc: 3.4k | : omg i’m so sorry this is so late </3 my silly computer UGHHH but i hope you guys enjoy this one!! He is such a pervert freak in this ughh im sorry this is yuck...
Soldier Boy had everything.
He had drugs, strippers, money, power—he had everything he could ever want, and most importantly, he had you.
His girlfriend, well, his toy- that was the easiest way to put it.
A young thing like you, waiting for a position to be an assistant, only to be dragged by the hair by Vought, and turned into Soldier Boy’s assistant—barely.
Your existence was a sponge, soaking up what Ben couldn’t give to anybody else; his outbursts, his anger, his frustration, and other needs you didn’t know anything about until he had you bent over. He liked you, liked what you did for him, and what he could do to you.
It wasn’t his fucking fault. Vought had picked up an innocent thing like you, all wide eyes and eager to do something meaningful, and you definitely had a meaning in his life; always there, waiting, and batting your lashes, following him around like a puppy. He basked in it.
And then he found out about your inexperience—not just the fact that the first time you saw a cock in real life was when he was casually changing in front of you, or how you didn’t know how to kiss with tongue; no, it was the fact you hadn’t been drunk before, hadn’t smoked a joint before either. Completely innocent.
He remembers noticing you grimacing when he’d light a joint, or the way your jaw would clench when he’d speak to you, and you could smell alcohol on his breath. He thought you were being polite when you’d refuse a drag or a swig, only to realize it was because you hadn’t tried it before. Not once.
And now it was a routine; he’d get you high and drunk every fucking night. He’d sit you on his thigh, and let you smoke until you got dizzy, and drink until you complained about your ‘tummy hurting’. And he’d love it, and he had too many sick ideas he wanted to bring to life… and he did; like making you his doll.
Ben had noticed one thing about you, the way you dressed. It wasn’t like most women—it was bad, he’d say. Your skirts were wonky, and your shirts didn’t flatter your shape, and you didn’t wear much makeup either, and he was always curious as to why.
That’s until he started to doll you up on purpose, get you drunk and high, and dress you in skimpy skirts and low-cut tops, make you wear push-up bras, and make you wear makeup. He forced the femininity onto you, and loved it.
Now you’re slumped over against a small chair in the corner of the bedroom, your eyes glazed over, and there’s a soft ringing in your ears—you’re drunk and high, crossfaded in a way that makes Ben’s deep voice a blurb of nothingness. He’s sauntering in, carrying more pieces of clothing for you to wear.
“Try these on, doll, lemme watch,” Ben drawls smoothly, walking towards your limp figure, your eyes barely open.
“Ben…” you babble softly and shake your head, your hands trying to pull down the skimpy dress he had already got you into.
“C’mon, ain’t gonna ask you again,” he mumbles, that Supe strength coming in handy when he reaches down, lifting you beneath the armpits like a doll.
Ben loved watching it, more than he should; your lazy hands trying to slide on the dress straps, watching you trip over your own feet, landing hard on your ass or knees. And he’d smoke, watching you, beckoning you over for another hit, and then purposely sending you back. It was torture for you, entertainment for him.
Ben puts you onto the floor, dropping the few pieces along with you, and you can barely keep your head up as you sit there on your knees. You’re practically seeing double as he walks towards the chair you were once sitting in.
“C’mon,” he drawls, lighting another joint, his legs spreading, and he sinks into the chair. “You gonna put on a show f’me? Or are you gonna sit there like a useless whore, c’mon, sweet thing.”
You lift your head and look around the spinning room, and then down at the lingerie Ben had given you; soft and lace, white and angelic. He might’ve been an asshole, but he knew what you liked, even if you never had the guts to put it on.
“Ben…” you mumble softly and shake your head, trying your best to pull down the straps of the dress. “I can’t think.”
“Neither can I when you’re actin’ incompetent,” he hisses, his head tilting to the side as he blows away a stream of smoke. “Get naked n’ the face me, n’ spread your legs, too.”
You sigh softly and nod, swallowing back the taste of alcohol bitter on your tongue. You try to sit up but can feel the room spinning still, that cloudiness making it a bit hard for you to do anything at all.
“Am I gonna have to get up and do it myself?” Ben asks, his eyes narrowing at you, scratching the side of his scruff.
You shake your head, turning to look at him; the mascara you lazily painted on your lashes was dripping down, and your lipstick was smeared, and your hair was a mess. You’re so drunk, and struggling to take off the tight dress.
Ben watches in amusement still; it’s like a fawn trying to walk, or even better, a fawn stuck in a trap, struggling and desperately trying to get away before the hunters butcher it. He takes a long drag of the joint, watching you carefully take off the dress.
“Atta girl,” he nods, clapping his hand against his thigh, the other one too busy holding a joint. “Ain’t so fuckin’ dumb, yeah? Now spread your legs.”
The floor is hard against your bare body, and you turn to face Ben, struggling to see him with the way your vision is—blurry and hazy. You spread your legs, and he scoffs, shaking his head.
“Your pussy been drippin’ this whole time?” He asks, tilting his head to the side, green eyes narrowing. “Or… has it been wet all fuckin’ day?”
You shake your head, although you know you’re lying. Your hands are behind your body, and you’re barely holding yourself up, your eyes watching Ben as he slowly stands up from the chair and begins to walk towards you. You swallow hard when he stands before you.
“Almost feel bad for doin’ this shit to you…” He drawls out, crouching down to your level. “But you ain't dress like a lady, or act like a fuckin’ lady either,” he hisses, lightly slapping your cheek, just to hear you whine.
Ben is well aware of your insecurities: all of your skirts dipping past your knees, hiding your thighs; your shirts never low-cut, sticking to long sleeves; no dramatic makeup or hair; keeping yourself as plain as possible; never wanting any attention. It drove him fucking crazy.
“Pretty enough to be a fuckin’ stripper,” he tells you, pinching your cheek, feeling the blush he heavily applied to you. “Yet you hide… like a kid. You’re supposed to grow outta feelin’ like this, you know?” he murmurs, pushing your face away and rising to his feet.
He takes a long drag of his joint again, sniffling, shaking his head. He looks down at you, all corrupted and drunk, high and dizzy, and he’s thinking about making you do a line or two, so he can really get you into that pliable headspace he loves more than anything, could maybe get you into another dress.
Ben begins to walk between your legs, and his boot presses against your bare core, just the tip of it; all hard and cold, and you immediately crumble back and onto the floor, your back against the wooden panels. He smirks at how pliable you are and lightly moves it in circles, watching you whine and squirm around.
“You really are a fuckin’ doll,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief, watching your legs writhe against the hard ground, your hips barely lifting off the ground. “Just… all limp, and brainless–you’re better like this, might have you doped up all the time.”
You whine softly as he lightly rubs you with his boot, and you’re shifting against the hardwood floor, and he watches, lazily smoking his joint and blowing it off to the side. Your clothes and other garments you’ve tried on are beside you in a pile, all paid for by Vought, and thrown out the next day.
Ben pulls his boot away and leans a bit closer, only to gently press down onto your stomach with it, watching your squirm and whine, your head tipping back. He adds pressure, just to pull back once again. He’s just testing what you can take, and you can hear that chuckle deep in his chest.
“Can’t be pressin’ on your tummy too much,” he laughs around the joint, blowing out the smoke. “Last time you pissed all over yourself–that ain’t ladylike at all.”
Ben wipes beneath his nose, itching for some blow, and he looks back at the small coffee table in the room and notices the bag on it. He’d be doing lines all day, and to his surprise, the son of a bitch left it there, and he grins, immediately walking over to it and kneeling before it.
“Get over here,” Ben calls to you, gesturing to you. “On your hands n’ knees, c’mon, puppy,” he teases, glancing back to the surface before him.
He’s working on dumping the white powder onto the surface, using a stupid card from the deck on the table, shuffling it into a few lines. Meanwhile, you’re barely holding yourself up, completely naked and crawling towards Ben. He looks at you, and grins.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he laughs at the sight of you. “Snortin’ this’ll cheer you up in no time, doll–make you feel all good, not so… dumb.”
Your body is slumped beside Ben at the table, and he uses his hand to grab a fistful of your hair, pulling it into a ponytail, while also using it to push your head down for you. You automatically snort up the white powder, tipping your head back, and he watches your eyes roll back, suddenly feeling a rush of euphoria.
“Atta girl,” Ben praises, chuckling at how out of it you look. “Makin’ yourself useful, snortin’ my blow–you gonna pay it back, huh?”
“Mhm…” you babble, wiping under your nose, watching him dip down to take a long snort, too.
“Feels fuckin’ great, hm?” Ben asks you, looking at you beside him, but he can see you slumping forward. “Ah-ah… can’t be droolin’ all over yourself, mutt, not ladylike.”
He pushes your chin up with his hand, forcing you to look at him; makeup smeared across your face, your lips curled into a pout, and he wants to do nothing but devour the entirety of you right now.
“Precious,” he mumbles, squishing your cheeks, listening to you whine. “Never met a girl who lets me do this to ‘em, you know that? They usually have more self-respect, but you got none.”
You want to tell him that this job was thrown at you–you didn’t ask to become his assistant, which bled into something more; you didn’t ask to become his doll he dressed up, and doped up, and then used for hours, and you also wouldn't tell him how much you like it. Not at all.
“Let’s get you into some pretty clothes again; how does that sound?” he drawls, watching the distress etch into your features. “Get you all fuckabkle again… not like this, ain’t gonna fuck you when you’re lookin’ like some bitch I’d pick up on the corner, baby.”
Ben stands on his feet, and you tip your head back, watching that figure of all muscle tower over you, and he’s reaching under your armpits, helping you to your feet, and taking you towards the bed. He places you onto it, watching you go limp, a soft whine leaving your mouth.
“I’ll dress you this time,” he tells you, lightly patting your hip. “Make it easier for you… yeah? Poor little mind of yours must be nothin’ but stars, probably wantin’ my cock just about now, too.”
And God, was he right; the minute his boot touched you, you wished it were him; buried inside of you, treating you like the ‘bitches on the corner’, and maybe worse because he knows he has access to you again–you don’t care, and you never have; that’s why you don’t mind him walking over with another dress. You whimper.
Ben is man-handling you as he slips you into it; his hands work over your limp limbs, forcing you into the dress. He’s giving you the benefit of the doubt, putting you into something less tight and skimpy, more flowy and loose; it’s like he’s turning you into an angel before defiling and ruining it all.
Once you’re in it, he takes a step back, admiring his work of the night; you, a mess, dizzy, drunk, high, and utterly needy for him to stuff you. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, slowly moving towards you.
“If you put any ounce of fuckin’ effort into your appearance…” he drawls, leaning down to grab your cheeks again. “Guys would be linin’ up down the block… just beggin’ to stuff their cocks into this cunt, you know that?”
He adds a slap to your core with his free hand, listening to you whine and hiss, your eyes squeezing shut at the sharp pain. It stings, but he cups you there, lightly rubbing with his palm, soothing the burn, and forcing pleasure to overrule it. He grins at your reaction.
“Almost don’t want them to,” Ben admits quietly, shaking his head, listening to you moan softly as he focuses on your clit with his rough thumb. “Kinda… want you all to myself… my doll, my pretty, pretty toy… and you like it too, don’t you?”
He watches you nod quickly, liking the odd ownership he has over you, how easily you submit and obey him, despite the shit he puts you through; the burns on your arms from his joints, the bruises on your knees from him pushing you down onto them, and the rips in your underwear from his desperation. But it’s so Ben, and his print is everything to you.
“It’s nice,” he goes on, pressing down onto your clit now, forcing out sounds from you. “Havin’ this wet cunt to myself all the fuckin’ time… with the whores, they’re unpredictable, bitches, but you’re always so, so needy, and dumb.”
He watches your gaze, all hazy, your eyes wide and waiting on him. You’re already getting blissed-out from just his thumb on your clit, and he’s not even bothering to warn you that his hand is working out his belt, and he’s loosening his jeans, and reaching for his cock that’s been hard the minute you stepped out in that stupid outfit he put you in earlier.
Ben takes his hand away, and there’s zero warning, not even a tap against your entrance like he usually does, not a stupid remark that makes you question what he’s gonna do; all nine inches slide in, and it’s easy when you’re drenched the way you are.
“Oh, fuckin’ hell,” he groans, feeling just how tight and warm you are. “Just walkin’ all day with this between your god damn legs… and then you wonder why I bend you over for no fuckin’ reason.”
He stares down at your face; your eyes rolled back into your head, your mouth hanging open, a relentless stream of drool going down your chin, and onto your cheek. It’s humiliating, how absolutely lax you are, the way your body is so limp, and soft against the sheets.
Ben’s big hands maneuver you so quickly, an impatient gesture he’s doing; mating press, that fucking position he loves so much; contorting you, your legs bent back, and his hips pressing into yours. It gives him the best angle to fill you, while also forcing you to cum too.
“She’s clenchin’ so much,” he groans out, his hips rocking, deep, hard, relentless threats. “Wrappin’ around me so pretty–like a real lady, yeah? You bein’ a real lady, right now?”
He’s always had a thing for this, forcing you into this cheretcure when he fucks you, and his head tips back, his hair falling in front of his forehead as sweat begins to coat him. You’ve already been glistening in it since you were on the floor.
“Lookin’ real cute in that dress,” he mumbles, smirking, staring at the way he has it hitched over your hips, his hands pressing on your thighs, keeping you in that awkward position. “Can’t be walkin’ around in shit like that around me, you know what it does to me.”
Of course you know. You remember the one day you chose to wear a tighter, shorter skirt, and that led to two thick fingers fingering you in the back of a limo on the way to events. You had to stand there with dirty underwear and ripped tights, all while Ben couldn’t give less of a shit about the absurdity of it all.
Now he’s grunting and groaning on top of you, animalistic noises leaving his body, his cock thrusting deep and hard inside of you, forcing out noises from you that mingle with chokes and cries–he feels so good, so thick, and throbbing, hitting each part of you that you’ve tried not to beg him to.
“Poor baby, all doped up, can’t even keep up while bein’ fucked,” Ben sneers, pushing your legs back further, and you can feel the stretch in your muscles. “But you take it anyway, don’t you? Act like a real brave girl, huh?”
His eyes glance at your mouth, watching the drool trickle out of it, the lousy smile trying to curl into your lips, and he’s only realizing now how much this clearly means to you; all pretty and dressed up.
“That stupid look on your face,” he huffs, shaking his head. “Cockdrunk,” he mumbles, forcing himself deeper and deeper, finding amusement in the way your pretty eyes disappear into the back of your head.
He’s relentless with his thrusts, all fast and heavy, his cock hitting every soft spot, over and over, and you want to cum, want to finish all over him, but you’ll be hit with a ‘no’ because good girls wait, and listen to what they’re told to do, and you’re always being told that you can’t cum.
“Please,” you mumble out, the words a string of babbles, barely comprehensible, but Ben notices.
He clicks his tongue. “Who the fuck taught you to speak?” he asks, and he leans down further, listening to you whine at the stretch again, all while he shifts deeper inside of you.
Ben can feel you clenching around him, your walls taking him in, and he’s fucked enough women to know what it means; you’re close, and he grins, his lips turning into a sharp grin, those green eyes trying to find your fluttering ones. He licks his lips.
“Cum,” he mumbles, and the words fall flat on your ears–you’re not sure you’re hearing him correctly. “I said… cum.”
His words are sharp in the room, and god, do you ever cum, and he does it at the exact same time; a calculated move so the two of you could clash, and groan, and moan together, and he buries himself deep inside of you, forcing his seed to spill into you–there’s always been so much, so much cum, and he blames it on his body wanting to repoducde these supe genes desperately, and you’re forced to soak it up. Literally.
“One day… gonna get you fuckin’ pregnant, my kids in your stomach,” Ben mumbles, keeping you in that position still, but not moving. “Really show people how well you take me.”
You’re absolutely out of it by the end, and he’s just staring down at you, fawning over the look on your face and the outfit you’re in. He licks his teeth and glances down between your bodies.
“You know,” Ben speaks up, his voice a lazy hum. “Real good girls let me use every hole.”
Summary: You’re flat on your back, trying to tell Soldier Boy exactly what an asshole he is. The problem is he keeps fucking you so deep that every sharp remark fractures halfway out of your mouth turns into a broken moan instead.
𑣲 Warnings: MDNI, NSFW, 18+, dumbification, power imbalance, rough sex, age gap, asshole soldier boy, manhandling
wc: 520
You’re flat on your back on the leather sofa, legs hooked over his thick forearms as Soldier Boy drives into you in a hard, relentless missionary. His big body cages yours, hips snapping forward with enough force that every thrust shoves you up the cushions. The wet, filthy sound of it fills the VIP room.
“You’re— ah— you’re such an asshole,” you manage between broken breaths, trying to glare up at him.
He just laughs and sinks even deeper on the next thrust, grinding against that spot that makes your vision white out for a second. “What was that, doll?”
“I said—” Your sentence fractures when he pulls almost all the way out and slams back in to the hilt. A helpless little sound punches out of you. “I said you’re a fucking...”
Another deep thrust. Your mouth falls open and the rest of the insult dies into a high, shaky moan. Your hands scramble against his scarred chest, nails dragging, but you can’t get any real leverage. He’s too heavy, too deep, filling you so completely that coherent thought keeps slipping away.
Soldier Boy props himself up on one forearm so he can look down at your face while he fucks you. His expression is pure smug satisfaction. “C’mon. Finish the thought. I know you were about to call me something real nasty.”
“You— fuck— you can’t just...”
He angles his hips and drives in harder. The head of his cock drags over that sensitive place inside you with every stroke and your argument dissolves into breathless, punched-out noises. Your thighs are trembling around his waist. You can feel how wet you are, the slick mess of it coating his cock and dripping down onto the leather.
“Can’t just what?” he prompts, voice rough with amusement. He slows just enough to make you feel every thick inch sliding in and out, then bottoms out again with a heavy roll of his hips. “Use your words, Or did I fuck the attitude right outta you already?”
You try again, stubborn even as your eyes are going glassy. “You’re so— so goddamn full of yourself, you always think you can just...”
The rest of the sentence never makes it out. He snaps his hips forward in a particularly brutal thrust and your head tips back against the arm of the sofa, mouth open on a silent cry. Your cunt clenches hard around him. He feels it and groans, dropping his forehead against yours for a second.
“That’s what I thought,” he mutters. “Can’t even finish an argument when you’re getting fucked this deep, can you?”
He watches the whole thing with dark, hungry eyes, clearly enjoying how easily he can reduce you to nothing but breathless, fucked-stupid noises.
“Look at you,” he says, almost fond. “All that attitude and you still can’t talk back when my cock’s this far inside you. Cute.”
He shifts one of your legs higher, folding you open even more so he can sink that last impossible inch deeper. The new angle makes your eyes roll. Whatever sharp comeback you’d been trying to form dissolves completely.
Sorry for the little spam, I'm trying to get all of my requests done! <3
Summary: You’re a stripper working the VIP rooms when Soldier Boy pulls you into a room and slides a thick band of cash into your bra. When he finds out how young you are, he hesitates, then he decides that only makes it better.
⚠︎ Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, power imbalance, age gap, dry humping, reader is a stripper, objectification
wc: 700
The bass from the main floor thumped through the walls like a second heartbeat. Neon bled under the door of the private room, painting everything in cheap pink and red. You’d been dancing since eighteen, learned real quick how to smile with your eyes while your body did the work. Most nights blurred together. This one didn’t.
He was already waiting when the hostess pushed you inside.
“Hey, you.”
His voice was low. He reached out and grabbed your hand without asking, fingers closing around your wrist firm enough that you felt the strength in them.
“Yes, sir?” You tilted your head, the practiced little smile sliding into place.
He didn’t smile back. Just dragged you forward until you were standing between his spread knees. The leather sofa creaked under his weight. He looked you up and down once, slow, then reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick band of cash. Without a word he slid it straight down the front of your bra, knuckles brushing the soft skin between your tits. The paper was warm from his pocket.
“Ride me.”
You raised a brow, but you climbed onto his lap the way you’d done a hundred times before, knees on either side of his thick thighs, hands on his shoulders for balance. The second you settled, his big hands clamped onto your hips and pulled you down hard against him. You felt the solid muscle of his legs, the heat of him through the expensive fabric of his pants.
You started moving. Slow at first. Rolling your hips in that practiced grind strippers perfected after the first year, pressing your covered cunt against the growing bulk between his legs, letting him feel every shift. The sequins on your little outfit caught the low light. His fingers dug in, guiding you, making the friction meaner.
He leaned his head back against the leather, eyes half-lidded, watching you work. A low grunt left him when you ground down especially hard.
“So how old are you, doll?”
The question came casual, almost bored, but his gaze stayed locked on your face.
“Nineteen.”
Something shifted in his expression. His brows pulled together. For a second the arrogant set of his mouth softened into something closer to hesitation. The tips of his ears went faintly pink under the neon.
“You’re a little fuckin’ young to be doin’ this,” he muttered, voice rougher than before. His hands didn’t leave your hips though. If anything they tightened. “Shit. Nineteen. Christ.”
You leaned in closer, lips near his ear the way you did when a customer needed reassurance. “Don’t worry, sir. I know what I’m doing.”
He looked down at you then, really looked. The pink at his ears deepened. And right against the thin fabric of your bottoms you felt him thicken, harden, press up into the soft heat of you like his body had already decided the conversation was over.
“Whatever,” he growled, the hesitation burning off into something hungrier. “You gonna sit there lookin’ pretty or you gonna ride me proper? This fuckin’ generation…”
His hands shoved your hips down harder, forcing a sharper grind. The thick ridge of his cock dragged against your clit through the layers of fabric and you couldn’t stop the soft sound that left your throat. He liked that. You felt the smug little twitch of his mouth.
“That’s better. Move those hips like you mean it.”
You did. You rolled against him in steady, filthy circles, letting the pressure build until the front of his pants was damp from you and the outline of his cock was impossible to ignore. Every time you dragged forward the head of him nudged just right. His breathing had gone heavier. One of his hands slid up your back, palm spanning almost the whole width of it, then down again to palm your ass and pull you tighter.
“Nineteen and already grinding on a stranger’s dick like it’s nothin’,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “Fuck. Guess they grow ‘em different now.”
Summary: You and Soldier Boy, drive through the heavy Florida heat. He’s on a short break from work and takes you to an expensive hotel. Once there, he notices how tense you are and offers cocaine “to take the edge off.”
Warnings: MDNI, NSFW, 18+, drug use, rough sex, dumbification, fake sympathy, mild degrading, coke line on chest, hair pulling, manhandling, bruising, overstimulation
Wc: 1.5k
The Florida heat was a living thing against your skin, it pressed down in thick waves, the kind that made the air shimmer above.
The convertible’s roof was down, the leather seats hot enough to burn if you sat still too long, and the wind tore through your hair as Ben drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting heavy on your bare thigh.
Your feet were propped on the dashboard, ankles crossed, the soft fabric of your dress riding high enough that the sun painted warm stripes across your skin.
The break from work had come sudden and short, and you’d both decided to spend it the only way that made sense: far from anyone who might recognize him, somewhere expensive and quiet where the only thing that mattered was the two of you.
Ben pulled into the hotel, killed the engine, and sat there for a second with the key still in the ignition, looking at you..
“You look tense, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and almost gentle. He reached over, plucked the cigarette from your mouth, took a long drag himself, then crushed it out in the ashtray. “Poor thing. Gettin’ that pretty little head all worked up, huh?”
Before you could answer he leaned in, fingers sliding into your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your face toward him. The pull was slow, deliberate, the kind that made your breath catch.
“You know what this is, doll?”
He let go of your hair only long enough to dig into the inside pocket of his jacket. The little white baggy dangled between two fingers, the powder inside shifting when he gave it a lazy shake, the bag swinging gently in front of your face.
You swallowed hard. Of course you knew.
Your pulse kicked hard against your throat.
Ben’s mouth curved, slow and knowing. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He leaned in closer. “Coke. Good shit, too. Not that stepped-on garbage they push on the tourists. This is the real deal. White lines, pretty baby.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He got out of the car, came around to your side, and opened the door like a gentleman.
The baggy and the bottle disappeared into his jacket again. He guided you through the lobby without slowing.
The suite was on a high floor, all white walls and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the ocean.
The air conditioning hit like a second skin the second the door closed behind you. Ben tossed the key card onto a side table, set the bourbon down with a soft clink, and turned to face you fully. The baggy was still in his hand.
“C’mere.”
You went. He backed you up until the backs of your thighs hit the edge of the massive bed, then kept pushing until you were sitting. He stood between your knees. One hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb stroking slow across your bottom lip.
“You’ve been wound tight for days,” he murmured. “I can feel it on you. That little tremor under the skin. Thought I’d take the edge off. Thought we’d both take the edge off.”
He opened the baggy with his teeth, careful, then tapped a thin line onto the back of his own hand. The powder was pure white against the scars and the old calluses. He held it out to you, eyes never leaving yours.
“Go on, doll. Don’t make me ask twice.”
You leaned in. The first hit was sharp and cold and then suddenly bright, a rush that lit up the back of your skull and made the room tilt soft at the edges. Ben watched every second of it.
When you sat back he did a line of his own, then another, the motions practiced and unhurried. The bourbon came next, he took a long swallow straight from the bottle and then passed it to you, the glass still warm from his mouth.
Ben’s hands were on you again, pushing the straps of your dress down your shoulders, mouth finding the side of your neck. He kissed like he was claiming territory, slow, open-mouthed, teeth grazing just hard enough to make you shiver.
“That’s better,” he said against your skin. “Look at you. All soft now. All mine.”
He guided you further onto the bed, following you down until the weight of him settled over you, solid and inescapable. The baggy ended up on the nightstand.
Ben kept you right there on the edge of the bed, standing between your knees while the rush from the first line still buzzed under your skin. He tipped the baggy again, tapping another thin white line carefully across the top of your chest, right between your tits where the dress had already slipped down. The powder sat clean against your skin.
“Look at that,” he murmured, voice dripping with that fake sympathy. “Poor little thing. All wound up and now you’re just sittin’ here lettin’ me do whatever I want. Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll take real good care of you.”
He leaned down, one hand fisting in your hair to hold you still, and snorted the line straight off your tits. The burn hit him fast, you felt the sharp inhale against your skin, then the rough drag of his tongue cleaning up what was left. He straightened, eyes already sharper.
“Fuck,” he breathed, almost laughing. “That’s better.”
He shoved you flat onto the bed hard enough that the mattress bounced. Your dress was yanked the rest of the way down and tossed somewhere behind him. He didn’t bother undressing fully, just shoved his pants down enough, gripped your thighs, and dragged you to the edge of the mattress so your ass almost hung off. One hand pinned both your wrists above your head. The other shoved your legs wider.
“Been tense for days,” he said, voice low and mean now, the sympathy gone. “I felt it every time I touched you. Figured I’d fuck it right out of you.”
He pushed in in one rough thrust, burying himself deep enough that the air left your lungs. No slow start. Just hard, deep strokes that rocked the whole bed, the headboard knocking against the wall. His free hand stayed locked around your wrists, keeping you pinned while he drove into you like he was trying to leave bruises on the inside.
“That’s it,” he gritted out, leaning down so his mouth was right against your ear. “Take it. Poor baby can’t even think straight anymore, can she? Just lay there and let me use this pretty cunt until you’re not tense anymore.”
He fucked you harder, the wet sound of it loud in the quiet suite, mixed with the low growl in his chest every time he bottomed out. When you tried to move your hips he just pinned you tighter, using his weight and strength until all you could do was take it. Sweat started sticking your skin to his. The coke still sang in both your bloodstreams, making everything sharper, every thrust, every rough grind of his hips, every time he bit down on the side of your neck hard enough to mark.
He pulled out sudden, flipped you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing, and dragged your hips up. One hand stayed between your shoulder blades, keeping your chest pressed to the sheets while the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise. He slammed back in from behind, deeper like this, the angle making your toes curl against the mattress.
“There we go,” he muttered. “Look at you. All soft and open now. Didn’t even need to ask nice. Just needed a little help and a good hard fuck.”
Ben’s grip on your hip tightened until it hurt in the best way. His other hand stayed planted between your shoulder blades, keeping you face-down and open for him while he fucked into you harder, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet suite.
“Can’t even hold yourself up anymore.” He cooed.
His rhythm turned brutal. Short, deep strokes that forced the air out of your lungs every time he buried himself to the hilt. You could feel him getting closer, the way his hips stuttered, the low, animal sound that started building in his chest. He leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth right against your ear.
“Gonna fill you up,” he muttered. “Gonna pump you so full it’s gonna drip down your thighs for the rest of the night. That what you need, sweetheart? Huh?”
He slammed in once more, twice, then buried himself deep and stayed there, hips grinding tight against you as he came hard. The first pulse was thick and hot, flooding you in heavy spurts while he groaned low and rough against the side of your neck. He kept rolling his hips through it, working every last drop into you, the hand on your back pressing you harder into the mattress so you couldn’t move away from it.
When the last tremor left him he stayed buried, breathing heavy against your skin, the weight of him solid and inescapable.
“There,” he murmured. “All better.”
He pulled out slow, watching the thick mess of his cum immediately start to leak out of you and down your thighs. A low, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest. He dragged two fingers through it and pushed some of it back inside you, almost gentle, almost cruel.
“Don’t waste it,” he said. “I worked hard for that.”
I just wanted to thank everyone for the support as well, thank you all, and I really am thankful for the nice dms/requests and comments I get, thank you, and I love you guys!!
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