⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who loves making you beg or admit defeat. he will deliberately hold back what you want until you break down, call him "sir," or plead for it—only then rewarding you with a rough pat or a low "Good girl."
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who likes leaving visible reminders. expect bruises on your hips from where his super-strength fingers gripped you too hard, and deep bite marks on your shoulder to keep you quiet when you scream too loud.
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who, because of the V1, doesn't tire out. he will stretch encounters out for hours on purpose, taking brief breaks just to watch you shiver and cry over his lap before dragging you right back under him for another round.
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who is an active user of 'doll', 'sweetheart', and even 'good girl' if you work hard enough to earn it.
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who as much as he loves watching your mouth wrap around his cock, if he had to choose between that or burying it into your tight cunt, he'd pick your cunt.
⋆𐙚 ̊. just because it's a preference, it doesn't mean he's against it. in fact, he'll definitely make you suck him off from time to time — considers it your way of "repaying him" for all the hours he spends between your thighs.
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who, as much as he favors the bedroom, is totally up to bending you over your office desk, just ramming into you from behind, or in the shower where he pushes you chest-first into the plexi hard enough to make your tits squish against the transparent material. still, the bedroom is his ultimate choice, where he can have you with your face in the pillows as you scream his name, or watch as your pretty mouth makes that O shape as he pushes his cock deep into you with your legs swung over his shoulder.
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who doesn't like being interrupted. if you are making too much noise or trying to talk, he will unceremoniously smother your mouth with his bare hand or a pillow to force you to breathe through your nose and take it.
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who sets the tempo entirely. if you try to speed things up or ride him, he will lock his hands onto your hips to ground you, forcing you to take his exact, slow, punishing rhythm — unless he wants to go fast.
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who rarely keeps his hands still. he will wrap a fist tightly into your hair at the roots, using it to tilt your head back to expose your throat for biting, or to force you to look him in the eyes while he thrusts.
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who prefers positions where he can completely pin you down with his torso, using his mass to keep you entirely immobilized and helpless beneath him.
this is sooo nothingburger but i've been trying to update my multi-chapter fics over on wattpad and ao3 so i had to sideline the oneshots for today... nonetheless i wanted to put a lil something out for yall, so take these headcanons for now!!
freak!!!! thank you for the older bf beau cowboy hat 😭😭 I’m glad you liked my prompt, thank you for sharing your work with us 🫶🏼
𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 MONDAYS ; dbf!beau arlen
Beau is less than thrilled to find that his friend's daughter has been arrested by one of his co-workers.
pairing: dbf!beau arlen x fem!reader
warnings/tags: age gap (reader is 18+) .ᐟ dad's best friend beau .ᐟ you getting arrested .ᐟ older man younger woman .ᐟ mentioned shoplifting .ᐟ car sex .ᐟ make-out .ᐟ grinding .ᐟ fingering .ᐟ unprotected piv .ᐟ uses of 'darling' and 'sweetheart'
fandom: big sky
word count: 3k
author’s note: hi anon i hope its not a problem that i used this ask for the other prompt i got from u!! just thought it would be easier to find it this way!! i've had an idea for a short film that had a subplot with a similar premise anyway so im so happy i got this request!! wouldve posted this earlier if i was writing more but outlast trials dropped the coyle trial update and perhaps i got too caught up in that... and in artfight too... rushed the ending but i hope its nothing too awful! my ask box is open in case anybody else wants to feed into my jensen brainrot lol, title from the ethel cain song, enjoy!! xoxo
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The fluorescent, yellowing lights of the police station flickered weakly above your head, the metallic cuffs feeling cold around your wrists. It’s been an hour now, probably the middle of the night, barely anybody lingering around the station at this time.
Of course, you weren’t planning to get caught, let alone expect your friends to ditch you and go ahead with the plan of attending a party while letting the local cops arrest you. Minor shoplifting, a bottle of alcohol, but of course with no prior experience in committing crimes, one misstep was all it took for your group to get caught, and they made sure that they weren’t the ones who took the hit — letting you take on that instead.
The lock on the cramped interrogation room clicked open, a weary-looking man with a beer belly peeking inside.
“You’re free to go,” he muttered as he stepped inside, golden badge glinting in the faint light as he fished a key out of his pocket, unlocking the handcuffs. The metal loosened around your skin before he flipped them open enough for you to pull your hands out of it.
One question remained: who bailed you out? You were supposed to stay the night, or a few days at least — since in the end no harm was done so no real charges were filed —, so your early escape was definitely the work of somebody else.
This debate echoed in your mind as the officer led you out of the interrogation room, turning the corner to arrive at the main lobby.
“Sheriff,” he spoke up, words addressed to the tall man standing there. Glancing up, you see him too, eyes widening as you take in his presence, face and stance, recognizing him instantly.
Beau Arlen. The local sheriff, who also just so happened to be your dad’s best friend. In short, the most off-limits person you could’ve had a crush on. That didn’t stop you, of course.
He’s been around for many years, spawning during barbecues, fourth of july celebrations, game nights, when your dad called him over for a beer, or just on random afternoons when he had nothing better to do.
There really wasn’t a problem, like, ever, until recent years. For all these years, he really was just your dad’s best friend, a dude who you’d see sometimes, and greet before disappearing back into your room or before he turned back to converse with your dad. You weren’t sure when the turning point was, or what triggered it, but lately — for the past year or two —, things seemed to have… shifted?
You used to just be jolly when he pulled you into his lap, sitting idly and without a care in the world, but when he jokingly asks you to sit there nowadays, your stomach immediately knots, and you’re sitting there with a bloodred face and wet panties.
Your face went hot every time he stood so close to you that you could smell his woody cologne, and you’d be lying if you said you never touched yourself to the thought of him. Was this the reason you didn’t have a boyfriend, or just an interest in boys your age in general? All your friends were seeing it as their life’s mission to hook up with some dude, all looking the same to you, unkempt hair and awfully uninterested faces, and you frowned at them almost instinctively. Did Beau really ruin your taste in men?
“Thank you,” Beau nodded as the officer — a coworker and friend of his — let you go, Beau closing the distance between you in a single step. His gaze swept over you, serious and tense, his uniform stretched taut across his shoulders as he stopped before you
“Let's go to the car,” he said in a gravelly voice. He wasn't shouting or angry, yet there was definitely a hint of something you couldn’t quite pinpoint. He placed one large, warm hand gently but firmly on the small of your back to guide you out of the police station’s lobby. The heat of his palm seemed to burn your skin, even through your clothes. Your stomach instantly knotted.
Outside, the cool night air hit you instantly. Beau’s beaten pickup was parked by the entrance, its engine humming softly. He was definitely alerted of your arrest off-shift, otherwise he would’ve come with the pristinely cleaned white SUV.
He opened the passenger door for you, waited until you got in, then walked around the car and slid behind the wheel. He didn’t drive off right away. There was a moment of silence, the man perhaps considering whether to even ask why you got arrested in the first place, to hear it from your mouth and not from a cop’s summary, but he instead just let out a soft sigh as he began to drive off, out of the station’s limited parking lot.
He turned off the radio, clasped his hands over the steering wheel, and let out a long, silent sigh as his fingers began to tap rhythmically against the leather.
“Your dad thinks you’re sleeping at a friend’s place,” he finally broke the silence, slowly turning his head toward you. In the darkness, his eyes seemed even darker, even more piercing. “I didn’t call him. I thought it was better to keep this between us for now. But listen... What the hell were you doing tonight?”
Your eyes immediately drift over to the window, eyes locking onto the landscape moving by, barely anything visible in the midnight darkness. This whole arrest thing didn’t feel half as embarrassing when you were talking to a cop you didn’t even know. Beau, on the other hand…
“Not much,” you reply bluntly.
Beau let out a quiet, mocking laugh, though there was no mirth in his voice. With a routine movement, he flicked on the turn signal and pulled the car over to the side of the road, beside a dark, deserted line of trees. He killed the headlights. The car’s interior was suddenly bathed in the dashboard’s faint bluish glow, casting sharp shadows across his rugged features.
Beau unbuckled his seatbelt, letting out a low huff before turning to face you. The movement made his shoulders appear even broader in the cramped space, and the scent of his woodsy cologne grew almost suffocatingly heavy.
“Not much,” he repeated your words. “I see. So, sitting in handcuffs at the local station with a bottle of stolen booze in your hand, while your 'friends' are already out partying, falls into the 'not much' category for you?”
Fuck. So he knows, and is ready for interrogation right here.
“Don’t play games with me, sweetheart,” he said more quietly, almost in a whisper, but that tone only made your stomach knot up even tighter. “I’ve known you long enough. I know when you’re lying, and I also know you aren’t the type to just walk into a shop and steal. Whose idea was it?”
Slowly, you turn to face him. There was no point in avoiding him and his questions, it wasn’t that serious anyway.
“Just one of my friends,” you admit quietly. “They just thought it’d be nice if we went with a gift, ‘cause you know, hospitality and all, but we didn’t have money on us. That’s it,” you turn your gaze back to your lap, still just wanting this questioning to be over. Having to look him in the eye only made your face more red, and the last thing you needed was for him to realize how much you’re flustered by his closeness.
Leaning forward, he grasped your chin gently with his large hand — which until now was resting on the console —, forcing you to lock eyes with him. The warmth of his fingers seared your skin, and your pulse instantly began to hammer in your throat.
“You’re running around with idiots who wouldn’t hesitate for a second to sacrifice you just to save their own skins,” he said in a low voice, while his thumb slowly, almost unconsciously, stroked the line of your chin. “I don’t want you ending up in a situation like this again. Girls like you deserve better. I don’t want those nobodies ruining your life. We clear?”
Your pulse was pounding so loudly in your ears that you feared he, too, could hear it.
“I-it's clear…” you whispered, your voice faltering. You tried to turn away, to retreat and fix your gaze on your own lap, but his hold was firm. He didn't squeeze, yet he wouldn't let go.
Beau’s eyes narrowed as he noticed the flush on your face in the darkness, and his tense expression suddenly shifted into something else entirely. His gaze slowly drifted down to your slightly parted lips, then back to your eyes.
Instead of looking away, however, your gaze involuntarily drifted down to the hand holding your chin, and then straight to his lips. Your face was burning, your breathing had quickened, and every fiber of your being was reacting to him.
Beau noticed the change immediately. He assumed the police matter and the interrogation were what had frightened you so much.
“What's wrong?” he asked in a lower voice, his tone far gentler than before. He slowly released your chin, but his hand remained in the space between you.
“If this conversation’s upsetting you this much... you need to know I didn’t mean to be harsh,” he said, trying to catch your eye to reassure you. “I’m not angry with you. Really, I’m not. I just want you to be safe.”
But you didn’t answer. It wasn’t the police or the fear of getting caught that had put you in this state, and you certainly weren’t afraid of a scolding. You slowly, almost imperceptibly, shook your head from side to side, signaling that the topic of conversation wasn’t the problem at all.
Beau’s eyes narrowed as he watched your denial. The pieces finally fell into place for him.
He didn’t say a word. The realization seemed to visibly sweep across his features: his eyes darkened, his jaw tightened, and the last barriers of reason within him gave way. Slowly, inch by inch, he leaned closer to you. There was no turning back, and you didn’t want to escape, either.
Instinctively, you leaned forward too, closing the final sliver of space between you until your lips finally met. At first, the kiss was tentative, almost incredulous, as if you were both testing whether this was truly happening. But the taste of forbidden fruit and the tension that had been building for months instantly ignited the moment. Beau surrendered with a low, deep growl, and the kiss quickly deepened into something more passionate.
His hand cupped your chin again — this time holding your face firmly — while his other hand clasped the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair to pull you even closer. His lips were hungry and demanding, leaving all earlier tenderness behind. You clung to his shoulders, gripping the stiff fabric of his coat, while the meeting of your tongues shut out the rest of the world entirely.
Beau broke the kiss for a split second with a low, stifled growl just long enough to catch his breath. His eyes had gone dark with desire, his gaze fixed on your flushed, parted lips. He wasted no time. Reaching across the gearshift with powerful hands, he gripped your waist and pulled you through the narrow gap between the seats and straight onto his lap.
As you settled between his thighs, the fabric of your skirt shifted, and the sudden friction instantly pressed your cunt against the rock-hard length of him straining beneath his pants. That drew a soft sigh from your throat, a sound Beau immediately swallowed as he claimed your mouth once more.
Now that you were sitting on his lap, the height difference vanished, in fact, you were slightly higher up, allowing you to lean your full weight against his broad shoulders. Your arms wrapped around his neck, your fingers raking through his thick hair as the kiss grew deeper and wilder.
One of Beau’s hands settled on your ass, pressing your hips firmly against him so you could feel the effect you had on him with every movement, while his other hand traced the length of your back, sliding beneath your shirt to press his palm directly against your bare skin. Every inch of you burned with pleasure, and the knowledge that your father’s best friend was losing all self-control over you right there on the side of the road only stoked the fire in your body even more.
Instinctively, you begin to move your hips slowly, grinding rhythmically against his cock straining beneath his trousers. Your movement instantly makes your underwear even wetter, and the friction between the layers of clothing sends a wave coursing through your body.
A hoarse, almost animalistic growl tears from Beau’s throat in response. His jaw tightens, and your kiss breaks for a moment as he throws his head back against the headrest. His eyes are squeezed shut, and his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips.
“God…” he gasps in the darkness, his warm breath washing over your face. “You’ve got no idea what you’re doing to me, sweetheart…”
But instead of stopping you, his hands begin to dictate the pace. He grips your ass, pulling you firmly back against him with every movement. His hips instinctively thrust upward to meet yours, he slides one hand up your inner thigh, moving ever closer to your slick pussy.
His palm slid confidently up the inside of your thigh, slipping right beneath your clothes. As his large, rough fingers made contact with the fabric of your thoroughly soaked panties, that touch wrung a stifled gasp from your throat.
“You’re so damn wet for me…” he murmured hoarsely against your lips, while his thumb began to massage your clit firmly through the thin fabric. That movement sent a jolt like an electric shock racing through your body. Your back arched, and your hands clung desperately to his broad shoulders, bunching up the fabric of his coat.
Beau suddenly stopped stroking, but he didn’t pull his hand away. He hooked two fingers gently into the edge of your panties and, with a single movement, pulled the fabric aside.
As his fingers finally made direct contact, your body reacted instinctively. You pressed yourself against his hand — involuntarily, almost desperately — driving your hips deeper into his grasp as if trying to devour his touch entirely.
A growl tore from Beau’s throat. His fingers immediately sprang into action, plunging deep into the heat radiating from you. Under the rhythmic, wet strokes and that direct stimulation, your head fell back and your eyes fluttered shut as you gasped for air as waves of pleasure sent shockwaves through you.
“Fuck, sweetheart…” Beau panted against your face, his hips instinctively mirroring the pace of his hand, while the hardness straining against his trousers rubbed relentlessly against your thigh.
After one particularly deep stroke, Beau suddenly stilled his hand, though his fingers remained resting between your legs, throbbing with desire. He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, his fingers digging into your back as he tried to draw a single steady breath.
He lifted his head and gazed into your clouded, longing eyes in the darkness. He wasn't thinking about stopping. Instead, he glanced back toward the dark, spacious cargo area and folded-down rear seats, where the car offered plenty of room.
“Let's go to the back,” he commanded quietly but firmly, placing his hands on your hips, ready to help you climb over into the more spacious rear section.
You let Beau lift you by the hips and, as if you were light as a feather, pull you across the folded-down rear seats. Once you reached the back, he made you lay on the soft upholstery with your back facing him. In the darkness, you heard only the rustle of his clothes and the faint clink of his belt which he unbuckled with a single motion and tossed it, along with his trousers, into the corner of the vehicle.
His palms clamped onto your hips, pulling your body back against his hips. As the barrier of his trousers and underwear vanished, his throbbing cock drove straight between your thighs, right where your panties had already been pushed aside. You gasped involuntarily at the contact. The overwhelming sense of fullness tore a loud moan from your throat, a sound Beau acknowledged with a triumphant growl against your ear.
“Somebody’s gotta teach you how to behave… actions have consequences, doll…”
Every firm thrust echoed deep within your body, and the mounting pleasure crashed over you. Sensing your insides begin to tighten around his manhood in spasms, Beau stopped.
With a single careful movement, he turned you onto your back against the soft surface. He loomed over you and braced his hands on either side of your head as he entered you again, this time face-to-face. The change in position allowed him to thrust even deeper, and the sight of you, staring up at him in the darkness, wide-eyed and breathless, shattered the sheriff’s self-control completely. His gaze bored straight into yours, he wanted to witness every single tremor of your body.
“Look at me, sweetheart…” He panted, jaw clenched against the pleasure he was holding back.
His hips thrust forward with a few final, heavy movements. Ecstasy washed over your body, your eyes squeezing shut as you surrendered to the climax with a loud whisper as Beau groaned, too, and he released deep within you.
He pressed his heavy body against yours, resting his forehead against your neck, and for long minutes, only your intertwined panting echoing in the confined space bore witness to what had just happened.
Slowly, as your heart rates settled, the silence of reality hit. Muttering a quiet curse, Beau pulled away, gathered his coat and clothes in the dark, and began to dress in silence. You, too, quickly adjusted your clothes, while the lingering scent of woody cologne in the air and the heat on your skin served as a silent reminder that the boundary between you and your father’s best friend had been crossed once and for all, and beyond any hope of return.
girl we need an older dean/dbf dean fanfic asapppp
NEED A LITTLE HELP? ; dbf!dean winchester
When a hunt proves to be harder than expected, your father calls for the help of a well-seasoned hunter friend of his.
pairing: dbf!older!dean winchester x fem!reader
warnings/tags: age gap (reader is 18+) .ᐟ older man younger woman .ᐟ dad's best friend dean .ᐟ smut .ᐟ uses of 'sweetheart' 'baby' and 'good girl' .ᐟ oral (both fem and male rec!) .ᐟ piv .ᐟ your dad survives the hunt no worries
fandom: supernatural (2005)
word count: 7.8k
author’s note: unsure how to feel about this, but ive been on such a dbf!jackles characters kick lately, this request was too good to be passed on omg!! i love dean so much, especially later seasons dean, so i decided to hop onto my dbf oneshot streak... enjoy! xoxo
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When your dad said he’ll call a friend, you expected said friend to be… different.
His so-called friends or hunter comrades usually looked rugged, balding, and like they haven’t showered in the past five years, as if that was some obligation in order to be a true hunter. It wasn’t, you and your dad were both that, but still stood into the shower regularly.
It all started with your most recent hunt. Some case you accidentally came across while on the road from one state to another, discovering it when taking a pit-stop at a bar, the locals raving on about some creature stalking and killing the residents, mostly young women, attributing it to some local legend.
So, needless to say, your dad saw that as a big neon sign beckoning him to stay.
At first, everything went smoothly. Questioning the locals and possible eyewitnesses in disguise, researching, trying to connect the dots, the usual procedure. Until you two got stuck. The leads seemed to go nowhere, the investigation running into a dead end.
“Wonderful,” your dad muttered under his breath, hunched over stacks of scattered papers and books in a posture that a shrimp would be jealous of, his pen-free hand running through his messy hair. “Just fucking wonderful.”
Of course he was frustrated, he’s been stalling in this nowhere-town for almost a week now, with zero progress. It wouldn’t be a problem, if human lives didn’t depend on how fast you can solve this.
Calling backup was the last thing he wanted to do. It made him feel weak, pathetic, having to rely on somebody better to solve something for him. Still, if it means the creature can get caught before anybody else gets hurt, then perhaps it’s better to put personal pride aside for a moment.
Pushing himself away and up from the table, the chair’s leg screeching as it slid harshly against the wooden flooring, he saunters away and towards the door, fishing his phone out of his pocket before shutting the door and disappearing into the chilly night breeze.
His call was inaudible to you, still sitting at the table with a laptop and various books under your fingertips, your eyes wandering from the screen to the darkness outside. It took a few good minutes for your dad to return, stepping back inside with a sigh as he shut the door.
“I have somebody coming over to help us out,” he groaned as he took heavy steps back to the table, plopping back into his seat opposite of you. “An old friend. If anybody can solve this bullshit, it’s him.”
You just nodded along with his words. Trying to guess who this friend was would’ve lasted an hour or more, considering how many contacts your dad seemed to have. The perks of living on the road and meeting way too many people along the way.
“You should go rest,” your dad grumbles under his breath, his eyes fixing back onto the book in front of him, diligently hunting for any clues or leads.
As much as you wanted to protest and tell him that you want to be a useful part of the investigation, your heavy eyelids said otherwise, the thought of a few hours of sleep too good to pass on the offer. With a sigh, you make your way over to your bed, falling face-first into the soft white sheets. Even with the dingy, yellowish motel lights on, you managed to fall asleep in minutes.
It was only the next morning that you met the newest addition to your hunter duo.
The warm rays of the sun beamed through the curtain-covered windows — the curtains barely providing any barrier from the sun —, and you could’ve sworn it was noon by how bright it was by the time your eyes started to flutter open.
Turning in the direction of the motel room’s kitchen, even with your eyesight blurry, you found your dad still hunched over the desk. You weren’t sure whether he went to sleep at all, or just sat there all night. Nonetheless, he’s been keeping himself busy. For a few long moments, you stay huddled under the heavy covers drawn up to your neck, cocooned in the white fabric. Of course after a while a sense of duty overtakes you, and you force yourself out into the bathroom to shower, change clothes, and brush your teeth.
Just as you step back out into the main area, the silence is broken by a series of knocks, coming from the door. Your dad’s gaze shoots up, but before he could get up, you dismiss him.
“I’ll get it,” you mutter as you make your way over to the door, one of your hands already sliding over to the pistol holstered on your side, undoing the lock with a high-pitched click.
The door creaks open, you peeking through it, finding a man standing there. Short hair, stubble, mud-stained boots, flannel with a plain black shirt underneath, topped with a dark jacket. His eyes trail onto you, taking you in from head to toe before a soft smile creeps onto his face.
“Winchester,” your dad’s voice cuts through the tense silence, snapping both you and the man out of it all. Sure enough, he appears right behind you, pulling the door fully open before stepping past you, pulling the man into a friendly hug, patting his back once before letting go. “Glad you could come. Hope I didn’t bother you much.”
“It’s fine, I was a few hours away. The quicker we get over this case, the better,” he replied, forcing a tight-lipped smile onto his face as he nods. His eyes wander back to you, watchful eyes locking onto your figure. “Who’s the lady with you?”
His gaze sized you up, standing in the doorway with open curiosity. He knows exactly how to size up the situation—and pretty women.
Your father smiled and placed his hand on your shoulder, you could instantly feel the immense weight of paternal pride in that touch.
“Dean, this is my daughter,” your father said, his voice holding that rare warmth he reserved only for you. “She keeps me going on this cursed road. And, for the record, she’s got a better eye for tracks than I do.”
Dean’s eyebrows shot up in appreciation. His gaze lingered for a moment on the unfastened holster visible beneath your T-shirt, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a faint, lopsided smile. He seemed to appreciate the caution.
“Your daughter?” Dean repeated, stepping further into the musty motel room and casually tossing his bag onto an empty chair. "She’s lucky, then. Looks like she got all the good genes from you, old man—not your buddies.”
Your father just snorted at the teasing but was visibly relieved that help had arrived. Dean turned toward you and looked you straight in the eye. Fatigue from the long night’s drive lingered in his greenish-brown eyes, yet the charisma radiating from him was almost palpable. He stepped closer and held out his hand.
“Dean Winchester,” he introduced himself, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble in the morning sunlight. “Nice to meet you. Your dad left out the part about having such a pretty partner when we spoke on the phone. If I’d known, I would’ve brought decent coffee from the gas station instead of this stuff that tastes like straight-up asphalt.”
Alright, he seemed better than the other men your dad usually brought along on hunts. Certainly more handsome, too. Especially for somebody apparently scratching his forties.
You take his hand, shaking it firmly once, his eyes never leaving yours, before letting go.
The greeting is followed by a thorough conversation and discussion back at the table, papers, books and various articles from the news sprawled in one whirlwind on the wooden surface. Your father gives Dean a summary of what you could find so far, and what you couldn’t find so far.
The three of you go over the documents and books, Dean’s finger brushing against yours for a second too long as he slides one of the papers from under your fingertips towards himself. You could feel yourself shudder a little at his touch, but kept your professional composure.
Dean, after the lore drop, keeps quiet for a few moments, the gears in his head turning as he tries to figure out the next step in the investigation, or connect some dots you two couldn’t up until now.
After some brainstorming, you came up with a plan: visit the scene of the latest victim’s death, then if that leads nowhere, head to a local bar and hunt for a few leads there in case the locals might know a bit more — and in case they fold easier for Dean’s charms.
“I like the way you think,” he said, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and pocketing his car keys. “First, we’ll check out what the bastard left behind in the mud, and then comes the well-deserved beer and the gossip. Your dad can stay here and comb through the remaining books, maybe he’ll find a specific weakness.”
Your dad agreed, albeit with a grumble. Given his back pain and lack of sleep, he probably would have just slowed you down out in the field anyway.
Fifteen minutes later, you were sitting in Dean’s pitch-black Chevy Impala. The engine’s soothing rumble filled the cabin as you headed toward the dense stretch of woods on the edge of town where the latest victim had been found. Dean held the steering wheel loosely with one hand and rolled down the window with the other, letting the fresh, cool air fill the car.
When you arrived at the edge of the dense, damp forest — where the yellow police tape still fluttered lazily between the trees —, you immediately set to work. Dean moved with practiced ease, treading almost silently over the soft carpet of fallen leaves, yet he kept a constant eye on you, as if testing your abilities. He wasn't disappointed.
As you stepped into the cordoned-off area, you spotted the first significant clue: high up on the tree trunks, deep, parallel claw marks had torn through the bark, and a strange, dark, asphalt-like ooze with a sulfurous stench was seeping from the wounds. Dean crouched down beside you, dipped his hunting knife into the sticky substance, and raised it to his nose.
“That’s no werewolf, that’s for sure. And it’s not just an ordinary ghost, either,” he muttered, nodding approvingly at you. “You’ve got a sharp eye, sweetheart. Looks like this beast likes climbing trees and ambushing its prey.”
After the scene inspection, you got back into the Impala and headed toward the small town’s only neon-lit bar. As you drove, Dean fished the fake FBI badges out of the glove compartment and casually dropped one into your lap.
“So, Agent Collins,” he grinned at you lopsidedly, turning onto the main street with one hand on the wheel. “I hope you're ready to play good cop, bad cop. Though the local yokels will probably be more willing to talk to you than to me. Tell me, how long have you been doing this hunting gig with your dad? Because for an old bear like him, he’s trained you pretty damn well.”
“Pretty damn well,” you shrugged with a half-smile, tucking the fake ID into your blazer’s inner pocket. “Though if it had been up to my dad, I’d still be learning how to salt a windowsill in five seconds flat. I picked up the finer points on my own, Winchester. So don't worry, I won't ruin your little federal agent image.”
Dean chuckled softly and nodded appreciatively as he brought the rumbling Impala to a halt in front of the shabby, neon-lit bar.
“That’s the spirit, Agent Collins,” he winked, killing the engine. You both stepped out of the car, instantly slipping into the roles of professional agents. Moving in perfect sync and exuding confidence, you walked through the dive bar’s heavy wooden door. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke as old country music played softly from the jukebox, and the locals immediately turned to look at you. Yeah, that suit gave you two away just fine.
You quickly exchanged glances and agreed on a tactic with a single, subtle nod: you would split up.
Dean headed toward the booths a bit further away from the bar. He singled out a young, visibly distressed woman sitting alone with her cocktail, possibly a friend of one of the victims.
Meanwhile, you headed straight for the bar. Behind the counter, a tattooed guy in his thirties with a bit of stubble was wiping down glasses, sizing up the patrons with a bored expression. He was the perfect target, bartenders always hear everything in town.
You sat on one of the high stools, shifting your coat back slightly to strike a pose that was assertive yet alluring. Leaning your elbows on the counter and looking the man straight in the eye, you flashed your badge along with your most winning, confident smile.
“Agent Collins, FBI,” you said in a low, firm voice. “I hear you’re the man in this town who knows the lay of the land better than the police do. I could use some help with a delicate matter…”
The bartender put down his rag, leaned in closer, and let his gaze travel over your face. He smiled, suddenly appearing far more cooperative than before.
Sitting in the booth, Dean kept a constant eye on you while appearing to focus entirely on the words of the tearful girl. He watched as you leaned casually against the bar, smiled at just the right moment, and saw the bartender practically melt under your alluring demeanor. The corner of Dean’s mouth twitched upward involuntarily.
Once you had both gleaned everything possible from your respective targets, you wrapped up the conversations almost simultaneously. You said goodbye to the bartender — who would likely be talking about the pretty federal agent for days to come — with a grateful smile, while Dean took his leave of the girl with a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
As soon as you stepped out of the bar’s heavy door into the fresh evening air, the tense FBI persona instantly dropped away. Dean shoved his hands into his pockets and grinned at you sideways as you walked toward the Impala.
“Well, Agent Collins, hats off to you,” he said, playfully nudging you with his elbow. “I saw how you handled that guy at the bar. The poor sap didn't even know where he was, he would've told you absolutely anything. Seriously, for a moment even I forgot what I was supposed to be asking that girl.”
He opened the passenger-side door for you, then slid behind the wheel and started the Chevy. Amidst the engine's deep rumble, he immediately turned the conversation to business.
“Oh, come on, Winchester,” you said, flashing your cheekiest smile as you settled comfortably into the leather seat of the Impala. “I was just doing my job. But if you ever get stuck during an interrogation, feel free to let me know, I’d be happy to give you a few pointers.”
Dean chuckled softly, the deep, gravelly sound rising from his throat filled the cockpit. He clearly loved it when a woman wasn't fazed by his attitude and actually fired right back.
“I'll keep that in mind,” he said, winking at you in the rearview mirror as he turned onto the road leading to the motel strip. “Alright, spill the juicy details,” he said, turning to you as he pulled out of the parking lot. “What did you find out from our friend? Because the girl confirmed to us that the latest victim, Chloe, smelled sulfur coming from the trees right before the attack, same kind we encountered. She said that according to local legend, the beast doesn't just climb trees, it has a nest somewhere near the old sawmill.”
“Well, according to the bartender, this thing isn’t such a big threat that my dad, or the three of us, couldn’t handle it with our bare hands, once we come face-to-face with it. It’s not some invulnerable demigod. The real problem isn’t its strength, but the fact that it’s nearly impossible to track. It’s like a shadow. The bartender mentioned that locals have seen it flitting through the treetops, but it never leaves a trace on the ground. They even tried hunting dogs, but the creature’s sulfurous stench drives the animals crazy, and they lose the scent.”
Dean nodded thoughtfully, tapping a rhythm on the steering wheel with his finger.
“So, a real stealthy bastard,” he muttered. “But that sawmill the girl mentioned is a good starting point. No dirt there, just concrete and rotting wood, a perfect hideout for something that doesn’t want to leave footprints.”
A few minutes later, you pulled up in front of the motel. When you walked into the room, your father was sitting under the lamp in the exact same shrimp-like posture as when you’d left him, but the moment he saw you, he snapped his head up.
“Well?” he asked in a hoarse voice, his eyes practically burning with curiosity. “What did you find out?”
You and Dean summed up the crime scene and the bar questionings, while your dad let you in on the lore he could dig up from the leads. Same kind of monster he’d defeated back when he was a beginner, so it proved to be no big threat. Just damn hard to track.
The sawmill was the key. If the local legend held true, the beast ventured out of its nest in the dead of night to stalk its next victim. With a heavy sigh, your father slammed the book shut and turned to Dean.
“Then there’s no point in waiting,” he said, hoisting himself out of the chair and cracking his back. “If we get there within the next hour, we might just catch it in its nest before it heads out to hunt.”
Before setting off, you ducked into the bathroom.
After turning off the tap and drying yourself, you began to pull on your clean hunting clothes. You were just tightening your bootlaces when two hushed yet heated voices reached you through the thin, old motel door. Your father and Dean were arguing. Curiosity instantly outweighed your sense of duty. You froze mid-motion, held your breath, and carefully pressed your ear against the worn wooden door, trying to pick out the words from the noise.
“…You shouldn't have dragged her into this, John!” It was Dean’s voice—deep and low, yet seething with anger as it filled the room. “This is no place for a young girl, especially not your daughter. I’ve seen how she moves, she’s skilled, sure, but one mistake and it’s all over.”
“Don't you dare tell me how to raise my daughter, Winchester!” Your father’s voice practically vibrated with rage, though he was trying to keep it low so you wouldn't hear them. “She’s the only family I have. She’s safe with me, where I can see her and protect her. I couldn't just leave her behind in some civilian life, only for some monster to find her one day while I was on the other side of the world!”
“Safe?” Dean’s mocking, incredulous snort carried clearly into the bathroom. “In a forest crawling with monsters, in a lousy motel room, with fake IDs in her pocket? That’s your idea of safety? If something happens to you, what becomes of her? She’ll be left all alone in this mess. She deserved a normal life, a chance at school, anything... “
The room suddenly fell so silent you could hear your own heartbeat. Your father’s heavy, menacing footsteps approached the bathroom door, but stopped just short of it.
“That’s enough, Dean,” your father said, his voice ice-cold and brooking no argument. “The conversation is over. We’re packing up and leaving. And not a word to her about this, clear?”
“You’re conveniently glossing over the most important detail, John!” Dean’s voice grew even more hushed and tense, he spat the words out, almost hissing. “Every single victim in this godforsaken town is a young girl. Exactly her age. That thing is hunting them. And your brilliant plan is to walk her right into its nest as bait?! That is the last thing we should be doing.”
A moment of silence followed his words; only your father’s heavy, angry breathing could be heard.
“Not bait, Dean. A hunter,” your father replied stubbornly.
“I don’t care!” Dean cut in, and you could hear the rustle of fabric as he swung his arm in a fit of helpless rage. “Listen to me. I’m going out to the sawmill. Alone. You stay here at the motel and watch over her. Secure the room and keep an eye on her. I’ll take care of the thing.”
“Out of the question,” your father shot back immediately, refusing to yield an inch of his pride. “This is my case. I’m the one who found it. I’m not going to sit here in a motel room while you do my job.”
“Fine, okay, sure—your damn pride...” Dean’s voice was laced with biting sarcasm, but then his resolve suddenly hardened. “If you’re hell-bent on being the one to go to those woods, go ahead. But if you won’t stay with her, I will. I’ll stay here and watch over her, and you can go to the sawmill alone. I’m not letting that thing get her just because you’re incapable of thinking rationally.”
Leaning against the cold bathroom tiles, you felt your pulse skyrocket. Your father, breathing heavily, snatched his coat and gun bag off the bed. Perhaps a deeply buried paternal guilt had prevailed after Dean’s words.
You opened the bathroom door at the exact moment your father reached for the handle. The movement froze in mid-air. Your father looked at you, his weary eyes reflected a strange mix of secrecy and worry. He couldn't be sure how much you had heard through the thin walls, but the tension between you was almost palpable.
“Stay here with Dean,” your father said, his voice gruff, though he avoided meeting your gaze. “I’m going to check out that sawmill. Secure the door.”
Before you could say a word, he stepped out into the cool night air, and the heavy motel door clicked shut behind him.
A stifling silence suddenly filled the room. Dean stood leaning against the table, his arms crossed. He had already tossed his jacket onto the chair. When you fixed your gaze on him, he didn't look away. He knew perfectly well that you had heard it all.
“So,” he broke the silence, his voice a deep, low rumble in the yellowish lamplight, “I imagine right now you’d love to be angry at me for leaving you out of the action.”
You smiled and sat down casually on the edge of the bed, resting your hands on the mattress.
“I don't mind it much,” you said softly, taking a deep breath.
Dean raised his eyebrows thoughtfully, let his arms drop to his sides, and took a step toward you. Surprise reflected in his eyes.
“Seriously?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. “I thought you’d at least throw a rock-salt shell at me for messing up your operation. Most hunter kids I’ve met are hell-bent on proving themselves, even if it costs them their lives.”
“Dad has handled far rougher situations than the sawmill job on his own. I trust he knows what he’s doing. I don’t really have any desire for this hunting life anyway.”
Dean’s expression shifted. The tension that had been there earlier vanished completely as he stepped further into the room and sat down across from you in one of the worn armchairs. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and turned his full attention toward you.
“I’d rather just help him with the research and the investigation,” you continued, glancing at the pile of books lying in the corner of the room. “Piecing things together, finding the clues. But rotting away in the woods at night, shooting at carcasses… that’s just not my world. This one’s a low-stakes mission by our standards. He’ll get it done without my help too.”
Dean remained silent for several long seconds, simply gazing at you as if he had discovered something rare and precious in that dark, strange motel room. Finally, with a deep, appreciative sigh, he leaned back in his armchair, the corner of his mouth curling into a faint, warm smile.
“You have no idea how much I respect you for that,” he said, his voice now surprisingly soft—almost a whisper. "And for having the guts to say it. John’s a stubborn, old-school hunter, it can’t be easy to hold onto your own mind around him.”
For a moment, a pleasant silence settled between the two of you.
“So,” he broke the silence, his tone dropping to a low, slightly cheeky register as he nodded toward the laptop and books on the table. “If the investigation is your call, Agent Collins... show me what we missed. While the old man is out there doing the dirty work, let’s get these files sorted. What do you say?”
You pulled the chair up to the table and sat down in front of your laptop, but your concentration vanished the moment you sensed Dean’s presence. He stepped up behind you, standing so close that you could almost smell the blend of cool evening air and the clean scent of the woods and gunpowder clinging to him.
As he leaned forward to look at the monitor, his shoulder brushed against yours. His proximity suddenly left you completely flustered as your throat went dry, and the tension you’d felt earlier transformed into something entirely different.
Your fingers hovered motionless over the keyboard. Dean noticed your hesitation. He slowly lowered his arm and gently placed his large, warm palm over yours, which was resting on the mouse. The touch of his skin sent an electric jolt racing up your arm. His hand was firm yet gentle, a stark contrast to the rugged image he projected to the outside world.
“Relax,” he whispered right next to your ear. “We’re in no rush. Just show me where to look for the sawmill map.”
You didn't pull your hand away. Dean slowly moved the mouse, guiding your hand with his own, but his gaze was no longer on the monitor, instead watching you from the side.
You slowly turned your head and looked straight into his eyes. The movement brought your faces mere centimeters apart, and the room’s dim light glinted in Dean’s eyes, which flicked to your lips for a moment before returning to yours. His breathing grew heavier, and you felt his palm tighten against your hand.
Hesitation hung between you like an invisible wall. Dean knew full well that you were John’s daughter, and the hunter’s code — not to mention his respect for the old man — urged him to hold back. And you knew just as well that the man standing so close to you belonged to a dangerous world, one you were consciously trying to stay out of.
Yet, as your gazes locked, every rational thought faded into the background. Dean slowly moved his hand away from yours, but only to gently touch your chin with his fingertips, softly turning your face toward his.
“You…” he began in a whisper, his voice deeper and raspier than ever before. “You have no idea how hard it is for me to remain professional right now, Agent Collins.”
He didn't pull away, in fact, he leaned just a bit closer, closing his eyes for a moment as if gathering the strength to resist the temptation, or perhaps to finally take the next step.
You didn’t want to wait any longer for moral arguments or the perfect moment. You were done hesitating. You slowly rose from your chair — just enough to fully close the height gap between you — and before Dean could say a word, you bridged that final distance, hungry lips crashing onto his.
Dean’s body tensed for a split second in surprise, he hadn’t expected you to make the move. But his surprise vanished instantly, and the very next moment, he surrendered completely to the kiss. His hand, which had been touching your chin, slid gently up to your cheek, while his other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you against him firmly yet with care.
When you slowly pulled apart after a few long seconds, Dean didn’t let go right away. He rested his forehead gently against yours, his eyes still closed, his heavy breath brushing against your face.
One hand still held your waist, as if he feared you might vanish if he let go. Finally, he opened his eyes. A completely different kind of fire burned there, yet the corner of his mouth curled up again into that cocky smile.
“Well…” he murmured, his fingers tracing a gentle path along your back. “I have to say, Agent, your negotiating technique is truly extraordinary.”
You slid your hand up to the back of his neck, burying your fingers in his hair, and locked your lips with his once more. A deep, satisfied growl escaped Dean right there at the table as every trace of wavering or hesitation had vanished from him.
Clasping your waist tightly, he lifted you away from the table in one fluid motion as if you weighed no more than a feather, and without breaking the kiss for a second, he backed toward the darker corner of the room, straight toward the unmade bed. The next moment, you tumbled onto the soft mattress. Dean fell back into the white sheets, and suddenly you were straddling him, your thighs framing his hips as your weight settled onto his chest.
Dean’s hands slid up your back, burning hot against your skin even through the fabric of your shirt as he pulled you close, deeply inhaling your scent and the lingering heat on your lips. His hips moved instinctively beneath you in response to your closeness. Dean’s fingers tangled in your hair, gently tilting your head back to expose your neck. As his lips and stubble grazed your skin, a soft sigh escaped you, instantly silenced by his next, all-consuming kiss.
With a single decisive yet gentle motion, he pulled the thin fabric of your shirt over your head, baring your skin in the yellowish lamplight. Desire flared in his eyes as he gazed at you, but you didn’t give him time to stare as you immediately reached for the buttons of his flannel shirt.
Your fingers trembled slightly with haste, yet you worked efficiently, and Dean helpfully shrugged his shoulders, letting you strip the plaid fabric from him. As soon as his shirt hit the floor, you smoothed your palms over his broad chest, feeling the heat of his skin and the frantic, pounding rhythm of his heart.
You kissed his lips one last time — a long, deep kiss — breathing in his scent, before slowly pulling away. Dean’s head fell back against the pillow and his eyes closed and a deep sigh escaped his throat as your lips left his and you began to trail kisses downward.
You planted tiny, hot kisses on his stubbled chin, then lower, to the sensitive spot on his neck where his pulse raced wildly beneath the skin. Dean’s fingers instantly clenched the sheets, his body tensing with pleasure. You didn’t stop, your kisses wandered lower and lower, tracing his collarbone straight toward his chest, while your hand gently stroked the muscles along his side.
“Fuck…” Dean murmured, beside himself, his voice breaking with suppressed desire. His hand lifted from the sheet and buried itself in your hair, guiding your movements with his fingers.
Slowly, inch by inch, you slid down his body. Your kisses traced the line of his abs, his fingers clenched tightly in your hair — not to push you away, but to anchor you to him — as his breathing grew increasingly ragged and heavy. When you reached the waistband of his trousers, your fingers confidently found the metal button and the zipper. As you freed his straining manhood from the confines of the fabric, a stifled, hoarse plea escaped Dean’s lips.
“God…” he whispered, overcome, his head falling back helplessly against the pillow.
You slowly dragged your tongue teasingly along the length of his straining cock, causing his body to jerk beneath you. When you finally took him fully into your mouth and made that first deep stroke, Dean’s fingers instantly tightened in your hair. His hips began to move in rhythm with your mouth, and raw, deep sounds tore from his throat, sounds you had never heard from him before.
His face was completely contorted by overwhelming ecstasy. As you intensified your movements, his hips lifted involuntarily off the mattress, thrusting more wildly and deeply against your lips. For a moment, you looked up at him through the strands of your hair. Dean’s eyelids were heavy, his gaze clouded with pure, undisguised desire as he fixed his eyes on you. When your eyes met and he saw the triumphant satisfaction in yours, a deep, hoarse growl tore from his throat. That was the final straw.
“Fuck... sweetheart…” he groaned your name, his voice choking, as his body went completely rigid beneath you.
His hips gave one last, powerful thrust inside your mouth as he finally lost all control. Hot, pulsing waves filled your mouth, and Dean collapsed helplessly back onto the white sheets with a loud, broken sigh. His fingers slowly released your hair and his arms fell limp onto the mattress, while his chest rose and fell violently and raggedly.
You slowly climbed onto his body, wiping your mouth as that triumphant smile played on your lips. Dean was still struggling to catch his breath, but the moment he saw the look in your eyes, that predatory gleam instantly reignited in his own.
“You little witch…” he murmured hoarsely, his voice ringing with adoration.
Before you could reply, he reached behind your head and, with one decisive movement, locked his lips onto yours. This kiss held no trace of initial hesitation, deep and sultry, and tasting his own flavor on you only stoked the fire further.
Dean didn't stay beneath you for long. He flipped you over on the mattress and loomed over you once more, his broad shoulders almost completely blocking out the room's yellowish light. His eyes roamed over your body as his hands wandered to the insides of your thighs.
“I think I owe you one,” he whispered, the deep vibration of his voice felt right against your skin as he slowly slid down your body. Driven by his own desire, he wanted to drive you mad.
He gently parted your thighs and sank to his knees between them. You could see him eyeing your panties, running his thumb over the soaked fabric before hooking his fingers onto the side, pulling it off of you. When his first hot breath touched your most sensitive spot, your back arched involuntarily against the sheets, and your fingers instantly dug into the pillow.
He placed one, slow kiss onto your already wet entrance, lips gliding along the flesh before he pulled away with a pop for a second. His pointer and middle finger rise to your entrance, slowly sliding in, drawing a stifled sigh out of you before stretching you out, a content smirk appearing on his face.
His eyes dart up to meet yours, right before he leans closer, his mouth yet again making contact with your pussy, tongue darting out and drawing an upwards line, slick with his saliva and your fluids.
Dean knew exactly what he was doing, his movements were at once gentle and demanding, his stubble sending pleasant shivers across your skin with every small, circular motion of his head. Soft, stifled sighs and moans escaped you in the silence of the motel room as you felt your hips moving involuntarily toward his mouth.
He clearly loved the effect he was having on you, but he had no intention of stopping there. The fingers he used to stretch you moved slowly and confidently inside you, while his thumb began rhythmically rubbing your most sensitive spot.
Your fingers turned white as you gripped the mattress, his fingers and tongue launching a simultaneous, all-out assault on your senses. Dean’s fingers slid in and out of your throbbing core with a scissoring motion, while his thumb tormented your clit with precise, rhythmic strokes.
“Dean… Shit, Dean…” His name dissolved into hoarse, incoherent sighs and loud moans as your hips began to move with a mind of their own. Instinctively, you arched upward toward his mouth, chasing the tension that was building in your gut, ready to explode.
Dean loved it. He pinned your thighs down even tighter with his large hands, pressing your hips so firmly into the sheets that not a single millimeter of movement was lost. The pace of his tongue quickened, and his fingers plunged into you even more hungrily and deeply, completely filling your hot, slick inside.
Your body suddenly went taut, your back arched against the white sheet, and the first all-consuming wave of release tore from you in a loud, breathless cry.
Dean didn't pull away; he stayed right there, deeply savoring every internal pulse, his tongue and fingers tracing the contours of your climax until the tremors slowly subsided throughout your body.
Panting and limp, you sank back into the pillows. Dean slowly slid upward, his gaze boring deep into yours, a signature confident smile playing on his lips.
Dean slid up your body with a low, satisfied growl. He didn't ask questions, he was a man of actions. In one effortless motion, he gripped your hips and turned you over on the mattress. Before you knew it, your face was buried in the soft pillows while he knelt behind you, completely dominating the space — and your body.
The heat of his skin was searing as his broad chest pressed against your back. He reached around to gently sweep your hair aside, exposing your neck. Dean’s heavy, ragged breath seared your skin, while his hard, throbbing cock pressed right against your entrance, impatiently demanding entry.
“Fuck... God, baby…” he whispered hoarsely, his voice vibrating with need. “I can't hold back anymore.”
His large palms clamped tightly onto your hips, pinning you in place, and with a decisive, deep, and powerful thrust, he slid into you completely. A loud, sharp moan escaped you, torn from your throat by the sudden tension, while your hands clutched convulsively at the rumpled sheets.
Dean didn't wait; desire had completely clouded his reason, and he immediately set a wild, relentless pace. Every thrust was deep and possessive, the rhythmic slap of his hips against your body set the tempo for the room's stifling silence.
You lay beneath him, your sounds muffled by the pillow your face was buried in, as his strength drove you again and again toward the edge of the precipice. Within the walls of the motel room, nothing existed but his hoarse panting and your continuous, stifled sighs.
You instinctively pressed your hips back against his movements, and a stifled growl tore from Dean as he felt your response. His large hands clamped around your waist like a vise, his fingernails digging deep into your skin as he held you steady.
Dean surrendered completely to the rhythm, driving his hips in even wilder, deeper thrusts that forced you down onto the mattress. With every movement, he seemed to penetrate to your very soul as the rhythmic slap of bodies and the rustle of sheets filled the room. Your head sank helplessly into the crumpled pillows while inarticulate moans and ragged gasps escaped your throat.
“Such a good girl,” Dean muttered under his breath between ragged breath and deep groans.
Pleasure and tension rose to heights that the room’s yellowish lights blurred before your eyes. Dean felt your insides clamping down hot and tight around his straining cock. Gripping your waist even tighter, he drove forward with those final few thrusts, completely lost in the moment.
“Fuck, baby…” he rasped into your ear as his body went rock-hard behind you. With one final, deep thrust, he buried himself completely inside you, and hot, pulsing waves of release flooded your body. With a ragged sigh tearing from his throat, he collapsed helplessly against your back. His heavy, muscular chest heaved against your skin as he wrapped his arms tightly around you, holding you close in that moment of relief.
“Good girl…” Dean murmured right against your neck, the vibration of his voice sending a shiver down your spine. He slowly withdrew, then with a long, satisfied sigh, flopped down onto the rumpled sheets beside you.
He immediately slid one arm beneath your head, pulling you close against his warm body, while his other hand casually tugged the blanket up to cover your bare skin. His chest was still heaving, and a stray bead of sweat rolled from his forehead onto the pillow, yet his face had completely relaxed.
“Well,” he broke the silence with a soft chuckle, gently running his finger along your shoulder. “I have to say, Agent Collins… This investigation took a much better turn than I expected.”
For a moment, you both smiled at the absurdity of the situation.
“Oh, come on, Winchester,” you said, digging your elbow into his muscular side as you turned toward him with a knowing smile. “Don't let the success go to your head. I just made sure you didn't fall asleep over the paperwork while we waited for my father.”
Dean chuckled softly, the gravelly sound rising from his throat filled the warm room. He was just about to fire back with an equally cheeky remark and pull you even closer when a familiar, heavy rumble drifted in from the darkness outside, passing through the thin windowpane.
A car rolled into the motel’s gravel parking lot, and sharp, yellowish beams of light swept across the curtains. The laughter vanished from Dean’s face in an instant. It wasn't his Impala — the engine roar of your dad’s old, battered SUV cut through the silence.
“Damn it, it’s your old man,” Dean hissed. The relaxed, satisfied hunter vanished in a split second, replaced by sheer panic, the kind he hadn't felt even in the bloodiest vampire nest.
“Says the equally old man,” you retort under your breath, scrambling the sheets in a hurry to avoid getting caught.
With one massive heave, he threw off the covers and practically leapt out of bed, scrambling for the clothes scattered across the floor.
“Fuck, fuck…” he muttered rapidly, trying to yank on his jeans while balancing on one leg and accidentally pulling his T-shirt on inside out.
You didn't wait either, your heart was pounding in your throat from the adrenaline as you snatched up your thin shirt from the edge of the bed. You both scrambled into your clothes with lightning speed, almost military precision while outside, you could hear the heavy slam of a car door, followed by the slow, weary sound of your father’s footsteps approaching your room along the concrete hallway.
Dean kicked his jacket under the bed at the last moment, and by the time the key turned in the lock, he was already standing at the desk, staring at the laptop screen as if he had spent the last hour studying a satellite map of the sawmill.
You had just sat back down on the edge of the bed, trying to smooth out your hair with a single quick motion. The wooden door clicked open, and your father stepped into the room. His coat was muddy and his face was haggard with exhaustion, but his eyes immediately swept across the room.
Your father walked wearily into the center of the room with heavy steps and tossed the bloody hunting knife onto the table right next to your laptop. The dark blood, reeking of sulfur, was still fresh on the blade. With a massive sigh, your father slumped into the nearest available chair, rubbing his face. When he finally looked up, his gaze locked instantly onto Dean, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a wide, mocking grin.
“Winchester,” your father said, jerking his head toward Dean, his voice laced with weary yet gloating humor. “I didn't know the Winchester boys' latest tactic was wearing their T-shirts inside out. Is that some new camouflage method against the monsters, or did you just get dressed in the dark?”
The air in the room seemed to stand still for a moment. Dean, who was still trying to fully regain his composure, froze for a split second. He quickly glanced down at his chest, where the T-shirt’s seam and inner label were proudly on display.
“Oh, that…” Dean cleared his throat, and within seconds, his confident manner returned to his voice. He gave a quick shrug, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I grabbed a quick shower while I was poring over the maps. I must have been in a rush and didn't even notice it.”
Your father just chuckled softly at the excuse, he was too tired to push the issue or give it any deeper thought. Dean glanced at you, then immediately turned serious to shift the focus away from himself.
“You okay, old man?” Dean asked, stepping closer to the table and eyeing the bloody knife with his arms crossed. “What happened at the sawmill?”
Your father smiled — a triumphant smile at that — and leaned back in his chair.
“The hunt is over,” your father replied, relief in his voice. “The beast was in its nest, exactly where the locals said it would be. It was surprised I came alone, but it wasn’t fast enough. I took care of it. The town will wake up to a much safer place tomorrow morning.”
Then your father looked at you before he turned back to Dean, his voice turning serious and grateful.
“Thanks for staying behind and looking after my daughter, Dean. For keeping her safe while I was away. I mean it.”
Dean tore his gaze away from your father for a moment and looked straight into your eyes. The corner of his mouth curled up again into that cocky smile.
“Come on, John, it’s nothing,” Dean replied quietly as he casually slid his hands into his pockets. “You know Agent Collins and I make a perfect team. I’ve got her back. Anytime.”
'Playmates' are essentially the models of the magazine, featured in the centerfold spread of the mag as "playmate of the month". They differ from playboy bunnies (who are basically hostesses) and have included celebs like marily monroe and pamela anderson. Could one of these ladies be the fix to soldier boy's never-ending loneliness?
𑣲⋆ pairing: soldier boy x playboy playmate!fem!reader
𑣲⋆ warnings/tags: age gap (reader is 18+) .ᐟ older man younger woman .ᐟ playmate reader .ᐟ straddling/riding .ᐟ fingers in mouth .ᐟ oral (m!rec) .ᐟ fingering .ᐟ grinding .ᐟ piv .ᐟ uses of 'good girl', 'doll', 'sir', 'sweetheaert', 'babydoll', and soldier boy refers to himself as 'daddy' like once .ᐟ soldier boy is his own warning
𑣲⋆ fandom: the boys
𑣲⋆ word count: 5.9k
𑣲⋆ author’s note: i've had this idea lingering for sooo long now, just got a few requests and a few stuff i started writing on a whim so i had to sideline this... soldier boy's one of my all-time favs lmao, i love writing for him although this is my first rodeo doing smut of him so i'm a bit scared... anon's dbf beau arlen oneshot request dropping soon chat, have this for now!! enjoy!! xoxo
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If it wasn’t for that damned magazine issue Vought tossed to him…
Everything started with a Playboy magazine. It was up on his list of requests, along with entire bricks of cocaine, and who were the underpaid Vought interns to deny the Soldier Boy this much? Sure enough, he found an entire box of magazines waiting for him at his doorstep, issues ranging from the 60s to modern day prints, just to make sure he’ll find something for himself.
To this day it’s unsure where the intern managed to snatch this entire collection from so quick — considering that such a massive array of every volume released since 1963 was worth a fortune and insanely hard to come by —, could’ve been an old lady on Ebay selling her late husband’s treasured collection — for five dollars, because not all people see why someone would sell sex magazines for thousands —, or could’ve been that Vought just tossed an entire two months of income out for this just to keep Soldier Boy at their feet. Frankly, Soldier Boy himself couldn’t care less.
Soldier Boy had way too much time in his hands. All day, holed up in the Vought Tower, of course he was going to flip through the majority of the mags quickly. He started with the ones he missed out on, finding great joy in inspecting the 80s issues that came after he was taken to Russia. Most of the stuff he was used to seeing, nothing new on that front, same style and same frosty picture quality.
He wasn’t sure when exactly or why, but after the fifth or so issue, his mind started to wander. How much has changed in the Playboy industry in the forty years while he was gone? Technically, he had some of the latest prints right under his fingertips, so there really wasn’t much to stop him. Alright, let’s see what the modern men beat their meat to. Wonder if anything’s changed since then.
It did. Just not in the way Soldier Boy preferred. He was already on his second modern-day issue, brows furrowed as he frantically flipped through the pages. It’s got to be a fucking joke…
Everything seemed so… fake?
He couldn’t quite place what made him feel that way, yes the models were real, but there was just something… off about them, if that makes sense. As much as it hurt Soldier Boy’s soul, the trend of having a bush had disappeared since then, his mouth almost twitching into a frown as he reached the last nude page of the issue, only to be met with a woman in her thirties, shaved from head to toe.
Hell, he could’ve sworn her hair was a wig, too, but he wasn’t gonna get all that personal right now. Not that wigs were a problem, it’d just be awkward if his super-strength fingers accidentally gripped it too tight during sex…
With a sigh, he decides to try his luck once more, what could he lose after all? He had all the time in the world, and no better way to spend it. So, he tossed this issue to the side, sliding another one in front of himself. His calloused fingers flitted through the laminated pages, eyes scanning all the noteworthy pages in search for something good, this run proving to be just the same as the previous three mags. Until…
There she is.
Young girl, staring into the camera with the prettiest eyes, plush skin exposed as she posed right in the centerfold. Her hair draped just right over her chest, and Soldier Boy was more than delighted to find that she, for the first time in his run through the modern-day issues, wasn’t shaved like a plastic doll.
The frustration that had been building in the super-soldier’s chest — the alienating feeling of waking up in a world that felt polished until it looked like plastic — stilled for a moment. He leaned back against the high-end sofa, bringing the magazine closer as a coy smirk played at the edge of his lips.
He looked toward the bottom of the page, curious about the profile. In his time, these features were about personality — hobbies, musical tastes, and life stories. He was more than glad to find that this still remained the same. With every word that he drank in, the more he thanked the intern who brought this magazine to his doorstep.
That was when the most stellar idea spawned in his mind. He’s free all day, and he’s the Soldier Boy… anything he wants is just a beck and call away. This issue was relatively recent, published not even a year ago, his dream girl might still be available.
Requesting one of the models was something that’s been around even before he was taken to Russia, and he could’ve sworn that it’s still an option.
Soldier Boy reached for the sleek desk phone Vought had installed, and punched the speed dial for Ashley Barrett’s office. He didn't care about the time, in his mind, the captain’s schedule was the only one that mattered.
“Soldier Boy!” Ashley’s voice came through the line, immediately hit a pitch of frantic energy. “Is everything alright? Are the... accommodations to your liking? We've been working around the clock to ensure your transition back into the public eye is seamless.”
“The room is fine. It's the world outside that's the problem,” he said, his voice dropping into a gravelly baritone as he looked down at the profile in the magazine. "I found someone in this collection you sent up.”
There was a pause on the other end. “A person? From the archives?”
“The issue is from last year. I want to meet her,” he stated, his tone carrying the absolute expectation of compliance that had been his birthright for decades. “Back in the day, Vought made these things happen. Connections, networking, appearances, it was all part of the job. Set up a meeting. Her, here in the tower.”
The silence stretched. On the other end, the sound of rapid typing began, followed by Ashley's breathing turning shallow.
“Soldier Boy, the... the industry and the legal landscape have changed significantly since the early eighties,” Ashley stammered, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper. “Vought's talent relations don't work that way anymore. We can't just... reach out and summon independent civilians for private meetings. There are contracts, privacy laws, and HR protocols that simply didn't exist back then. She isn't a Vought employee.”
Soldier Boy's brow furrowed. It was the same bureaucratic wall he kept hitting — a maze of "protocols" and "liability" designed to restrain him.
“Ashley,” he said softly, a subtle edge of a threat vibrating in his voice. “I’m the foundation this whole company was built on. I don’t care about your digital models or your HR handbooks. Use the Vought resources. Find out who represents her, tell them it’s an opportunity for a high-profile appearance, and get her here.”
He could hear a faint whimpering sound before Ashley squeaked out a response, caught between the terror of refusing him and the nightmare of explaining the request to the rest of the board.
“I... I will consult with the PR and legal teams to see what kind of... collaborative opportunity we can propose,” she managed to say. “I'll get back to you.”
“Don't take too long,” Soldier Boy grunted, setting the receiver back in its cradle.
Ashley never got back to him. But somebody else did.
That same night, a series of rhythmic knocks broke the silence of Soldier Boy’s living quarter. His brows furrowed as he let out a groan of frustration, the unannounced visit not really up to his liking.
“Come in,” he growls from the comfort of his bed. If somebody wanted to do business with him at ten in the night, then they better be ready for him to refuse to give up his comfort.
The heavy silence returned to the suite, pressing into the room like the humid air before a thunderstorm. Soldier Boy sat on the edge of the bed, his jaw clenched, waiting for the door to open. But nobody walked in. No Homelander, no Ashley, no terrified intern. Just the faint, rhythmic hum of the Vought Tower’s ventilation system.
Then, it came again. Knock. Knock. Knock.It was a softer sound this time, hesitant but persistent.
A low growl vibrated in Soldier Boy’s chest. He didn't like being played with, and he damn sure didn't like standing on ceremony in his own quarters. If Ashley had sent some low-level assistant to deliver an apology note, he was going to throw the kid through the drywall.
He stood up, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the room. He didn't bother fixing his shirt or softening his scowl. In three long, heavy strides, he crossed the plush carpet, his calloused hand gripping the cold metal handle of the door. He yanked it open with enough force to make the frame rattle, ready to bark a threat at whoever was wasting his time.
The words died in his throat. Standing in the bright, sterile light of the hallway was the girl from the centerfold.
She looked smaller in person, stripped of the professional studio lighting and the glossy, laminated sheen of the magazine page. She was dressed in normal clothes and looked almost out of place against the corporate backdrop of Vought HQ.
Her eyes, the same pretty, expressive eyes that had caught his attention amidst a sea of plastic perfection, widened slightly as she looked up at him. She looked nervous, her fingers tightly gripping the strap of a small shoulder bag, but there was a quiet resilience in the way she held her ground. Behind her, at the very end of the hall, the shadow of a Vought security guard quickly vanished around the corner, leaving the two of them entirely alone.
Soldier Boy stared down at you, his furrowed brow slowly relaxing into a look of genuine, unfiltered surprise. His eyes tracked from your face down to your posture, confirming that this wasn't a trick, a hallucination, or a different girl wrapped in a wig. It was actually you. Ashley, or whoever she had begged to do it, had actually pulled the strings.
The frustrated scowl on his face gradually melted away, replaced by that slow-burning smirk. He leaned one heavy shoulder against the doorframe, looking down at you with the casual, dangerous charm of a man who was used to getting exactly what he asked for.
“Well,” Soldier Boy rumbled, his deep voice carrying a low purr that seemed to vibrate through the quiet hallway. “Look at that. Vought actually knows how to follow an order.”
You suppressed the urge to take a step back. Instead, you offered a gentle smile. It was the sort of professional yet warm and engaging smile you had mastered during photo shoots and events.
“Good evening, sir,” you said, voice clear and composed, as you extended a hand toward him with a polite gesture. “Vought management reached out to me through my representative. They mentioned that the latest issue of the magazine had caught your eye and that you wanted to arrange a professional meeting in person.”
Although the absurdity of the situation and the late hour urged caution, you held your ground. The Soldier Boy himself, requesting you! Your literal celebrity crush! If this is what your entire career was for, then it was well worth it! Still, you can’t just fangirl over him and jump onto him right here and now. Professionalism, professionalism, professionalism, you cited to yourself.
“I have to say, I was surprised by the invitation, but it’s an honor to meet a historical icon like you in person. I hope I’m not disturbing you too late.”
Soldier Boy sized you up, and the half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth deepened. He liked her bearing.
He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling deep and satisfied in his throat. Fuck… He’s even more attractive in real life!
He took your outstretched hand, but instead of a standard businesslike shake, he gently lifted it for a moment — almost with the air of a gentleman, even if that was the furthest thing from him —, his eyes glinting with amusement.
“Sir, huh?” He let go of your hand and stepped back from the doorway with a sweeping motion, clearing the way for you. “Don't tense up, doll. You don't need the protocol spiel.”
As you stepped into the luxury suite, the door clicked shut behind you, instantly sealing out the sterile world of Vought Tower. Soft, warm light filled the room, and heavy blackout curtains blocked out the flickering lights of the skyscrapers outside. The air held a subtle blend of tobacco and an expensive, woody cologne.
Soldier Boy wasted no time. He walked straight to the minibar, took down a crystal glass, and poured himself a finger’s breadth of neat, amber-colored liquor, then glanced inquiringly at you.
“Want anything? Scotch? Or do you people only drink organic vegetable juice these days?” he asked with a casual half-smile, though he didn't even wait for an answer; instead, he jerked his head toward the nightstand beside the bed, where a copy of Playboy lay open to the pages featuring your face and body. With that single gesture, all the polite formalities you had so carefully constructed out in the hallway vanished in an instant.
You could feel a wave of burning embarrassment wash over you. Yeah, modelling for them was one thing, but Soldier Boy seeing it too was just… different.
“Right, let's get to the point,” Soldier Boy said, turning back to you while slowly swirling the glass in his hand. His gaze swept over your face before settling on the open page of the magazine. “I’ve spent all day flipping through these mags they foisted on me. I was starting to think women today were all made of plastic. They all look like they rolled off an assembly line, shaved smooth as a bone, like store-window mannequins.”
He took a slow step toward you, his voice dropping to a deeper, more intimate register, shedding all military detachment.
“But then I saw you in this issue. You don't have that. There’s something... about you. Something that reminds me of the days when women were real and weren't afraid to be themselves.” He stopped barely a few inches away, locking his gaze deep into yours. “So tell me... did they just feed me lies, or can you prove yourself?”
As you stepped closer to him, the air in the room seemed to crackle with heat. You didn't let his rough demeanor intimidate you, as a glint of confidence in your eyes. Fuck the protocol and the image. You knew he didn’t invite you for business talk anyway, there’s no need pretending you want it any other way.
“Wanna try, Soldier Boy?” you said softly, all traces of official protocol vanishing from your voice.
Satisfaction spread across his face. He couldn't maintain the distance any longer as he carelessly set his drink down on the nearest table and closed the final gap between you in one decisive movement. His heavy, calloused hand found your waist almost instinctively, pulling you against him firmly. When his lips crashed against yours, it was raw, hungry, and overwhelming, just like the man himself.
His body was hot, and the masculine scent radiating from his skin made you feel almost dizzy. As the kiss deepened and grew more passionate, your hands slid up to his broad shoulders, then tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck.
Slowly, without breaking the kiss, you began to back away, gently guiding him toward the side of the room. Soldier Boy let out a low growl, enjoying the game, and allowed you to lead him. When he felt the edge of your heavy leather armchair against the backs of his knees, the firm pressure you applied to his shoulders gave him the final push. You pulled away from his lips, placed your hands on his chest, and gently pressed him deep into the armchair.
Soldier Boy leaned back, letting his arms rest loosely on the armrests, and took a deep breath. Stepping closer with a slow, deliberately provocative movement, you gracefully settle between his knees. The tight space brought your thighs into near-contact with his, and your proximity caused his pupils to dilate fully. S
Soldier Boy looked up at you from the armchair, that half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth, as his hands began to travel slowly up from your knees, his fingers seeming to burn against your skin through your clothes.
Slowly, almost inch by inch, you sank to your knees on the soft carpet right in front of him, your gaze locked deep into his. Your slender fingers slowly wandered to the waistband of his dark green sweatpants — a shade reminiscent of his legendary military uniform — before you hooked your fingers into the waistband of it, pulling it down right to his ankles.
You smoothed your other palm firmly yet gently over his boxers. A deep, hoarse growl tore from Soldier Boy’s throat as he felt the warmth of your hand through the fabric. His body instantly went rigid, hardening with desire beneath your palm. His calloused hands, resting on the armrests, clenched into fists — nearly tearing the expensive leather — while his head tilted back against the chair, yet he never once took his eyes off you.
“Fuck... doll…” he rasped. “You sure know how to drive a man mad.”
Your palm began to massage him with slow, circular motions through the fabric, while your fingers gently started to pull down the edge of his underwear.
You didn’t want to drag things out any longer, and frankly, seeing the suppressed madness burning in his eyes, Soldier Boy wouldn’t have been able to keep up the game much longer either. With a single, smooth motion, you yanked the boxers down from his hips, stripping him completely of the unnecessary layers.
As it slid down to his ankles, you could almost hear the air grow taut in the heavy silence of the room. Soldier Boy’s body — perfect, with its marble-like musculature and scattered scars, even after decades of captivity — shuddered at the touch of the cool air and sudden freedom.
His thick, pulsing cock instantly broke free from the confines of the fabric, and you didn’t hesitate for a second as you immediately pressed your soft, warm palm against his skin.
A deep, guttural groan tore from Soldier Boy’s throat. His head fell back helplessly against the armchair, the veins in his neck bulging like thick cords as the direct skin-to-skin contact shot through his body like an electric current. One of his massive hands lifted from the armrest and tangled in your hair — not to push you away, but to weave his fingers through your locks and anchor you in place, while his hips involuntarily lifted off the seat, moving toward your palm.
“God, doll... yeah, just like that,” he panted, his voice raw and stripped of any trace of his usual nonchalant facade.
Your fingers wrapped around him, firm yet silky, and you began to slide up and down the length of his straining shaft with slow, confident strokes. You could feel every subtle tremor, the pulse beneath the skin, and the realization that the super-soldier feared by the entire world was now completely in your hands.
With your thumb, you gently wiped away the first glistening bead of precum appearing at the tip. The man’s hips jerked, and his fingers entwined in your hair tightened with a grip that was gentle yet brooked no refusal.
“Enough with the foreplay sweetheart,” he growled, looking down at you, his eyes dark with lust as he tugged at your hair, pulling your face closer to his throbbing cock. “Take it in your mouth.”
A spark of provocation gleamed in your eyes, and you refused to break eye contact with him. You leaned forward slowly, drawing out the movement so that the warmth of your lips merely grazed the taut head at first. Then, with a fluid motion, you parted your lips and took him deep.
An inarticulate groan tore from Soldier Boy’s throat. His hips jerked forward — almost involuntarily — in the armchair as the wet, tight warmth of your mouth and the firm play of your tongue completely enveloped him. The grip of his fingers instantly tightened.
Yet you didn't break under the pressure. Your eyes remained wide, boring straight into his even through the veil of tears. That defiant, proud look drove the man absolutely mad. His head tossed helplessly as you began to slide rhythmically up and down him, picking up speed.
With every upward thrust, you wrapped your tongue around his straining length while your hand massaged his balls, offering him a pleasure so perfect it was suffocating. Soldier Boy’s breathing grew ragged, his chest heaving violently, while the frame of the expensive furniture groaned beneath the hand he used to grip the armrest.
“Yeah, so good… Fuck…” he rasped, his voice hoarse from the pleasure he was barely containing. “You're driving me crazy…”
Teetering on the edge between suppressed desire and a loss of control, he took charge with a single, sudden movement. His calloused hands dug into your plush skin, and—using his super-strength — he hoisted you off the ground as if you weighed nothing. In the blink of an eye, you found yourself in his lap, straddling him and wrapping your arms around his solid thighs.
You didn't even have a chance to catch your breath while sitting upright before he anchored you against him. One hand clamped firmly onto your waist while the other gripped the back of your neck, and his lips crashed against yours, hungry, almost savage.
As your upper bodies pressed against each other, your hips instinctively found their place. With slow, deliberately provocative and heavy movements, you began to grind down, rubbing yourself against the throbbing hardness straining at his crotch. With every slow, circular movement of your hips, you could feel his heat through the fabric, pressing directly against your throbbing cunt.
A guttural growl escaped Soldier Boy’s throat amidst the kiss. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you even closer while he lifted his hips slightly in the armchair to intensify the contact.
He pulled away from your lips, only to trail his hot kisses along your neck and jawline, while your hips continued to relentlessly, slowly grind away the last of his self-control.
Without the slightest effort, he lifted you from his lap in one smooth motion — as if you weighed nothing at all — and strode toward the massive double bed with heavy steps. Before you could even process the sudden shift in position, he laid you back against the soft, silky covers.
The mattress slightly sunk beneath you and your hair fanned out across the pillow, but Soldier Boy didn't let a single second of distance come between you. He moved instantly to follow, his muscular frame looming over you and trapping you within the circle of his arms. His fingers found the hem of your shirt, and you instinctively lifted your upper body from the bed as he pulled the thin material over your head, carelessly tossing it to the ground.
His lips pressed against yours again, and in the heat of the kiss, his rough hand slid up to your chin. Gently but firmly, he parted your lips and slowly slipped two long, hot fingers into your mouth. A soft, stifled moan escaped your throat as you felt his fingers against your tongue and Soldier Boy let out a low, satisfied growl.
While his lips continued to bewitch you, his fingers began to play slowly and rhythmically inside your mouth, grazing the wet walls and your tongue.
His other, free hand sprang into action immediately. His palm gripped the fabric of your jeans firmly, and with a practiced motion, he yanked them down from your hips to your ankles, leaving you completely exposed amidst the blankets. The sudden touch of cool air was instantly followed by searing heat. His thick thumb pressed against your thin, lacey underwear, tracing slow circles as he began to massage your clit.
Even through the sheer fabric, you could feel the heat of his hand — a warmth that seemed to soak the material in moments. Soldier Boy saw the flash of pleasure in your eyes, and a satisfied half-smile played at the corner of his mouth. He didn't prolong the teasing as he slid his fingers gently beneath the edge of your panties and firmly drove two long, hot fingers deep into your tight, throbbing cunt.
A stifled moan tore from your throat, right against the fingers buried in your mouth as the sudden, deep fullness coursed through your body. The silence of the room was instantly shattered by the loud, ragged moan you couldn't hold back.
Soldier Boy loved the sound of your voice. Seeing this confident, elegant Playboy girl completely lose control in his hands turned him on to the breaking point. He began moving his fingers rhythmically inside you, deeper and more roughly, while his thumb relentlessly and precisely dictated the pace of pleasure against your clit.
Your hips instinctively lifted off the mattress, pressing tight against his hand, as your voice echoed off the walls of the luxury suite. Soldier Boy looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire.
“That’s it, doll... let me hear it. I told you you were completely real,” he growled hoarsely, as his fingers shifted to an even faster, more demanding rhythm inside you. “G’na cum on daddy’s fingers, yeah?”
Soldier Boy had no intention of slowing down, your uninhibited moans stripped away every last shred of his self-control. The knowledge that you were losing your mind in his hands filled him with a raw satisfaction he hadn't felt in years.
“Yeah, let go f’ me, just like that... Lemme hear you,” he growled hoarsely, words growing more slurred as he himself was getting lost in the moment.
His fingers drove even deeper into your drenched cunt. His pace turned relentless and breathlessly fast, and he gave you no time to rest or catch your breath. With every upward thrust, his thumb rubbed hard and with pinpoint precision against your taut clit, knowing exactly how to drive you over the edge.
Your body went completely rigid beneath the covers. You clung desperately to his broad shoulders, your fingernails nearly digging into his skin, while your hips jerked upward, pressing tight against his heavy palm. The moans breaking the silence of the room grew higher and more ragged as waves of pleasure washed over your mind.
“Please... Soldier Boy... Sir, please…” the broken, audible plea escaped your lips, and the man’s eyes flashed triumphantly in the darkness.
“Can't catch your breath, huh?” he whispered with a smirk, his fingers shifting into a final, wild speed.
That was the final blow. Your walls clenched convulsively around his fingers as your first orgasm erupted from your body. A loud, drawn-out scream tore from your throat and your head fell back against the pillow, while your hips shuddered helplessly beneath his touch.
Soldier Boy kept his fingers inside, savoring every pulse as your body continued to shudder in the wake of the climax. He gazed down at your panting, exhausted and limp form, his own chest heaving. Slowly, he withdrew his hand, cleaning off his moisture-slicked fingers with his mouth, savoring your taste, before his eyes dropped to the area between your legs — still throbbing — and then to his own fully aroused cock.
“Right…” he panted, using his knees to spread your thighs even wider as he settled over you. “That warm-up was perfect. My turn to play now.”
A deep growl tore from Soldier Boy’s throat as he gazed at your still-trembling, heaving body on the bed. He wasted no time. With one decisive motion, he gripped his straining, hot cock and slapped it against your most cunt. The wet sound of flesh meeting flesh filled the room, and you hissed involuntarily at the sudden stimulation.
Yet, before you could fully process the move, Soldier Boy’s massive hands clamped around your hips. He seized you with raw force and, in an effortless motion, flipped you onto your stomach amidst the silky blankets. Your hair tumbled into your face from the sudden shift in position, but the man gave you no time to recover.
He moved instantly to follow you, pressing his heavy body against yours and pinning you to the mattress. He firmly forced your thighs apart with his knees, then gripped your hips and lifted them high, putting you into a position of perfect vulnerability before him. You felt the pounding beat of his chest against your back and his hot breath on your neck, while his throbbing cock strained right against your drenched, pulsing entrance.
You buried your face in the pillow, your hands clutching the sheets in a white-knuckled grip, and loud, stifled moans instantly filled the room. Every inch of your body burned with anticipation. Your most sensitive spot was still throbbing from your previous orgasm, and the knowledge that Soldier Boy was hard and ready right behind you turned into an almost unbearable, sweet torment.
“Please... Please, sir…” your voice broke free against the mattress, battering his self-control with urgency. But that was exactly what Soldier Boy wanted. He wanted to hear you beg.
A low laugh vibrated in the chest. He prolonged the teasing, slowly dragging the tip of his cock across your slick opening. He grazed it again and again, applying gentle pressure, just enough to drive you mad before pulling away.
Your hips moved instinctively, desperately, against his heavy palms, chasing his touch, but he held your pelvis firmly, refusing to relinquish control.
“Patience, doll. I told you, tis’ my game now,” he whispered right into your ear, his breath trailed down your neck as his straining length slid once more across your sensitive cunt, coaxing another loud moan from your throat.
His hands dug into the flesh of your hips, anchoring you in place, and with a single deep thrust, he drove himself fully inside you. A sharp, drawn-out scream tore from your throat as the shock of sudden fullness washed over your body in a wave. Soldier Boy thrust to the very hilt, his size and power stretched your tight, throbbing cunt to the limit, practically pinning you to the mattress.
He braced his weight beside your head, the veins in his neck bulging like thick cords as your body clamped down around his length. He drew a deep breath, his eyes dark and wild with satisfaction as he looked down at your trembling, fully exposed form.
“God...fuck’s sake, doll... so tight,” he growled, his voice so hoarse it was almost painful; then, without giving you a moment to adjust, he slowly pulled back and began his first thrusts.
You gripped the soft pillows so hard your knuckles turned white. Every time his hips slammed against your backside with a loud smack, loud moans tore from your throat into the pillows. Your tight, hot walls clung convulsively to his throbbing length, yet his rhythm left no time for respite. The pace was relentless, and suffocatingly good.
Your hips instinctively fought back against his force, pressing tight against his body with every thrust, a sensation that only drove him wilder. You felt the hardness of his thighs slamming against yours, his ragged breathing against your back.
“That’s it, doll…” he rasped, his hands digging even deeper into the flesh of your hips as he dictated the pace. “Yeah... just like that.”
He could feel you gripping and pulsing around him at every thrust that it pushed his self-control to the absolute limit. He didn’t want to finish from behind, he wanted to see your eyes, to see that captivating gaze that had drawn him to summon you in the first place.
With a single sudden yet careful movement — taking care that his super-strength didn’t harm you — he firmly turned you onto your back amidst the silk of the mattress, holding you by your hair and hips, all without ever withdrawing from you.
By the time you snapped back to reality, Soldier Boy was already towering over you. He braced his massive, muscular arms on either side of your head, while his eyes bored into yours, dark and almost feral.
“Look at me, babydoll,” he growled in a tone so deep and raspy it made your chest vibrate. The moment your eyes met, his hips began to move. With every thrust, his full length and weight bore down on you, his gaze locked on yours, piercing straight into your soul.
Your moans echoed rawly through the room as your hands clutched desperately at his broad, muscular shoulders while your hips jerked uncontrollably toward him with every thrust. The walls within you clamped down tightly around his pulsing length as the unbearable waves of a second, all-consuming orgasm began to build in your body.
“God, sir… I’m…” you screamed into his mouth, and your insides convulsed with brutal force from the orgasm, tightly trapping his cock.
That was the final stroke for him. Soldier Boy’s eyes widened, and an animalistic growl tore from his throat. His body went rigid as he drove his hips deep into you until the very last moment, his thick cum surging in waves into your pulsing core. His head dropped against your neck as his body surrendered to an overwhelming climax the likes of which he hadn't felt in forty years.
For long seconds, the silence of the luxury suite was filled only by the sound of your loud, ragged breathing and the friction of your skin clinging together. Soldier Boy slowly exhaled, keeping his weight pressed against you as if he had no intention of ever letting you go.
Finally, with a deep, satisfied sigh, he slowly pushed himself up, resting on his forearms. He settled comfortably beside you on the bed, tucking one massive arm beneath his head while casually pulling your waist toward him with the other, as if your presence there were the most natural thing in the world.
His gaze swept over your disheveled hair and flushed skin before locking directly onto your eyes. The frenzy that had been there before had vanished completely from his blue eyes, replaced by that cocky half-smile, the one so familiar from magazine covers and old TV footage.
“Well…” he finally spoke, his voice a deep rumble in the quiet room as his thumb began lazily tracing circles on the soft skin of your hip. “I have to say, sweetheart... Vought actually managed to make at least one good decision this miserable century.”
He had clearly let off steam; all his earlier tension and frustration with the modern world had evaporated over the past hour.
“I mean it,” he continued, leaning closer until the corner of his mouth all but grazed your ear. “If that poor excuse for a woman, Ashley, handled things this way every time I raised my voice, I might actually come to like this place. Your magazine didn't lie. You’re the real deal. And believe me, I know quality when I see it.”
He rolled onto his back with a casual air, staring up at the ceiling, yet his hand remained on your waist, a clear sign that he had no intention of letting you go anywhere for the rest of the night.
The last thing Mark Meachum expects is a workplace crush. So, needless to say, life blesses him with one. the only problem is, she seems to be way too close with somebody else already — but Mark is willing to go to any length to break them up.
pairing: mark meachum x fem!reader
warnings/tags: age gap (reader is +18) , dilf era jensen , workplace , obsessive mark meachum, older man younger woman , social media stalking , positive ending , questionable morals
inspo credits: soldierboyscoke on tiktok
word count: 6.7k
author’s note: i keep seeing these jensen scenario videos and oh my god bruh i feel so tempted to write some oneshot based on them its crazy… huge shoutout to the people over on tiktok who encouraged me to write this, i love u guys!! title from that one song in the obsession (2025) soundtrack, i love this song sm!! enjoy!! xoxo
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Working as a detective has its perks — at least for Mark Meachum.
He’s had less field work coming his way lately, spending more time loitering around the office instead, putting more effort into paperwork. Or at least he would be putting more effort into that paperwork, if he could focus on the stack of sheets dumped on his desk. But of course HR just recently hired fresh meat, and of course they had to seat her right where Mark could get glimpses of her every time he glanced up from his desk.
Pretty, young clerk who just transferred here, so caught up in whatever work your boss threw at you that never once did you notice the watchful eyes of Mark being glued onto you, or you just did an insanely good job ignoring it.
He’s been eyeing you for a while now, ever since he noticed that the cubicle that’s been sitting empty for months by now finally got a new inhabitant. When he first saw that somebody’s bag and papers were resting there, he just nodded to himself, accepting that he just got a new coworker, shuffling over to his own desk — which he barely used, considering that he preferred to be out on the field, and was doing an awfully good job at that.
The turn came when he glanced up at the sound of heels clicking, eyes drifting over to the direction of the sound. Sure enough, his eyes lock onto the young, neatly dressed — presumably clerk or secretary — woman, who just so happens to be heading right towards him. She comes to a halt right in front of Mark’s table, placing an ashy brown document folder with the utmost care.
“Agent Blythe sent this. He said you should go over this as soon as you can,” she spoke up, tone quiet, as if she was scared that Mark was going to bite. No, that was the last thing he would do — unless she asked him to.
Mark nodded along, eyes slowly wandering from the document up to the woman, assessing as much about her as he could. Definitely younger than him, and definitely new here.
“Thank you,” Mark pressed out after the realization that she’s been waiting for some kind of response from him dawns on his suddenly lovestruck brain. Shooting him a weak smile, she pivots, and much to Mark’s surprise, plops down into the seat he previously eyed.
Ever since then, he’s been keeping his eye more on you, the newcomer, than on the assigned paperwork. In a way, he found your constant focus charming, his eyes studying the curves of your face and body as much as he could.
Hours turned into days, days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into a month. One month of silent admiration, and Mark Meachum hasn’t made any moves. It was weird, considering that it was him out of all people. If anybody, he was the one who hesitated the least when it came to picking up women. Perhaps that was the reason why nobody ever really registered that his “spacing out” had more behind it.
His co-workers would sometimes take notice of how his eyes tended to wander over to you, said co-workers just watching with furrowed brows before Mark’s attention shifted back onto them and onto the mission, paperwork, or meeting topic at hand. Unbeknownst to them, even on the smaller field missions he was assigned to, his mind was still revolving around the woman in the office.
He woke up, and his first thought was you, which bag charm you’d pick today, how you’d do your hair, which plain white dress shirt you’ll wear — because despite his age, his eyes were still good enough to pinpoint that each shirt, despite looking the same at first glance, was a bit different. He had enough time to observe, that was for sure. Mark was, in a way, living his best life at the office.
Until he wasn’t.
You spent less of your breaks at the coffee machine, and more looming over the desk of some scrawny guy, just two desks away from yours. When you did in fact spend your break at that damned coffee machine, you did it with the same scrawny guy. Mark tried to reassure himself that you two were talking about business, some task you two had to work together on, but the more he watched you two laugh together, the less convincing that alibi sounded to him.
It didn’t help that one time, when both him, you, and your alleged friend were on coffee break at the same time, while Mark was leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room, a coworker of his came up to him, noticing as his eyes were fixed on you, and out of the blue just said “They’re so cute together, aren’t they?”. He had the audacity to smile while saying this, too, Mark involuntarily frowning, both at the fact that this heavily implied that you and that dude were dating, and that this coworker of his seemingly approved.
No, they’re not cute, Mark wanted to retort, only to stop himself at the last second, gripping the to-go cup just a bit harder instead.
Now, rumors say you two are dating. Does Mark like that? Absolutely not.
So, after listening to somebody raving on about how you and this twink are the cutest couple at the office, he pushes himself up from his desk with a sigh, deciding that it’s time to confront you. Not in a “What the fuck is going on?” way, but more in a “Small talk, soft smiles, discreet questions” kind of way.
Catching you alone proved to be a harder task than expected, that guy whose guts he despised always lingering just a step away from you.
So, when he finally saw you alone at the coffee machine — your regular spot by now, paying it a visit way too often —, he pounced on the chance.
The coffee machine emits a low, rumbling sound as it releases hot steam, while the paper cup slowly fills up. The noise from the hallway fades slightly around you, marking your first moment of calm since the morning rush.
A shadow falls across the machine, and you sense a presence beside you. It isn’t your usual colleague, you would recognize his footsteps from a distance. Shooting a sly glance in that direction you’re surprised to see Mark Meachum, standing next to you with an air of complete ease, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets.
"I was starting to think you’d bought a season pass for this machine," he says, his voice carrying that familiar deep, slightly husky tone as a faint, small smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "Whenever I look up from my papers, I either see you here, or..." he pauses for a moment, feigning thought as his eyes sweep over you in a flash, lingering on the shirt you’re wearing today, "...or your companion."
He leans in a little closer, as if about to share a confidential secret, though his body language suggests he is flirting rather than discussing official business.
"I’ve heard from the others that you’ve been doing some serious teamwork lately. Do you really get along as well as the rumors say, dating, according to them, or did a shared caffeine addiction bring you together?"
“Oh, um,” you stammer for a second, taken aback by his question. You could feel your face burning up as he stared you down, a calm smirk plastered across his face as he awaited your response. “No point in lying to a detective, huh,” you muster up. “I didn’t know it was… this public. And obvious.”
Of course it’s obvious, that twink’s following you like a lost puppy, Mark thought, although kept it to himself and kept his facade.
“But… yeah, we’re… together,” you finally press out, eyes darting over to your coffee cup in a weak attempt to avoid his piercing gaze.
“Are you happily together, or just... together?” he asks, his voice deliberately playful, as if the question were merely part of typical, teasing office banter. Inside, however, every nerve of his strained.
“I’m… really happy with him, actually,” you nervously chuckle, still trying your best to avoid having to look him in the eye.
Mark feels as though he’s been punched in the gut. The professional detective, who has always managed to talk his way out of any situation, suddenly feels defenseless before the girl standing by the counter.
“Then... I suppose I should offer my congratulations,” he says finally, and for once, all mockery or flirtatiousness vanishes from his voice, replaced by a quiet, slightly weary note of acknowledgment. “That sort of thing is rare in this house. I hope he takes good care of you. Because if he doesn’t, I’ll be forced to have a word with him... on a strictly professional basis, of course.”
Mark watches in silence as that kind, understanding smile flits across your face. Oh, how it melted his heart. You don’t take offense at his remark, nor do you play along, you simply... gently close the subject.
As you turn and walk down the hallway, paper cup in hand, the heels of your shoes click rhythmically against the stone — just as they did that very first day you set that folder down in his office.
He doesn’t move right away. He stays there by the coffee machine, leaning against the wall, his gaze following your figure until you turn behind the partitions and back into your own domain.
The noise of the corridor returns, and colleagues bustle back and forth, yet the image of your eyes lighting up with happiness as you spoke about him — that other guy — still lingers in Mark’s mind.
Finally, with a deep, stifled sigh, he pushes himself away from the wall and heads toward his own desk. He doesn’t look at you as he sits down, but his movements are heavier than usual. The stack of papers is still waiting for him on his desk — the very work he had been using as the perfect excuse to stay close to you.
He makes sure to stalk all your social media that same night.
He feels like a teenage girl for doing so, but desperate times require desperate measures, and tonight just so happened to be a desperate night.
Still, he had an advantage that those teenagers didn’t — his career. Of course, it wasn’t the most ethical use of his tools as a detective, but something had to be done. It only helped him that you worked right where he did, which put your name in the company’s files, which he could access. Birthday, phone number, full name, birthplace, every basic thing he could’ve asked for, right under his fingertips.
Mark made sure to check in on your more personal details too, taking over to Instagram — finding it through a software that was able to connect every social media account to a phone number or other personal info you’ve given to make the account.
The more he found out about you, the more enamored he felt towards you. You seemed just like he thought you’d be, Mark even cracking a few faint smiles as he went through your posts and stories. They revealed just about anything about you. People you’re friends with, hobbies, interests, places you frequented, everything he needed to get a grasp on you and your habits.
Suddenly, his smile faded. Scrolling through your highlights, the screen flashes to a picture of you and the twink he oh-so-despited. In the picture were you two, with you planting a kiss on his cheek.
Oh, how much Mark would’ve paid just to be in that guy’s spot! That twink looked awful next to you, it was like putting a rat and a supermodel side by side, him being the rat of course. Oddly enough, you seem happy. Keyword, seem.
That guy probably doesn’t even know how to take you on a date, stifled behind that desk all day, hunched over like a caveman. He’s the most regular looking regular dude in existence. He probably can’t even hold his weight up when he’s above you in bed! He probably makes you do all the work!
You deserve better than that, that’s for sure. Somebody who knows exactly how to work their fingers and mouth on your body, somebody who actually makes you feel good during sex. Somebody who actually pays attention to you, somebody who takes you on proper dates, somebody who actually cares about you. Surprisingly enough, the description seemed to fit somebody called Mark Meachum.
Alright, it’s his dirt for not not doing anything back when he could’ve, but still, this entire situation felt like the universe just majorly fucked him over. Of course the worst guy gets the best girl. It felt like such a joke.
What did you see in him anyway? Definitely not his looks, that was for sure. Was he that funny? Mark is funny too, why not choose him? And he’s handsome too, and could totally provide everything you could ever ask for for you! From good meals to gifts to love and comfort to a home to good sex, he’s got it all! One word from you, and he’s yours!
But as long as that dude’s in the way…
Mark crafted his masterplan. He’d do whatever needed to be done, and already had a few ideas. First, he needs the guy to lose his shit. It didn’t matter why or over what, he just needed him over the edge, shouting, ready to land a hit on anybody. Women hate abusive men, and the moment this guy snaps, you could have a perfectly good reason to leave his ass. Bonus points if it happens with Mark present, giving him a perfect chance to swoop in, be the hero, and save the day. Chicks dig heroes, no?
The detective’s mind, which spends the day unraveling a web of crimes, now begins to weave a very different kind of web at night. Unethical? Who cares about ethics when your happiness is at stake with a man who probably can’t even afford to buy you a decent dinner, let alone treat you like a queen? Mark knows exactly what you need: attention, a real man who will protect you, who knows how to touch you, and with whom you never have to shrink away in fear.
If the guy makes a scene, starts screaming in the middle of the office, or — better yet — raises a hand against someone... you leave him immediately. And who will be there to help you up, to calm you down, to form a shield between you and the world with his broad shoulders? Mark Meachum.
The next morning, Mark walks into the office a completely different man. Gone is the weary, disillusioned man of the day before. He looks elegant — well-shaven, his shirt straining against his broad shoulders — and his confidence practically vibrates in the air.
As he passes your cubicle, he doesn’t stop, but for a split second, he flashes that deep, knowing gaze at you, the kind that stirs something deep inside you. Then, his eyes slowly drift toward the guy sitting two desks away. A faint, predatory smile, almost imperceptible, touches Mark’s lips.
Throughout the morning, Mark begins to execute the first phase: applying subtle psychological pressure.
When the guy goes out to the photocopier, Mark "accidentally" happens to be right there. He doesn't speak to him but steps up beside him in the narrow corridor, using his physical size to tower over him. When the guy finishes with the papers, Mark blocks his path for a moment before finally stepping aside with a cocky, condescending half-smile.
Later, in the communal kitchen, just as the guy is standing by the microwave, Mark walks in chatting with an agent and deliberately remarks loudly.
"…Yeah, some people just aren't cut out for field work. You get those typical desk-bound rodents who’d crumble if they ever faced a real problem. It’s a good thing they handle the paperwork for us, at least, right?"
He sees the guy’s shoulders tense up and his neck start to flush with anger, yet he holds his tongue. Mark mentally chalks up a point for himself. The office gossip and subtle teasing have begun.
Every time you walk past Mark, he is deliberately kind and attentive, offering a small compliment about your hair or your shirt—just enough to make your boyfriend, who is watching you from afar, increasingly agitated and jealous. Mark knows exactly what he’s doing: he is slowly, systematically injecting poison into your relationship, waiting for the moment the guy finally snaps from jealousy.
A few days later, the perfect opportunity arises. There’s an afternoon office meeting attended by both your department and the detectives. As it happens, your boyfriend is the one giving the presentation. He’s visibly nervous, his hand trembling slightly as he holds the laser pointer.
Mark sits at the far end of the conference table, leaning back comfortably and twirling a pen between his fingers. He looks bored, yet he is watching you out of the corner of his eye, observing the way you smile encouragingly at your friend. That smile is the final straw for him.
The moment has come. When the guy finishes his talk and asks if there are any questions, Mark slowly sets down his pen and straightens up.
“I have a question, if you don’t mind,” Mark speaks up. His voice is soft, yet it carries an edge. “The data on the slide looks good. But what’s the plan if things don’t go according to script in the real world? Because this strategy is... cowardly, to put it mildly. It’s like someone is afraid to get their hands dirty. Are you sure you can handle a real crisis, or when trouble hits, would you rather just hand the job over to the grown-ups?”
The air in the room freezes. Your boyfriend’s face goes stark white, then flushes a fiery red. He grips his notebook so hard his knuckles turn white. He knows perfectly well that Mark isn’t criticizing the presentation, but him — as a man — and doing it right in front of you and the entire office.
The guy’s throat is visibly going dry as he swallows hard and practically drives the laser pointer into the tabletop to hide his trembling hand. Mark’s mocking, confident gaze is practically burning his skin, yet he doesn’t dare lash out with the bosses present.
"The strategy... is based on protocol, Detective Meachum," the guy manages to choke out, his voice an octave higher than it should be. "But thanks for the observation."
Mark acknowledges the reply with nothing more than a nonchalant, barely perceptible nod. He doesn’t need to do anything else. He successfully castrated the guy’s self-esteem right there in the office.
As you leave the meeting room, your friend practically strides ahead down the hallway, not even waiting for you. When you catch up with him in the small, secluded photocopy room next to your department, it’s immediately apparent that their pent-up anger and humiliation is about to erupt.
The moment the door shuts out the outside world, he turns to you, their face still flushed with tension.
"What the hell was that?" he demands, trying to keep his voice low but trembling with rage. "Did you see what he did? He made a fool of me in front of the entire management! And you? You just sat there! You didn't say a word in my defense!"
"Please, calm down, it’s just work, he had a logical question, and—" you try to soothe them, but your words only add fuel to the fire.
“Don’t tell me it’s just work!” he snaps, brushing off your attempt to get closer with an angry wave of his hand. “Meachum’s been circling you like a vulture for weeks! By the coffee machine, in the hallway... He’s always right there wherever you are. And you actually encourage him with that sweet little smile of yours! You think I don’t see it? You think I’m blind?! Why don’t you just tell him to get lost? Or maybe you like having a ‘real’ detective hovering around you, not some ‘desk-bound rodent,’ which is what he called me?!”
His tone is harsh, accusatory, and unfair. He’s speaking to you in a way you’ve never heard before, and jealousy is completely distorting his behavior. In short, everything is going according to plan.
Feigning boredom but actually on tenterhooks, Mark walks down the corridor past the photocopier room, carrying an empty binder as if he has business there. The door doesn't close quite right, so every word of the heated argument spilling out reaches his ears clearly. Mark stops a few paces from the door, leans back against the wall, and a triumphant gleam lights up his dark eyes. His plan is working perfectly. The guy is digging his own grave right now.
The tension is almost palpable in the cramped air, thick with the smell of photocopier toner. You stand there, stunned, facing your partner, whose eyes are now completely devoid of the gentle, familiar warmth that made you fall for them in the first place.
"That’s not true!" you say, raising your voice to break through their wall of anger while holding your hands up defensively. "Mark is just a colleague, nothing more!” Ouch, that stings Mark a bit, overhearing this too. “Yes, we ran into each other by the coffee machine, but I was polite because I work here and don’t want to make enemies. You think I’m encouraging him? I chose you, I’m with you!"
Well, not for long, Mark silently smirks to himself.
"Oh, sure, polite!" the guy snaps, a hysterical, bitter half-smile twisting his face. He steps closer, invading your personal space, and jabs his index finger angrily toward your chest, though he doesn't actually touch you. "I saw the way he looked at you in the conference room! And you just take it. Because you like the attention, right? You like having some big, armed macho guy checking you out in the hallway! You turn his head, and then you’re surprised when he comes after me in front of the bosses? Did he do it because of me? Hell no! Because of you! Because he thinks he can have you!"
Damn fucking right.
"Stop it, please, you’re being paranoid!" you say, shaking your head. You feel a hot sting in your eyes born of helplessness and disappointment, and the effort to hold back tears makes your throat tighten. "I didn't do anything. Why are you blaming me because a detective was a jerk to you?"
"Because you don't stand up for me!" the guy shouts — now having almost completely lost his self-control — and slams his fist onto the top of the photocopier in a rage. The plastic cracks with a loud snap, and the papers in the tray shudder. "You think I’m a pathetic coward, just like he does, don’t you?! Just because I don’t play the tough guy!"
Outside, in the dim light of the corridor, Mark’s face remains motionless, but his body goes rigid. Hearing the sound of the fist slamming against the plastic machine, his eyes narrow, and he grips the binder in his hand so tightly that the cardboard begins to creak. The guy has crossed a line. The physical aggression—even if directed only at an object—provides the perfect pretext.
Mark slowly lets go of the wall. His steps are heavy and purposeful as he heads toward the door of the photocopier room, in no rush. He knows the tension is reaching its peak, and that his arrival will be like a lightning strike on a gunpowder barrel.
Mark presses down the door handle with a slow movement, and the door swings open quietly. He doesn’t burst in or shout, he simply steps into the cramped room, bringing with him that calm. His eyes slowly sweep the room: the papers still fluttering on the photocopier, your friend’s clenched fist, and finally you, standing in the corner and fighting back tears.
Mark’s face is perfectly impassive, as if he had no idea what was actually going on here — or that he was the one who had triggered this whole avalanche.
"What’s all this racket in here?" he asks, his voice deep and unhurried. "You can hear the shouting all the way down the hall."
He takes a step forward with his hands in his pockets, a movement so natural it looks as if he had simply come for some copy paper, yet his positioning instantly becomes strategic as he plants himself precisely between the two of you, physically cutting the dude off from you.
With his broad shoulders, he almost completely blocks the guy from your view, offering you protection while fixing his dark gaze directly on your friend.
Shock quickly gives way to helpless rage on the guy’s face when he realizes Mark walked in at the exact moment he had completely lost his composure. He tries to straighten up so he doesn't look so small next to Mark, forcing a mocking, trembling half-smile onto his face.
"What is it, Meachum? Is the noise bothering your detective ears?" he snaps back, his voice tense yet striving for confidence. "Or did you just find another excuse to stick your nose where it doesn't belong? This is a private conversation. So get back to your donuts and stop snooping around."
Not a single muscle twitches in Mark’s face at the pathetic insult. He doesn't raise his voice or take the bait. Instead, he simply looks the guy up and down slowly — as if studying an irritating but completely harmless insect — before turning his head away with a deep, weary sigh. He acts as though the guy’s attempt at intimidation isn't even worth a word. Probably because yeah, it wasn’t.
“Grown adults don’t go around slamming office equipment just because they don’t get what they want,” Mark remarks coolly, his tone as condescending as if he were speaking to a tantrum-throwing toddler. “If you’re done with the show, go back to your desk. You’re safe behind the partitions.”
This total dismissal makes the guy absolutely lose it. A red haze of humiliation clouds his vision.
“Say what?!” The guy snaps, stepping forward as his hands clench into fists and his body trembles with rage, ready to do something monumentally stupid right there in the middle of the office.
"I think you should back off, buddy, and calm down," Mark says, his voice suddenly dropping an octave and turning cold as he takes a single, menacing step forward. "Before you hurt someone in here. Someone you... supposedly love."
He shoots a quick glance at you out of the corner of his eye, as if his very presence were shielding you from your boyfriend's unpredictable aggression. That gesture is the final spark that sets the situation ablaze.
"I don't give a damn!" your boyfriend screams, completely losing his head. "I don't care about you or your stupid rules! You think you're the hero here? I don't give a damn about anything!"
His voice was almost hoarse with helpless rage, his gaze darted wildly between Mark and you. And Mark stands there in your midst, and beneath the surface, every fiber of his being is celebrating. The trap has snapped shut.
Rage completely distorts your boyfriend’s features as the last spark of reason vanishes from his eyes. He can no longer bear the humiliation. With a wild roar, he swings his arm, attempting to land a blind, uncoordinated punch on Mark’s face with all his might.
You press yourself against the wall in fear, freezing at the sight of the man you once thought kind and peaceful suddenly transforming into an unpredictable, aggressive stranger.
Mark doesn’t even flinch. He moves with the reflexes of a seasoned detective, effortlessly deflecting the guy’s swinging fist with his left hand while grabbing his clothes with his right and slamming him against the side of the photocopier with such force that the machine cracks loudly under the guy's weight.
"That’s enough," Mark hisses. Hearing the commotion, the office security team immediately burst in from the hallway. There is no need to explain the situation: they see your terrified, cornered face, Mark restraining the raging man, and the damaged photocopier.
"Escort him out. And don't let him back into the building," Mark orders the security guards as he releases the guy. The guards firmly grab your friend and begin dragging him out of the room. Face flushed red and panting, the guy still tries to turn back toward you, his voice echoes hoarsely down the hallway as he is hauled toward the elevators.
“This isn’t over! You’ll regret this, you hear me? You’ll regret it!” The shouting slowly fades away at the end of the hallway, and the door to the copy room clicks softly shut. A suffocating silence suddenly settles over the room. It’s just you, trembling with shock and fear, and Mark, who slowly turns around, adjusts his shirt sleeve, and fixes his concerned gaze straight upon you.
The first part of his plan has gone perfectly: the “rodent” has been eliminated, and the hero stands right there before you.
Mark exhales slowly as he assumes his most perfect, concerned expression. Beneath the surface, every fiber of his being is celebrating. The sweet taste of triumph courses through his veins: his plan worked flawlessly, the guy completely ruined his chances with you in a single minute, and Mark is absolutely certain that, after this, you wouldn't dream of taking him back.
He takes a cautious, slow step toward you, deliberately avoiding any sudden movements so as not to startle you further. His heavy footsteps are now muffled, soft and reassuring against the floor.
"Hey... It’s okay. He’s gone, he can’t hurt you," he says, his voice suddenly softening into an incredibly gentle, deep baritone that seems to fill the cramped room.
He reaches out cautiously, and his palm rests on your shoulder with a warm, heavy weight. His movement is firm yet gentle. He gives your shoulder a soft squeeze, as if trying to impart some of his own strength to you, while his eyes search your face.
Your body is still trembling from the tension, and the sound of your friend’s screaming and the crash of the plastic machine echoes over and over in your ears.
Mark’s thumb moves gently across your shoulder, lightly smoothing your clothing as he leans closer to you. Inside, he is practically vibrating with pride, seeing how much you need him right now.
"He shouldn't have spoken to you like that. No one has the right to raise their voice at you, especially not someone who claims to care about you," Mark murmurs, a subtle note of manipulation in his voice further widening the rift between you and your now ex-boyfriend. "Come, sit down in my office. I’ll get you a glass of water, and then we’ll figure out what to do next."
The initial wave of shock is slowly receding, yet the trembling lingers in your limbs. You don’t burst into tears, you are too proud to cry in the middle of the office, and your professional composure holds you back, but your voice falters as you finally release the pent-up tension.
"I just... I can't believe it," you say, letting Mark guide you into his quieter, private office. "I mean, I just wouldn’t have expected him to… lose it, you know. I guess it turns out he wasn't who he pretended to be at all."
Mark nods silently as he places a glass of water in front of you. His face reflects sympathy, yet deep down, he is drinking in every word you say as if listening to the sweetest victory anthem.
“Many people can only keep up the act as long as things go their way,” Mark replies, sitting on the edge of his desk right across from you. “Crisis situations reveal who the real man is, and who’s just a child throwing a tantrum when backed into a corner. You deserve someone by your side who protects you, not someone you have to defend yourself against.”
As the minutes pass, the initial heavy atmosphere slowly lifts. The conversation between you becomes surprisingly light and natural. Mark deliberately steers the talk away from the drama. With subtle humor, intelligent questions, and that deep, husky voice of his, he makes you feel completely safe with him in a matter of minutes.
You find yourself sitting in his office, sharing things with him that you wouldn't normally discuss with colleagues — like your work and your hobbies — while Mark hangs on your every word as if you were the only person in the entire building.
He somehow knew a thing or two about anything and everything you brought up, much to your surprise. The perks of him thoroughly stalking you, although you didn’t know about that part yet.
Days passed, days turning into weeks. It all happened so quickly, but with good company, time passes faster, no? And good company was exactly what you got ever since the twink got fired for that stunt in the photocopy room. With him out of the way, you’ve been open to your savior — Mark Meachum.
Whenever you went for coffee breaks and he saw it, he made sure to go with you, the two of you chuckling and talking over your little cups before heading back to your desks, stealing glances and soft smiles from across the room whenever your eyes locked. Mark Meachum made going to work somehow… enjoyable?
Every day, you strutted in with the hopes that Mark would be there instead of on the field, sorting through his documents before you passed a new stack to his desk, accompanied by his regular coffee order as a gift. He thanked your efforts with that charming smile of his and praises.
Your ex-boyfriend was fired with immediate effect following the scandal, and the tension in your life vanished along with him. In its place, something far more exciting and vibrant entered your daily routine. Mark Meachum was no longer just a distant detective watching you from across the room. He became your refuge, your morning coffee companion, and honestly, the reason you’re much more particular about choosing your shirts and accessories before leaving the house these days.
For Mark, life was booming too. Since the scandal, he’s been living his best life — talking with you, laughing with you, earning your soft smile multiple times a day. It fed him like no food could. He’s been legitimate ever since the guy got fired, no stalking, no unethical business, just finding out everything about you the way normal people do. Still, he never really went past the casual flirting, not until now — but best believe, he was planning to change that soon enough, not willing to make the same mistake twice.
You walk through the door this morning with your usual rhythm, carrying Mark’s favorite black coffee and the latest batch of files Agent Blythe entrusted to you. Your heart beats a little faster when you spot his broad shoulders. He didn’t go out into the field today — he’s sitting at his desk, brow furrowed as he pores over the paperwork.
He looks up the moment he catches the sound of your footsteps. His weary face instantly softens, and that signature warm half-smile — reserved solely for you — plays at the corner of his mouth.
"I was starting to think you’d forgotten your most important client," he says in that trademark deep voice as he takes the steaming cup from you. Your fingers brush against each other for a fleeting moment, and the warmth of his skin sends a subtle shiver down your spine. "Thank you. And for the report, too... though I’m much happier about the courier than the paperwork itself."
He leans back comfortably in his chair, slowly looking you up and down.
"What do you say we swap coffee for something a bit more serious tonight?" he asks suddenly, his voice dropping slightly to make the moment feel more intimate amidst the office bustle. "I know a fantastic place just a few streets away. Great food, great wine... and no risk of Agent Blythe dumping another stack of files on us. Are you in?"
Of course you were! Mark Meachum, your workplace crush, was the one asking!
A few hours later, you find yourself in a completely different world. Soft jazz plays in the restaurant, and the dim light is broken only by the warm glow of candles on the tables. The atmosphere is intimate and elegant, yet welcoming. Mark sits across from you. He has shed his detective’s sternness and his professional mask, his white shirt sleeves are casually rolled up to the elbows, revealing his forearms, and he appears far more relaxed than he ever is at work.
Yet, his gaze has lost none of its intensity. As he swirls his glass between his fingers, his dark eyes seem to shimmer in the candlelight while he watches you. "I have to admit, the office lights don't do you justice at all," he says in a low, husky voice, a faint, satisfied smile playing on his lips. "You look beautiful tonight."
Mark is the perfect gentleman throughout dinner. He is attentive, and — what surprises you most — he seems to hit the mark perfectly with his choices of food and conversation topics, as if he knows exactly what you like. Of course, he is actually drawing on the knowledge he gathered about you that one particular night, but now he isn't doing it while staring at a screen, he gets to see firsthand how your eyes light up when talking about your favorite things.
When the waiter clears the plates, Mark suddenly reaches across the table, and his warm, heavy palm rests gently over yours. His fingers trace your skin lightly, sending a sudden wave of heat rushing through you.
“You know...” he murmurs, locking his eyes with yours, his voice suddenly turning much more serious. “From the very first day you brought in that folder from Blythe, I knew you were going to turn my life upside down. For months, I just watched you and cursed myself for not making a move sooner. But now that you’re here with me... I don’t plan on making that same mistake again.”
When Mark’s warm palm settles over your hand, your heart begins to pound wildly—not with fear this time, but with sheer excitement. You don’t pull your hand away, instead, you turn your palm upward and gently interlace your fingers with his, signaling that you want exactly what he does.
"I’m glad you didn’t make that mistake again after all," you whisper, your eyes radiating the attraction Mark has been craving for months.
The rest of the dinner feels like a hazy, continuous dream. The conversation deepens, and flirtation gives way to a serious, focused attentiveness. Mark hangs on your every word—and for the first time, he isn’t doing it as a tactic, but because you have completely captivated him.
♱ leland coyle, who is certain he's entitled to you. in his warped mind, because he caught you, survived the trials with you, or simply decided you were his, you are now his official property. if you try to remind him that you are a person with a name, he will laugh it off, tap his badge, and remind you that "the law owns the criminal, sweetheart."
♱ leland coyle, who would totally flip out if he noticed any other prime assets taking a liking to you. it's not nice to steal the property of somebody else, and coyle is for sure convinces that you're his. if he catches mother gooseberry looking at you for a second too long, or if franco makes a suggestive comment your way, coyle’s reaction is immediate and explosive.
♱ leland coyle, who won't just get mad at them, he will take his rage out on you first for "tempting" them, dragging you away by the hair or the arm while shouting about how "thieves get the chair."
♱ leland coyle, who would almost never call you by your name. to him, you're just honey, sweetheart, dollface, or even whore and good girl.
♱ leland coyle, who, because he considers you his property, conducts "inspections." he'll roughly handle you, checking your face, your neck, and your body for any marks left by others. if you look too clean, he’ll leave his own marks — rough grip bruises or the lingering smell of his cheap hair grease — just so any other prime asset, ex-pop or guard knows exactly who you belong to.
♱ leland coyle, who never uses protection. if he comes, he comes inside your pretty cunt. the only way to get him not to is to suck him off and make him release into your throat. it's not like there's much of a chance for condoms at sinyala anyway.
♱ leland coyle, who won't let as much as a drop go to waste. if he cums in your mouth, you gotta swallow it all, if he cums in your cunt, he'll make sure to stuff it right back inside you.
♱ leland coyle, who uses the lightning rod as an aphrosodiac and sex toy. the crackling of electricity and the smell of ozone turn him on anyway, but getting to use it on you? oh, you best bet he's smirking while doing so!
♱ leland coyle, who, if you are too slow to open your mouth, or if you hesitate to spread your legs when he demands it, won't hesitate to give you a very low-voltage shock. usually, he’ll press the tip of the unignited baton roughly against your clit or inner thigh, sparking it just for a second.
♱ leland coyle, who is at his most violently horny immediately after a trial where he has successfully hunted down and beaten reagents. he'll drag you into a dark supply closet, covered in sweat, dirt, and blood, demanding that you strip and take him right there on the cold floor while he is still riding his adrenaline high.
♱ leland coyle, who is a heavy chain-smoker. while you're blowing him, he will often keep a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. he finds it hot to blow thick smoke directly into your face while you are choking on him, watching you gasp for air between his thrusts.
♱ leland coyle, who never eases into it. whether it's your throat or your cunt, he enters you dry, fast, and rough. if you cry out from the friction or pain, he’ll merely muffle your mouth with his hand, whispering filthy, degrading praise like, "that's it, take it all like a good little whore. you're built for this."
♱ leland coyle, who will strip you entirely naked, but he almost never takes off his own uniform completely. he will unbutton his trousers, pull his cock out, but keep his shirt, his blood-stained badge, his boots, and his sunglasses on. seeing himself fully clothed and authoritative while you are completely bare, vulnerable, and messy underneath him reinforces his delusion of legal immunity.
♱ leland coyle, who's almost got a one-way mirror fixation. if he takes you in an observation room or a security booth, he will intentionally press your face and body flat against the glass overlooking the trials. he will pump into you from behind, holding your hips so hard he leaves black-and-blue finger marks, forcing you to watch the chaos outside. he gets off on the twisted fantasy that the murkoff scientists or other variants might be watching him claim his prize.
♱ leland coyle, who refuses to use actual lube, viewing it as "soft" or "civilian." if you are too dry or tight, he will roughly spit directly into his hand or right onto your entrance, using his fingers to aggressively shove it inside you before hammering himself in.
♱ leland coyle, who loooves it when his badge leaves a print. during rough encounters against the cold concrete walls, he likes to press his chest flat against your back or front, deliberately digging his metal murkoff/police badge into your skin. he gets a twisted sense of satisfaction seeing the red outline of it stamped into your flesh for hours afterward.
♱ leland coyle, who carries real, heavy-duty steel law enforcement handcuffs, and uses them frequently. he doesn't just use them to restrain your hands, he likes to cuff one of your wrists to his belt loop while he walks around his private quarters or security booth, forcing you to shuffle along beside him like a leashed animal while he goes about his business.
♱ leland coyle, who uses a lot of twisted legal and police jargon during sex. he’ll tell you that you are "under arrest," that your body is "evidence," or that you are serving a "life sentence" with him.
♱ leland coyle, who, if there is a cracked or dirty mirror in the room, will grab you by the hair and force your face toward it. he wants you to look at yourself while you are disheveled, crying, or covered in his sweat. he will whisper in your ear, asking you who you belong to, refusing to continue or let you go until you look yourself in the eye and say his name.
♱ leland coyle, who loves utilizing the wooden desks in the courthouse or administrative areas. he will sweep entire stacks of paperwork, clipboards, and files onto the floor with a violent swing of his arm just to clear a space, slamming you down onto the hard surface before you can even register what is happening.
♱ leland coyle, who is absolutely convinced that all of this is right. after all, the law around here is what he wants it to be, because he is the law, and if he wants you bent over, taking him from behind, then that is the law! you wouldn't go against the law, would you?
i think... i miss writing for jensen... my second coyle post in a row, i need to finish my dbf beau arlen request its dropping soon ive just been a bit busy, filling in with some quick headcanons in honor of project boneyard dropping recently.
Summer seems to be passing slow, way too slow for your liking. But to your luck, your dad's friend — who got invited over to your pool for a few beers — is more than willing to make it more interesting.
pairing: dbf! mark meachum x fem!reader
warnings/tags: age gap (reader is 18+) .ᐟ dad's best friend .ᐟ older man younger woman .ᐟ smut .ᐟ piv .ᐟ oral (f!rec) .ᐟ riding .ᐟ questionable morals
fandom: countdown (2025)
word count: 4.7k
author’s note: the only way for me to survive the summer is to try and romanticize it with bullshit like this bro i need it to be autumn already, only good thing about summer is that im on break rn... anyways i looove dilf era jensen and felt the urge to write something, enjoy!! xoxo
masterlist. ⋆𐙚 ̊. profile navigation.
Summer, oh summer. Where do I even begin…
Your love-hate relationship with the season summer never ceased to settle. In a way, you liked summer, you got more time to hang out with your friends, shops stayed open longer, and you didn’t have to walk home in complete darkness — which was your biggest drawback during winter, but that was a topic for another day.
On the other hand, though…
Your friends had other friends, they had families, and not too surprisingly, this led to you being stuck alone while they were on the other side of the world, tanning on the burning sands of a pristine beach. You tried to occupy yourself, watch every single film and show on your watchlist, take walks, windowshop, genuinely anything to escape boredom, with a very low success rate.
Today was another boring day. No friend or boyfriend to go over to, just the stillness of your own home. Or at least so you thought, until the sound of a car pulling up right to your driveway broke the monotony of your day. You certainly weren’t expecting anybody, so that raised the question of who this could be. Curiosity got the best of you as you pulled the white lace curtains apart, watching through the window as the car’s door flew open, a familiar face stepping out.
You recognized him immediately, your heart leaping as Mark Meachum, your dad’s work buddy and long-time friend, got out of his car, wearing jeans even in the scorching heat, a simple black shirt straining over his broad shoulders, a sixpack of beer in his hand.
Your dad spawns right in front of him, the two shaking hands before pulling each other closer and patting the shoulder of the other. You watch as the two converse a little before your dad motions towards the house, the two men striding up to the front door.
Your first instinct is to run, to hide back into the solace of your room before you publicly drool over a man much older than you, but let’s be real, you’ve never been the fastest in PE. Before you could reach your room, the front door’s handle clicked, rays of sunshine pouring in as Mark and your dad stepped inside.
“Baby, come say hi to Mark!” You hear your dad exclaim, your escape proving to be unsuccessful. Oh, well.
With no other choice left, you shuffle back to the living room conjoined with the kitchen. Just as expected, the two stood there, your dad idling away with something in the kitchen — fixing up a drink, knowing him —, while Mark stood patiently waiting, his beer-free hand stuffed into the pocket of his jeans.
Regardless of how noiseless your footsteps were, Mark slowly turns into your direction, a soft smile crawling onto his face at the sight.
“Hi,” he says, in that pleasant, deep tone that always makes you shiver. “I haven't seen you in ages. You’ve really grown up since the last time I was at your place.”
Somewhat a lie, he’s last seen you on your 20th birthday, and around that time he used to hang out here a lot with your dad before work got way too serious and forced them to sideline anything fun-adjacent.
Just then, your dad turns back from the kitchen counter, two glasses in hand, completely oblivious to the tension vibrating in the air.
“See, Mark? I told you this kid’s a real gem — just spends all day holed up in their room. I’m glad you finally came out! How about you grab a bottle opener from the drawer for Mark while we head out to the pool?”
“Only if you feel like coming out with us too,” Mark adds quietly, addressing his words directly to you, while your father is already heading toward the back door.
“Mark, I hope you brought your swim trunks, because the pool water is just perfect!” Your dad’s enthusiastic shout comes from far away by now, the man through the door with one foot already.
Mark chuckles softly, his voice resonating deeply through the kitchen. “I always keep a pair in the car, just in case,” he replies, turning after your father with sluggish steps, his gaze lingering on you for a moment.
“Great!” your dad says, clapping his hands together before turning to you. “Go upstairs, throw on a bikini or whatever you like and come join us. Mark and I will head out to get the beers sorted,don't take too long!”
With that, your dad steps out onto the terrace, reaching for the crate of beer. Mark follows him, but before stepping out into the sunlight, he glances back over his shoulder. His eyes flash, and he gives you a slow, meaningful smile. Oh, he really was looking forward to seeing you in a swimsuit.
As you step out the patio door in your bikini, the hot summer air instantly hits your skin. As you walk toward the pool, you hear the clinking of bottles and your father’s laughter in the distance. It eases the tension a little — but only until you get closer.
Mark and your father are already in the water, sipping cold beer while leaning on the edge of the pool. When the sound of your steps gives you away, Mark is among the first to turn his head toward you. His gaze sweeps over your bikini-clad figure, and the appreciative flash in his eyes is far hotter than the afternoon sun. He clears his throat and takes a sip, as if suddenly struck by thirst.
“Well, finally! I thought you’d fallen asleep inside,” your father teases, splashing a little water your way.
Feeling a bit self-conscious, with your arms crossed in front of you, you step up to the edge of the pool. Although the situation is slightly awkward in the company of two grown men, you try to appear relaxed as you sit on the concrete rim and dangle your legs into the pleasantly cool, shimmering water.
Mark steps closer to the corner where you’re sitting almost immediately. He rests his arms on the edge, barely a meter away from your knees. His shoulders and chest glisten with water in the sunlight, and his proximity is almost mesmerizing.
“The water’s great, you should come all the way in,” Mark says in a deep, low voice, his eyes gazing straight into your soul.
“Leave her be, Mark, she’ll get in if she wants to,” your father calls out from the other side of the pool, reaching for his phone as it rings on the sunbed. “Guys, I have to take this, it’s work calling. I’ll be right back.”
Your father climbs out of the water in one fluid motion, throws on a towel, and heads toward the house.
Mark takes a leisurely sip of his beer, then sets the bottle on the edge of the pool.
“So…” he begins thoughtfully, resting his elbows on the rim as he looks up at you. “How is your summer going? Your dad mentioned you’ve been home alone a lot lately.”
His voice is low, calm, and discreet, but his eyes tell a different story. As his gaze traces your shoulders and your neckline before meeting yours again, the truth becomes glaringly obvious to both of you, the man just as attracted to you as you are to him.
“I’m just trying to pass the time,” you reply, gently swirling the water with your legs to hide your nervousness. “Watching movies, reading... But most of my friends have gone away. It’s pretty boring.”
The corner of Mark’s mouth curls into a slight, knowing smile. He leans a little closer and lowers his voice even further, as if sharing a secret with you.
“Well, if I’d known you were this lonely, I might have dropped by to ‘visit your father’ more often. It would have been a shame to miss a sight like this.”
“Deal. You can come over anytime now, the gate’s always open,” you say casually, a cheeky smile playing on your lips. Mark’s eyes widen a bit at your boldness, and he’s just about to reply when the patio door suddenly flies open. Your dad steps out, now in street clothes, slipping his phone into his pocket with a tense look on his face.
“Mark, buddy, I’m sorry, but I have to head into the office,” your dad says irritably, twirling his car keys on his finger. “There’s some trouble with the servers, and I need to be there. Since you’ve driven all this way, don’t even think about going home! Just hang out, use the pool, have a beer. Besides, at least the kid will finally have some company.”
Mark switches instantly, the disciplined, friendly mask sliding back over his features.
“Sure, no problem. I’ll keep an eye on the house... and your daughter,” he adds, shifting the emphasis just enough so your father doesn’t notice, yet your own face instantly flushes hot.
“Great, thanks! I’ll be back in a few hours!” your father calls out, then disappears into the house with hurried steps. Moments later, his car’s engine roars to life, tires crunch and squeal on the gravel driveway, the gate closes, and a suffocating silence descends upon the house.
Home Alone, starring you and Mark Meachum. Ouh shit.
He slowly steps closer, then right between your legs in the water while you sit on the edge of the pool, his chest nearly brushing against your knees. Even though the situation is almost unbearably hot, Mark attempts some casual conversation. His voice is low as he asks about everyday things — school or your future plans — but neither of you is really paying attention to the words. You find yourself staring at him, his face, hair, broad shoulders, soaked by the pool water, while he keeps his eyes fixed on your mouth and the straps of your bikini.
“So, tell me…” Mark whispers, his hands drifting to your knees and gently stroking your skin with his thumbs. “Are you always this bold, or is it just today?”
You lean in a little closer, right up to his ear.
“Only if there’s someone here worth the boldness.” You don’t pull away after the whisper, you stay close, your gaze locked defiantly with his, your breath almost brushing against his skin.
Mark instantly picks up on the green light. He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away should you change your mind. One of his hands slides from your knee to your waist, while the other, his palm hot and damp, gently cups your chin. The distance between you vanishes. Mark’s lips press against yours softly, yet with hunger.
You instantly wrap your arms around his neck, run your fingers through the thick, slightly damp hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him closer. The kiss deepens in a heartbeat. A low, satisfied growl escapes Mark’s throat as he feels your response. His hand against your waist grows firmer, pulling you tight against him. Mark’s lips are soft yet confident, tasting of beer and summer sunlight.
When your lips part for a brief moment to catch your breath, Mark doesn’t pull away. He rests his forehead against yours — his breathing heavy and ragged, his eyes dark with desire — while his thumb gently caresses your cheek.
“God…” he whispers hoarsely, barely an inch from your lips. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
Mark slowly begins to step backward in the pool, pulling you gently but firmly into the depths with his hands gripping your waist tightly. As you slide off the concrete ledge, the cool water instantly envelops your body, yet you barely notice the chill, the heat radiating from Mark’s body overpowers everything.
Taking advantage of the water’s buoyancy, you instinctively wrap your legs around his muscular waist, pressing yourself close against him in the middle of the pool. A deep, satisfied sigh escapes Mark’s throat at your movement. Wasting not a second, he immediately claims your lips again, resuming the kiss.
Beneath the water, you feel his broad chest pressing against your bikini top and his hands sliding beneath your ass and thighs to hold you steady. Mark is lost in your touch as his tongue plays a game that is soft yet possessive, and you surrender yourself completely to his lead.
As he backs you toward the pool wall in the heat of the kiss, your back making a gentle landing against the smooth tiles, Mark breaks the kiss for a moment. His wet hair clings to his face, and his gaze is practically burning as he looks you over.
“Shit,” he whispers hoarsely, his hand gliding over your wet shoulder, careful not to leave any visible marks on your skin. “If your father knew what was going through my mind…”
As the kiss deepens again, his hands slowly move upward beneath the water. They travel from your thighs to your hips, then follow the bottom strap of your bikini to grip your waist, pressing his own body almost flush against yours.
Then, his mouth breaks away from yours and begins to wander hungrily across your face, along your jawline and down to your neck. As his hot, wet lips and tongue touch the sensitive skin of your neck, a soft gasp escapes your throat. Mark gently bites into your skin, balancing right on the edge of what feels good without risking a bruise your father might notice.
You seize the moment, gently placing your hands on his shoulders and pushing him back slightly so you can look into his eyes.
“Let's go inside…” you whisper, your voice still trembling with excitement. “Let's go in before someone sees us out here.”
Mark’s eyes gleam darkly, and he nods in agreement.
“Right, right,” he replies in a husky voice. He slowly moves with you toward the edge of the pool, then — using the water's buoyancy and his own strength — carefully lifts you up and sets you back onto the concrete rim, right back in the position where it all began. You sit on the edge with your legs still dangling in the water, while he stands before you, waist-deep in the cool water.
Before Mark climbs out to join you, he decides not to let the moment pass. His gaze sweeps over your wet thighs for a moment, and the corner of his mouth curls into a cheeky smile. With a slow, deliberate movement, he steps closer, presses his hot palms against your knees, and gently spreads your legs.
He leans down, and with his wet lips, begins to plant tiny kisses on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. Each kiss travels higher, and his hot breath scorches your skin amidst the cool droplets of water. You instinctively grip the edge of the pool as a shiver runs through your body.
You instinctively lean back, resting on your elbows, yielding to Mark, who immediately senses your body’s surrender. One of his hands settles firmly on your hip, anchoring you against the rim, while his mouth finds the edge of your bikini’s bottoms. Mark takes his time: his hot tongue and lips play gently, with torment around your most sensitive spot, wringing a soft, stifled gasp from your throat. With your free hand, you instinctively run your fingers through his hair, weaving them into the thick, wet strands, sometimes pulling him closer, other times clutching him tight as the tension mounts.
He leans down and plants one last, lingering kiss on the wet fabric of your bikini, right where your body’s throbbing the hardest. His hot breath seeps through the thin material, making you whimper involuntarily and grip the edge of the pool even tighter. Mark gently catches the edge of your bikini bottoms with his fingers and, in a single careful motion, slides them down your wet thighs, laying you completely bare.
The cool summer breeze suddenly brushes against your naked, sensitive skin, creating a sharp contrast to the stifling heat that had just been there. Mark doesn't let you feel self-conscious about your sudden vulnerability for even a second. He tosses the bottoms onto the pool deck, then firmly grips your thighs with both hands, pulling your hips right to the edge of the pool, drawing you flush against him.
He leans forward again, his tongue making direct contact with your burning spot. Your back instantly arches against the concrete, your head falls back, and your fingers tangle tightly in Mark’s wet hair, while the pool water laps softly with his rhythmic movements.
The biggest challenge is keeping quiet. You try to stifle every single moan and gasp of pleasure — pressing one hand over your mouth and sinking your teeth into your lip — because you know full well that the neighbors in the open courtyard could hear anything.
Yet your stifled, trembling sounds only inflame Mark further. You can feel his hands practically digging into your flesh with tension, while his tongue grows even bolder, even more demanding.
As his tongue and lips tirelessly work on you, his hands don't remain idle either. One hot palm presses firmly against the inner curve of your thigh, while the fingers of his other hand slowly wander toward your fully aroused, wet entrance. He caresses you slowly, teasingly, before gently sliding a single finger inside.
You whimper involuntarily at the sudden sensation of fullness, and your hips instinctively lift off the ground, craving more. Mark hears your stifled sound, and the corner of his mouth curls into a satisfied smile against your skin.
He doesn't rush a thing. Using that single finger, he begins to pleasure you inside with slow, rhythmic movements, precisely gauging the angle and pace. When he feels your inner muscles tightening around his finger and hears your breathing grow ragged, he ups the ante. With a slow, deliberate motion, he slides another finger in beside the first, stretching you and filling you even more deeply.
The synchronized interplay of his mouth and fingers creates a sensation of almost unbearable intensity. Mark knows exactly how to ramp up the pressure: his thumb stimulates your clit in a circular motion from the outside, while his fingers move inside with an increasingly rapid, confident rhythm.
Your fingers dig into his hair as waves of pleasure build within you.
“Just like that... show me how much you’re enjoying it,” Mark whispers hoarsely between movements, his hot breath washing over your skin.
Just as the tension reaches its limit and your legs tremble involuntarily against his shoulders, Mark pushes you over the edge with one final, all-consuming thrust. Waves of pleasure surge through you, hot and convulsive. A deep, stifled, sob-like sound escapes your throat as your body goes completely limp against the edge of the pool.
Mark continues to plant soft, soothing kisses on your wet skin for a few more moments as you try to stifle your ragged breathing. He slowly lifts his head, that infinitely proud smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He reaches up and uses a wet thumb to gently brush strands of hair from your face, his dark, longing gaze sweeping over your exposed lower body.
“Well, what did I tell you?” he whispers, his chest still heaving. “And that was just the beginning. Now, before someone actually hears us... let's go inside.”
As the trembling in your body begins to subside, Mark wastes no time. With a decisive movement, he pushes himself out of the pool, reaches for your wet bikini bottoms lying by the pool’s edge, presses them into your hand, and then — sliding his arms beneath your thighs and back — effortlessly lifts you up.
His wet, toned body instantly presses against your bare skin as he strides firmly from the pool toward the terrace. You can’t help yourself. Held in his arms, you wrap your hands around his neck and surrender completely to the fresh wave of desire rising within you. As he carries you across the hot concrete, you press your lips against his jaw. You cover his face with fleeting kisses, then trail down to his neck, where his skin feels almost scorching from the sun and the tension.
A deep, stifled growl escapes Mark’s throat in response to your touch. He pauses for a moment, burying your head even tighter against his shoulder as his arms tense beneath your body.
“If you keep this up, we won’t even make it to the living room,” he whispers hoarsely, kicking the heavy glass door open with his foot. The house’s cool, air-conditioned air instantly hits your wet skin, but you hardly notice it. Mark strides confidently toward the stairs with heavy steps, while you keep kissing his neck, feeling his pulse racing wildly beneath your lips.
Mark enters your bedroom and firmly kicks the door shut behind you. Here, there is no need to worry about neighbors or the outside world. He wastes no time, walking straight to the bed and laying you down on the soft mattress with incredible tenderness, yet with confidence. Your wet body seems to sink into the sheets as Mark immediately towers over you. He leaves no time for hesitation or awkwardness as his gaze sweeps over your naked lower body, and the burning desire in his eyes makes his intentions unmistakable.
His chest rises and falls violently, and his abdominal muscles glisten with sweat and pool water in the semi-darkness of the room, curtains closed but the sun still faintly shining through.
He presses his lips against yours in a long, deep kiss as if trying to drink in the heat radiating from you.
The kiss is cool yet hungry, and his ragged breathing mingles with yours. Yet, instead of letting him take full control and pin you beneath him, a sudden surge of confidence and the adrenaline pulsing through you take charge. As you kiss, you place your hands on his chest.
Mark is momentarily surprised by your assertive touch, but he doesn't resist—watching curiously to see what you have in mind. With a gentle yet firm movement, you push him away, compelling him to lie back. A knowing smile plays at the corners of Mark’s mouth as he complies: he stretches out on his back on your bed and looks up at you.
You swing your leg over his hips and confidently straddle him. Now with you on top, your bare skin comes in direct contact with his sculpted abs. Mark’s gaze sweeps over your body, and his hands rise to settle firmly on your hips, ready to follow your every move.
You smile slowly, and instead of stripping off his clothes right away, you begin to move against him with deliberate slowness. With rhythmic, circular motions of your hips, you rub yourself against the manhood straining beneath his swimming shorts. A deep, hoarse growl escapes Mark’s throat, and his abdominal muscles — and dick — go rock-hard beneath you as he struggles to maintain control.
While you torment him with your slow pace, he doesn't hold back either as his hands slide up from your hips to your back. His fingers confidently find the strap of your bikini top and undo the knot with a single, decisive movement. The wet fabric slips loosely off your shoulders, leaving your upper body completely bare. Mark’s gaze fixes hungrily and darkly on your cleavage as his palms grip your waist.
Then, you decide the moment has come for the next step. You lift yourself up slightly and, using your hands, slowly slide his shorts down, inch by inch, freeing him completely from that final barrier. Mark’s throbbing manhood presses directly against your hot, wet entrance. You wait no longer as slowly, deeply, and completely, you sink down onto him.
A stifled sound escapes you both at the sudden, stretching sensation of fullness. You arch your head back, digging your fingernails deep into his shoulders, while Mark’s hips lift instinctively off the mattress as he takes you fully.
You sit astride his hips, moving confidently up and down at your own pace, while Mark savors every moment with intent eyes. He never once tears his eyes away from your face and body as your skin presses together in the dim light. Deep, satisfied growls escape his throat again and again as he feels just how tightly and completely you envelop him. Though he has ceded control to you, his hands do not remain idle as his large, hot palms grip your hips firmly. He gently guides and assists your movements with decisive motions.
As the pace grows increasingly urgent and wild, you dig your fingernails deep into his shoulders, throw your head back, and let your loud moans freely fill the room. Grasping your hips, Mark pulls you even closer, fully supporting your movements from below as the tension building between you rushes unstoppably toward the final explosion.
Just as the tension becomes almost unbearable and you feel you are both teetering on the brink, Mark’s self-control finally snaps. He can no longer bear the passive role, his hands, gripping your hips, suddenly tense. With a single decisive motion, he seizes you and turns you over on the bed.
The next moment, you are lying on your back amidst the rumpled sheets, and he is instantly towering over you. He gives you no time to catch your breath. He spreads your thighs wide and — casting aside any trace of the earlier slowness — sets a whole new, overwhelming rhythm with deep, powerful thrusts. The mattress springs creak softly from the vigorous movement, and the wet sounds of skin meeting skin fill the silence of the bedroom.
You instinctively dig your nails into his back and wrap your legs around his waist to pull him even closer. Muffled, hoarse growls escape Mark’s throat with every thrust, and you lose yourself completely in the overwhelming pace. Waves of pleasure crash over you both in a matter of seconds, and the sudden shift to a wilder rhythm instantly pushes you over the edge.
Your body tenses and spasms beneath him as Mark buries himself deep inside you with one final thrust, following you to the peak with a loud, hoarse groan.
For long minutes, the only sound in the room is your heavy, ragged breathing. Mark doesn’t pull away immediately as he rests his full weight upon you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath against your skin, while his heart pounds wildly against your chest.
Slowly, as your heavy breathing begins to subside, Mark lifts his head. Damp strands of hair cling to his forehead, and the wild, dark hunger that had filled his eyes is replaced by a look of utter satisfaction.
He leans in closer and presses one last, soft kiss to your swollen lips before letting out a low chuckle.
“Well…” he whispers in that signature deep voice, gently tracing your cheek with his thumb. “I have to say, dropping by your dad’s place today was definitely worth it. This is easily the best summer activity I’ve ever done.”
His remark snaps you back to reality, reminding you of the most crucial factor: the time. You push lightly against his broad chest and reach for beside the bed to check your phone. You glance anxiously at the screen, worried you might have been found out, but you breathe a sigh of relief as you unlock it.
A text message from your dad actually arrived right during the scene at the pool.
"The server trouble is worse than I thought. It’ll be at least another 2–3 hours before I finish and get home. I hope Mark isn't too bored, put on a movie for him!"
You let out an involuntary laugh at the message and show the screen to Mark, who reads the lines while leaning back on one elbow. The corner of his mouth immediately quirks up into that smile that still makes you shiver. He runs his gaze over your naked body, then slides closer, smoothing a hot palm over your hip and gently pulling you against him across the sheets.
“So, he won't be home for hours…” he murmurs right into your ear as his bearded cheek grazes your neck. “What do you think, instead of watching a movie, would you be up for round two? Because I’m nowhere near finished with you yet.”
When the young, pretty Reagent Coyle once eyed appears in his trial, he makes it his mission to show who the only person in here worth going back to is.
pairing: leland coyle x fem!reagent!reader
warnings/tags: smut .ᐟ pussy inspection .ᐟ unprotected piv .ᐟ slapping .ᐟ mild choking .ᐟ uses of 'sugar', 'sweetheart', 'whore', 'honey' and coyle referring to himself as 'daddy' .ᐟ he's a bit mean. ᐟ leland coyle is his own warning .ᐟ it's a coyle oneshot what can i say
fandom: outlast trials
word count: 3.1k
author’s note: saw somebody on tiktok say that coyle fans are going to have a field day with the new voice lines and all, sadly they were right... wrote this instead of working on a request so i feel a bit bad but i wanted to get this out of my system... originally planned for this to be a short 600 or so word drabble but it wouldnt be a freaknation oneshot if it wasn't long...not proofread!! anyways enjoy!! xoxo
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There she is. His favourite Reagent.
Pickin' his trial for the second time. Third time's the charm as the saying goes, and he just can't wait for that day to come.
He's seen Reagents come and go, bloodied and battered and broken, but when you stepped into his trial... Oh, he could feel his pants strain just a bit more around his crotch. Pretty enough to be on the runway, but somehow still stuck in this hellhole. He was starting to think it was purely for his entertainment and just that only, a gracious gift from Easterman for his outstanding work.
He knew he just had to have you the moment his eyes set on your grime-soaked form down a dimly lit hall. Too bad he had to let you go when you completed the trial and left in that damned shuttle before his glove-wrapped hands could grip onto your throat.
During that trial, he's had you in his grip, multiple times actually, you just happened to fight your way out of it every. single. time.
The way your eyes glinted with fear when you glanced up at his form towering over you, your weak fingers curling around his wrist, oh, how he missed the thrill of it! And now, here you were, shaking in your boots as you tried to make sense of the maze-like prison system. He was right on your tail, don't you worry about that.
So far so good, you thought to yourself as you pulled another makeshift lever, the mechanism groaning loudly as it activated. That sound alone was enough to give away your location to a specific sergeant lurking nearby.
"Don't string me along, honey!"
Sure enough, the crackling sound of electricity filled the hall, lights flickering as he approached. Fuck. You mentally curse yourself, the mechanism, Coyle, Easterman, and everything and everybody inbetween as you sprint out of the room you were in, heading right to the nearest hiding spot for cover.
But Coyle's fast. Faster than some of the other Prime Assets you've encountered.
Unfortunately for you, he turns the corner just in time to see you pull the storage closet's door on yourself, a smug grin creeping onto his face. His steps deliberately slow down, not to fool you --- because his lightning rod was still hella loud ---, but to play along a little. If you want to play predator and prey, then so be it, he's into that shit anyway.
"Sneaked off just when I was getting kinda worked up... You a little shy, ain't you? Go 'n hide if that's what turns you on!"
He saunters right where you were peeking out from behind the rigid metal, sighing theatrically as he walks right past.
A wave of relief washes over you at the sight, thanking the lords above for letting you avert him just this once. Perhaps too early to thank anybody?
Coyle suddenly turns back, slamming the closet door open, his gloved hand immediately gripping your shirt, and before you could even process what was happening, he plunged his lightning rod right into your stomach.
You feel your legs give in, buckling under you as a hiss leaves your lips. Coyle on the other hand, is seething with a weird mix of pride and joy. You, in front of him, barely breathing, incapacitated.
"Looks like christmas came early this year," he mutters, grinning, as he grips your collar, tugging at it harshly once as he began to drag your body behind himself, your clothes and hair seeping in the blood and dirt that soaked the floor. Your eyelids grew heavy, a pained whimper escaping you before the world turned dark.
When you came to, the setting had changed. It was still the prison, sure, but it looked like a medical room of sorts, if you weren't wrong. You feel as Coyle lets go of your collar, now having tossed you onto the awfully ramshackle reclining chair. He takes a slow step back, his eyes scanning your form as if he was inspecting his masterpiece.
"Somebody's awake," he murmurs, a lit cigarette flashing in orange between his lips, the embers and ash falling to the ground. "Y'know how long I've been waiting for this? You're one slippery whore, I'll give you that, gettin' away from me like that."
He leisurely saunters closer, his hands resting on his belt.
"You been missin' for some weeks now, doin' fuck knows what with them others. Them other Assets good? Fancy them?"
No, you did not. One was worse than the other, all leaving you with wounds that you honestly have no idea how you survived, spiced with five heart attacks per minute. In short, no.
Coyle's line of patience was a thin one. Seeing that you didn't plan on answering, he just let out a sigh, clicking his tounge as he took a step closer to where you sprawled, your body feeling heavy and like you could barely move it.
"I know you met 'em. And you know I need you to speak when spoken to. Last chance, honey," he groans, gloved hands pushing your thighs apart as he took his stance right between your legs. "Been down and dirty with any of 'em?"
Your brows furrow at his question. Knowning him, it wasn't all that surprising, assuming from the obscenities he kept shouting your way when pursuing you before. Still, why's he so up in this business? And why the fuck would he assume that you slept with any of the Assets?
Swallowing hard, you shake your head sideways.
"Use your words, sugar," he warns, tone dangerously low.
"I... haven't, I swear," you press out. The corner of Coyle's mouth curls into a proud smirk. He's glad to see you starting to play by his rules.
"Swear?"
You thought this was getting ridiculous. The question, the way he stared down at you, the way you felt your cunt pulse at how close he was to it. You were scard, you hated the man, so why the hell were you aroused by this shit?
Coyle's still as smug and awful as ever. Now with how weak you are, you really are all his. His to play with, his to mistreat. It's like having a doll, all for himself. Property of Leland Coyle. And hell, none of the other Prime Assets can do anything about it.
When you nod along, saying you totally swear (which is the truth, may I add), he just grins even harder. Why wouldn't he, when everything is going according to plan?
"Y'know, all you Reagents do is fuck me over... Ya think I'd trust a word that comes outta ya pretty lips?"
Fair point. But if he won't listen, then what can he—
Your breath hitches as he lowers himself, squatting down, his fingers slowly hooking into your pants. What the—
"Better if I check it myself, ain't I right sweetheart?"
Your eyes widened, and before you could even think of a response, he firmly pulled your dirt-soaked pants right to your ankles. You felt as your breathing became increasingly ragged, watching as his eyes trailed over your exposed skin, landing on your cunt, now only your panties standing between you two. Sure enough, a shit-eating smirk appears on his face as he notices the soaked spot.
"Perverted whore..." he mutters under his breath as he runs his thumb along your clothed cunt. Your muscles contract under his touch, the cold air brushing on your skin. "Let daddy check if you've been a good girl, 'right?"
Without wasting another moment, he hooks his fingers into your underwear, pulling it just as low as he did with your pants.
His eyes set on your already, embarassingly wet cunt, a dark glint appearing in his eyes behind those glasses.
"There… Ya see what a good girl you can be when you want to?" he whispered, blowing the choking cigarette smoke straight into your face.
His fingers touched your skin with rough, methodical movements as he examined your cunt inch by inch, thumb sliding over the soft skin first. He was in no rush. He sized you up like a trophy — or a valuable yet neglected possession — that he had finally managed to lock away within his own realm.
The tip of his index and thumb slid between your folds, not deep, just enough to pull you apart for a better view. He leaned closer, as if he really knew what he was doing, and it wasn't just a cruel game of his.
"You’re clean… or at least it seems that way so far," he muttered with satisfaction, applying firm, heavy pressure with his thumb as he examined the pulsating, damp spot. "But ya know as well as I do that I can’t trust a single word you say. Reagents all lie to save their own dirty asses."
Your stifled breathing and the involuntary twitches of your body betrayed the tension raging within you, yet the complete lack of resistance gave the man exactly the illusion he desired.
"See? It’s not that hard to do as you’re told, is it sweetheart?" he whispered, his voice dripping with satisfaction and a perverse sense of pride. Finally, he dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed it slowly, almost theatrically under the heel of his boot. "Seems like ya really didn't go near those filthy bitches… You remained mine. My little doll."
His heavy breath — reeking of tobacco smoke and sweat — washed over your face. His hand paused for a moment but didn't pull away as it pressed heavily and possessively against your pubic bone, while his other hand began to slowly stroke your waist and then your hips, as if ritually marking his property once and for all.
He slowly drew his fingers away from your parted folds but kept his hand on your inner thigh, pressing heavily against your skin. He slowly straightened up, his gaze continuing to sweep over your trembling, stripped body.
"You're clean… just as you said," he murmured, his voice a blend of satisfaction and menace. He slowly reached for his waist, adjusting his heavy belt and gear, never once taking his eyes off you. "Now that we’ve cleared things up and you’ve learned the rules, it’s time to decide what happens to you next."
The fear and vulnerability within you were slowly permeated by a disconcerting thrill. No matter how hard you tried to suppress the feeling, your body reacted involuntarily to Coyle’s presence and his rough touch.
So, you didn't move. Coyle sensed the shift immediately. He wasn't a fool. When he noticed your body no longer tensing in terror but instead yielding to his gloved hand, the corner of his mouth curled even higher into a satisfied smirk.
"Well, look at that… You're starting to understand your place, ain't you?" he whispered, his voice vibrating deep and raspy over the metal chair.
He slowly pressed closer, his frame almost completely blocking out the light. His fingers — which until now had merely been exploring — now settled upon your inner thigh with far greater confidence and a sense of possession, their tips digging deep into your soft skin.
He relished the fact that you weren't fighting back, that the prey who had once fled so wildly was now quietly enduring, with a racing pulse, what was to come, even, in her own way, anticipating it.
Coyle slowly reached for his own belt, never once tearing his gaze away from your glistening cunt.
Your quiet surrender spoke volumes. You didn't move, didn't protest, you simply watched every single movement of Leland Coyle with wide eyes and bated breath.
"Just like that… Exactly how I like it," he murmured, his voice almost purring with suppressed satisfaction. He wasted no time. One hand still pressed firmly against your inner thigh while the other unfastened his heavy police belt.
The metal buckle gave way with a click, and the gear slid aside with a soft clatter. Coyle devoured the sight — your vulnerability and the way the wetness between your legs betrayed your illicit arousal.
Slowly, almost theatrically, he knelt onto the chair, positioning himself right between your parted legs. His heavy, uniformed body loomed over you, shutting out the outside world and the room's chill air. His scent enveloped you completely.
"You’re mine now, sugar. And no one's going to save you from me… though I see you don’t really want them to," he whispered right against your lips, while his rough, gloved hand slid slowly up your stomach toward your throat, ready to chain you to him.
You sought the warmth of his body, the weight of him pressing you against the metal, and that dirty advance was the final link Coyle needed.
When he felt your hips rise ever so slightly, as if inviting him in, a satisfied, almost animalistic growl tore from his throat. Behind his glasses, his eyes blazed with triumph.
"Oh, you little pervert…" he groaned as his gloved fingers tightened slightly around your throat. Not enough to choke you, but just enough to make you feel his power. "You’re panting for me like a starvin' puppy. Well, here. You’re gonna get it."
He didn't wait any longer. He forced your thighs even wider apart with his own knees, pinning you in place, while his free hand moved decisively to his trousers to free himself.
The sharp sound of the metal zipper echoed through the sterile medical room, and the next moment, you felt the throbbing reality of him pressing directly against your exposed, damp cunt.
Coyle paused for a moment at the entry, savoring the instant as every inch of your body tensed and trembled beneath him, caught between ecstasy and fear. His suffocating closeness and the grip he held on your throat completely shut out the outside world.
"Look at me, sweetheart. I want ya to see who ya belong to," he commanded, slowly thrusting his hips forward.
Your trembling gaze locked directly onto the pair of eyes behind his glasses, exactly as the sergeant demanded. By now, Coyle’s face was contorted with raw lust and the intoxication of victory.
He wanted to see the moment in your eyes when you finally broke, when your sinful desire consumed you completely. He kept you waiting no longer.
Once certain you wouldn't look away for even a second, he thrust his hips forward in one decisive and ruthless motion, forcing his way deep inside you.
At the sudden tension, your body involuntarily tensed against the chair. A stifled, sharp scream was forced from your throat, only to be instantly silenced by his gloved hand upon your neck. Coyle drove deep, reaching the very core of you.
"Oh, fuck… you’re tight, sweetheart, tight as a prison cell door," he rasped, his breath hissing through clenched teeth as his body bore down heavily on yours.
For a moment, he remained motionless deep inside you, savoring your tightness and the way your body struggled breathlessly to adjust to his size. His fingers tightened slightly around your throat, a reminder that even your breath was his to grant or withhold.
He saw the tears, the dilated pupils, and that perverse surrender that made this moment entirely his. Then, slowly but ruthlessly, he drove in the first heavy thrust.
With every heavy thrust Coyle delivered, merciless and confident, stifled whimpers escaped your throat. Your hands rose instinctively, digging your fingers into his shoulders and clutching his uniform in a desperate grip.
That reaction drove Coyle wild. The fact that you not only endured his roughness but judging by your sounds and the way your fingers clung to him, clearly craved it, fully unleashed the predator within him.
"That’s it… make some noise for me, honey... Lemme hear how much you like it," he rasped into your ear as his rhythm grew faster and more demanding.
Coyle held nothing back. With every movement, he sought to make you forget the outside world — Easterman, the other Prime Assets — leaving only him to exist for you.
The pressure on your throat and the heat surging within you made the world blur before your eyes as the climax loomed ever closer.
Coyle jerked your body with increasing intensity, almost like a wild beast, as he reached the peak of his own pleasure.
As waves of pleasure and pain washed over your body, you dug your fingernails even deeper into his shoulders. Overwhelmed, you turned your head aside, breaking eye contact to stare into the dark corner as you struggled to catch your breath.
Coyle noticed the lapse in attention instantly, and his reaction was immediate.
"Don't go shy on me now, didn't say you could look away, sugar!" he snarled angrily.
His hand whipped from your throat to your face with lightning speed, snapping your head back toward him with a sharp, stinging slap. The force of the blow made your head reel and your skin burn instantly from the pain, yet the shock and humiliation only stoked the sinful thrill rising within you.
Before you could even recover, his gloved fingers clamped roughly around your throat and chin, locking your head in a vice-like grip so that your wide, tear-filled eyes were forced to meet his triumphant gaze.
"You look at me… You keep your eyes on me the whole time 'til I’m done with you," he commanded hoarsely, his breath hissing through clenched teeth. "Fuck... Saw you that day, and knew you were put in this shithole f' me... Divine intervention, they call it."
Your body, trembling violently and racked by intense spasms, surrendered to the explosive orgasm. Your muscles clamped involuntarily around Coyle’s cock.
That overwhelming tension instantly surged through the man as well. A hoarse, almost animalistic roar tore from Coyle’s throat. His body tensed, and his gloved fingers dug hard into your throat one last time as, with a final, deepest thrust, he fully spent himself inside you. Hot, pulsating waves flooded your core, while the sergeant’s heavy, sweat-slicked body collapsed onto you, coming to rest motionless in the chair.
For long seconds, only your ragged breathing broke the silence. Coyle slowly, laboriously lifted his head. His eyes still gleamed darkly behind his glasses, but the manic rage had given way to triumph.
The corner of his mouth curled once more into that proud smirk. After all, he had achieved everything he wanted.
"See, sugar…" he panted, slowly withdrawing from you, letting the cold air touch your damp skin again. "That's what happens when you're a good girl to daddy."
