SUMMARY: After Homelander's fall, Stan Edgar pulls Soldier Boy out of the freezer for a Vought redemption campaign. His biggest obstacle? You: cynical, pill-popping podcaster with a mouth like a switchblade.
You thinks he’s a misogynistic dinosaur who needs to go back to the ice. He thinks you’re a bratty, unstable bitch who talks too much. You hate each other on sight, but in a corporate world of lies, an explosive hatred might be the only real thing left.
WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. Enemies to Lovers / Slow Burn / Soldier Boy Being an Asshole / References to DrugsImplied /Referenced Alcohol Abuse / Alcoholism / Explicit Language / Homophobic Language / Sexist Language / Reader is kinda unghinged / No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert / Post-Season/Series Finale / Reader gives zero fucks mostly of time / Reader is an extreme left-wing nihilist / Morally Grey Reader / Reader is a supe / Explicit Sexual Content / Eventual Smut / Filfthy Smut / Sex / Top Soldier Boy / Oral Sex / Penis in Vagina Sex / Mutual Pining / Masturbation / Shameless Smut / Multiple Sex Positions / Forced Proximity
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic is super self-indulgent, basically because I'm absolutely dying for Soldier Boy and also i'm kinda of ovulanting.
Things to keep in mind: It takes place after the finale / The reader is a super / Soldier Boy is a total misogynistic, racist jerk, so there's going to be strong language / The reader is a person with some mental health issues, so expect tweets about depression, medication use, and generally pretty dysfunctional behavior / Kinda of a slow burn at the beginning, but they're gonna have a lots of sex in the future / English isn’t my native language, so please forgive me if there are any mistakes. I try not to make them, but hey, nobody’s perfect, and I don’t use beta readers.
That said, I hope that if anyone stops by here and decides to read whatever my crazy mind comes up with and likes it, they’ll leave me a kudo or a comment, they’re always super welcome and appreciated. Thank you so much, hugs <3
part of the first chapter under the cut
The first time you got invited to a real important party, one of those places where nobody went to have a good time but to be seen having a good time, you already knew you were going to end up dragging home a moral hangover that would last two days. That night, though, you cared even less than usual.
You’d arrived late on purpose. Not for glamour or that kind of strategy people with even a shred of self-respect called “making an entrance.” You came late because you didn’t want to go in. Because if you turned back before crossing the threshold, you could still pretend you had some kind of control over your own life. The doorman looked you up and down, hesitated an extra beat when he saw the black tracksuit, the worn-out sneakers, and that face like you’d already fought the world before breakfast, and then let you in with a smile that was far too polished to be sincere.
Inside it smelled like expensive perfume, freshly poured drinks and that faint sweat people leave behind when they know they’re being watched. There were flashes in one corner, phone cameras in another, reporters with hungry eyes, executives with perfect teeth, and filler supes smiling like an entire PR department was yanking the corners of their mouths from behind their necks. It was a new-media party, one of those celebrations where Vought pretended not to care and therefore cared about everything.
Most of the heads in the room were deeply unbearable to you. Though really, most people in general seemed like assholes to you, so you weren’t exactly a reliable judge of what was pleasant and what wasn’t.
You ordered a drink the second you walked in. White wine. Cold. Too cold. You didn’t care. You knocked it back like it was water and felt the alcohol hit your stomach with the relief of someone who wasn’t looking for happiness, just a slight warping of the edge of reality. In your other hand, your phone. Your thumb sliding across the screen without really looking at anything. Scrolling. Again and again. A sterile gesture, no more alive than breathing in a sealed room. If you dissociated enough, maybe you could forget you were trapped in a room full of pricks. Dissociation and getting drunk. In fact, the only reason you’d agreed to come was the promise of free food and drink. Mostly drink.
Around you, people recognized you.
At first cautiously. Then with more nerve.
A few came over with that carefully trained media sparkle in their eyes, probably convinced you were some interesting eccentricity, a rare specimen from the post-Homelander media ecosystem. The sort of creature that could make headlines. They asked about the resistance of the anti-Vought supes, about Vought’s condition, about the political climate, about whether you really believed the company had changed or whether it was all makeup and dried blood. You answered with the same expression you’d use to reply to spam email. And people loved it.
That was the problem. One of many.
People always seemed to think your hostility was some kind of art performance. They mistook your irritation for wit, your apathy for mystery, your bluntness for calculated provocation. Interviewers laughed nervously when you insulted them. Audiences clipped your worst lines and posted them online calling you iconic. Men invited you onto podcasts hoping you’d publicly tear them apart, because humiliation got clicks. Women said you were refreshing because you’d stopped giving a shit about being likable years ago.
Nobody understood that you genuinely disliked interacting with most human beings.
You weren’t cultivating a persona. You were just a fucking asshole with a microphone and internet access.
One journalist came up to you, and luckily you had alcohol on hand, though you would’ve loved to shove a goddamn anxiolytic up your ass and see if that took the edge off your universal disgust.
“Do you think the rise of anti-corporate sentiment among younger generations represents a real social shift after everything that happened with Homelander?”
The interviewer had the brittle smile of a man who probably moisturized his face more than he slept. You looked at him over the rim of your wine glass.
“No,” you said, flat as a blade. “I think people are fucked and depressed and they’re just now realizing billionaires make it even harder to get antidepressants.”
A tight laugh slipped out of him; the camera guy snorted under his breath.
The interviewer tried to recover.
“Sure, but surely—”
“Also,” you went on, “your network takes money from pharma and military contractors, so honestly I don’t see the fucking joke.”
This time the laughter around you was louder.
Someone nearby whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
You drank more wine.
That became the rhythm of the night. Someone came over with carefully media-trained enthusiasm, asked a question designed to go viral, and you answered with the conversational warmth of a knife fight. And people loved it. There was the grotesque irony: the less socially acceptable you became, the more fascinating they found you. It was like modern media had developed a fetish for women who looked like they were always five minutes away from telling someone to go fuck themselves live on air.
You figured that was your niche now: a deeply depressed woman with nicotine addiction and political rage turned into entertainment because she’d gone viral off some shitty homemade podcast.
At some point during your third glass of wine —or fifth, maybe— you’d stopped counting around the time some podcaster compared you to “a postmodern punk philosopher” and you nearly laughed wine out your nose—the mood in the room shifted.
“Vought hasn’t changed. They’re like those clothing conglomerates that print Stop Racism T-shirts in factories in Bangladesh. Pure marketing shoved up your ass.”
“The new supes? Yeah, sure. They’re adorable. Like trained dogs that sit when you kick them. I wonder if they’ll fetch the ball too when you throw it.”
“Do I believe in corporate redemption? I don’t know, man, would you have let fucking Ted Bundy back on the loose?”
People laughed.
That was the worst part.
They laughed because they thought you were doing a role. Because nobody wanted to accept that, for reasons you didn’t fully understand yourself, the poison came out of you naturally. That there wasn’t irony in your answers, or not all the irony they imagined. That you were like this even when there weren’t cameras. That cynicism wasn’t a pose, but a miserable way of staying upright.
A reporter with her hair pulled back in a ponytail so tight it looked painful told you your presence was “very refreshing.” You took a sip from your glass and nodded as if you cared. Then you walked off without saying goodbye.
After all, you’d survived worse than a party.
You’d survived Homelander.
Or, more exactly, the way Homelander had warped the whole country into a panic clinic. During his reign of terror you’d become another name on a list of inconvenient people. They’d tracked you online like so many others, and like so many others they’d tried to shove you into their fucking Fourth Reich camps for posting a few shitty memes about the narcissistic crybaby. Thankfully, during your run for it before they locked you away, Marie Moreau and the others helped you, and you spent some time with them in Canada while you waited for the storm to pass.
And when it finally did, you decided you were never going to shut up again.
You started a channel. Then a podcast. Then another channel, because the first one got too small. You talked about Vought, about economics, about the machinery of spectacle, about politics, about the people smiling on TV while signing eviction orders with one hand and groping the glass with the other. You had a way of saying things that didn’t seem designed to be liked; that was exactly why people liked it. Nobody quite knew what to do with you. Too rough to turn into a mascot, too visible to erase, too tired for them to sell you as an inspirational product.
An enfant terrible, they called you.
You preferred not to think about the part where the label sounded like praise.
Moreau had contacted you when the noise around all that became useful for a concrete cause, after they’d called you for the first live national broadcast and you’d called them all frauds for standing around talking bullshit while Vought announced the arrival of a new batch of supes destined to become the company’s makeover campaign. She told you about a network, about resistance, about supes who weren’t swallowing the rebrand, about people willing to drag the muck still hiding under the spotlights out into the open. You listened in silence, one hand wrapped around your glass and the other planted on the edge of the table, and in the end you said yes not because you were especially interested but because, for once, it seemed more entertaining than staying a selfish bitch with no agenda. You’d still be an asshole, but at least it would mean something.
What you used to do out of boredom became a weapon. And that, in a way, depressed you more than anything else, because it worked. Because every sentence you said hit, bounced, caught fire. Because even your rage had found a market.
Someone else tried to steer you toward something gentler, some shit about optimism, civic engagement, and “hopes for the next generation,” and you nearly told them to swallow the microphone. Instead, you gave them a smile so dry it could’ve started a fire and said:
“My hope for the next generation is that they develop enough self-respect to stop asking me idiot-ass questions.”
By then a small crowd had formed around you, half fascinated, half horrified.
Then the room changed.
Not dramatically. Not at first. But with that subtle electric rearranging of attention that announces the arrival of a predator, or a celebrity, or both at once.
You felt it before you saw it, the way you always did when a room started reorienting itself around power. Conversations thinned out. Several heads turned. A few phones lifted. An invisible current moved through the crowd with the delicacy of a knife sliding from its sheath.
And then, entering like he’d been built solely to be looked at, Stan Edgar appeared.
You recognized him instantly. He moved with the quiet precision of a man who never wasted a gesture because he’d long ago understood that stillness could be a language all on its own. The suit was immaculate. The expression, neutral. The eyes, alert in that way of someone who’d spent too much time around monsters to be impressed by them. Around him paraded several supes in suits that managed to look ridiculous and expensive at the same time, like a corporate version of mythology designed by committee and financed by fear.
And then, with all the theatrical weight of a carefully delayed reveal, the main attraction arrived.
Soldier Boy.
You knew enough of the propaganda version to feel irritated before you even saw him in person. Vought had sold the story like it had been carved into patriotic stone: Soldier Boy, betrayed and buried, had tried to stop Homelander, and Homelander, monstrous and ungrateful, had locked him away again. Soldier Boy, the great American image, returning to defend justice and freedom once more.
You’d been told a very different story. One you’d heard from Marie, who knew because of things Starlight had told her. Enough truth, in fact, to make you sick before he’d crossed half the room. The reality was much older and uglier: a racist, misogynist bastard with the moral depth of a puddle and the historical hygiene of a war crime. A man who’d handed power to Homelander for reasons nobody quite understood —maybe because he was his son— and who was also a total fucking asshole. Honestly, when you heard it, you weren’t surprised in the least. You’d never expected anything good from Vought.
And there he was. Not long after being thawed out, restored like a rusted weapon polished up for one last campaign. The cameras found him immediately. So did the crowd. He moved through them with the pleased swagger of a man fully aware of how much of his own legend was being rewritten in real time. A woman hung off his arm, all shine, status, and the kind of beauty designed to reassure a room that the beast could still be socially domesticated.
The first thing that hit you wasn’t his face.
It was the atmosphere.
Everything around him gave off a kind of exhausted virility, a performance so aggressive it seemed to crack under the weight of its own effort. He looked like a man who’d spent a century being sold as the answer to other men’s insecurities and had never once considered that maybe he was the symptom. Fragile masculinity wrapped in an expensive suit like some goddamn clown. An ego with war medals pinned to it. A dead-fashioned virility desperately trying not to smell like the past.
You felt a wave of boredom so deep it almost resembled pity.
Almost.
For a second you didn’t even register him as attractive. His whole concept repelled you too much for that. The mere idea of him already made your skin crawl. So you did what you always did when somebody killed your patience in public: you went after more wine, more food, and treated the entire event like a waiting room.
A while later, when the room became unbearably loud and your tolerance for human interaction started fraying, you escaped to the balcony with a cigarette and your phone in hand. The cold air seemed several orders of magnitude cleaner than the party. Behind you, the glass doors glowed with warm, carefully manufactured noise. In front of you, the city stretched out in hard geometry and indifferent lights.
The balcony was empty, as if the air outside had something contagious the fancy people preferred to avoid. You shoved the glass door open with your shoulder and stepped out into the warm night, into the city glittering below with its rows of windows and neon, its breathing made of engines and ads and distant sirens.
You lit a cigarette with steady hands, even though inside everything in you was dragging toward a softer, less useful place. The first drag scraped your throat and reconciled you with still being there. You leaned against the wall in a corner, crouched slightly, and looked down at your phone again, staring at fucking TikTok reels without thinking about anything while you took a clonazepam and washed it down with wine. You’d never understood why people bothered with illegal drugs when the legal ones were better and, on top of that, you couldn’t even get arrested for using them.
The party was still behind you, muffled by the glass, a murmur of steel and crystal and laughter with an expiration date.
Then you heard the door open again.
You didn’t lift your head, truth was you had no interest in having to deal with anybody and you knew it was best not to make eye contact.
You heard footsteps, the rustle of fabric, a stifled laugh, too close and too wet to be innocent. The night’s silence tightened a little, as if something that didn’t belong had just come in uninvited. You were still staring at the screen when a shadow fell across the floor beside you and a woman’s voice suddenly broke in a short, startled noise, almost a gasp.
That made you look up.
The woman was turned toward you with her lips parted, mascara still intact but her eyes wrecked by sheer embarrassment as you watched her adjust her neckline and bring a hand to her mouth, completely thrown off by smeared lipstick. The man behind her had his fly down and one hand planted brazenly on the wall, like the whole balcony belonged to him by biological right. He wore the lopsided grin of men who live convinced the world owes them something.
It was fucking Soldier Boy.
You recognized him before you even processed it. The body first. The posture. The way he occupied space like the air ought to move aside out of respect. There was something of a badly restored statue in him: an old-school masculine facade, a shell with its varnish cracked, the smell of something that had survived too long in a closed room. The suit fit him like a deliberate provocation, though what would have looked heroic on anyone else just came off as a half-rotted ego on him.
The bastard looked you over slowly, like he was sizing up a chair.
“Well, well,” he drawled, voice rough and deliciously offended by your mere existence. “What have we got here? You gonna keep starin’, doll, or do you wanna join in? Could be fun, sweetheart. Unless you’re more of a voyeur.”
You took another drag and then looked at him with the flat, blinking patience of a woman evaluating sewage. Truth was, you were unbelievably fucking lazy, and the clonazepam was kicking in, so your head was in that sluggish state of total anesthesia that let you give exactly zero shits about some goddamn bearded orangutan.
“I think I’ll pass. Rather not catch AIDS from a fucking mummy. But thanks, that’s real considerate,” you said, not bothering to sound enthusiastic. Christ, that clona was something else. Maybe you should take another one, because this shit was starting to hit.
The woman made a choking sound. Soldier Boy’s grin held for half a second longer, and then you saw it: the instant, almost microscopic shift in his expression. Not pain. Never that. But irritation. Real irritation. The kind that told you you’d hit exactly where his skin was thinnest.
He tilted his head at you.
“What the hell’s your problem?” he snapped, a little too hard. “You don’t know how to be polite to a man or have you goddamn kids lost all your manners?”
You raised your eyebrows. The guy was really like this. Incredible.
“Dunno, man. When I see a man I’ll let you know,” you shot back, shrugging.
It landed. You knew it because the lines around his mouth went hard. There it was, the classic straight guy having a full-on masculinity crisis just because a woman said something that hit right at his cock-brain. It was so predictable you could almost fall asleep.
He took a step toward you.
“What the fuck is your deal, you little shit? You some kind of man-hatin’ lesbo or what the hell?”
“Not really into the sapphic thing, honestly,” you cut in, calm as falling snow. “But if you keep talking, I might reconsider. Jesus, every sentence you spit dries up more pussy than the last.”
The woman let out a quick, involuntary laugh, because the line was just too good to hold in. Soldier Boy’s face darkened a little more.
“You think you’re real fuckin’ funny.”
“No,” you said. “I am funny. That’s a fact. Like it’s a fact that you’re fucking embarrassing, by the way.”
The girl cleared her throat.
“I think I—”
“You don’t think anythin', doll” he cut her off, never taking his eyes off you. “Wait for me at the bar. I’ll be right there.”
He said it with a softness that was way worse than shouting.
She hesitated. Looked from one of you to the other. Then she grabbed her purse with fumbling hands and slipped through the door without looking back.
Now it was just the two of you on the balcony.
The smoke from your cigarette mixed with the warm air and the expensive perfume still stuck to his skin. The night around you stayed the same, with its distant lights and its city pretending not to care. Only the size of the tension changed. It got narrower. Closer. Almost intimate.
Soldier Boy moved right in front of you. He’d shifted his body language to seem bigger, harder, more intimidating. Classic tactic to scare the people in front of him. Too bad you gave exactly zero fucks. Force was the last resort of losers, or idiots with half a brain, so it didn’t impress you. Besides, you didn’t think he was going to kill you, and it’s not like you were scared of a few punches when you regenerated fast as hell. Or maybe it was the goddamn benzos and alcohol making you so thoroughly, gloriously indifferent.
“You know, doll” he said, pulling out what you recognized as a joint from his pocket and continuing once he lit it, “back in the day young ladies had manners. Some values oughta stay dead instead of gettin’ tossed in the trash.”
You shrugged.
“Well, back in the day men were useful. You went off to war and that kind of shit. Now at most you start a podcast to cry because you can’t get laid. I’d say we came out ahead.”
He jutted his jaw forward like he wanted to chew through the answer.
“Well, look at that, we got ourselves a smart mouth,” he laughed. He sounded delighted with himself. “What are you, one of those chicks who thinks she’s better than everybody else because she uses fancy words or some shit?”
“No, just pretty sure I’m smarter than you,” you said with perfect calm, hiding a crooked smile. It was fine to provoke him, but you weren’t stupid enough to push your luck too hard.
His smile came back, slower this time, meaner. There was a kind of satisfaction in it that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with domination. Like the exchange had woken him up. Like insulting you was more stimulating than whatever the hell he’d been doing a minute ago.
“Watch that mouth, sweetheart.”
“I’m not the one who had his face buried in some random woman’s tits in the middle of a party with two hundred cameras.”
He made a noise halfway between a laugh and a growl. He took the joint out of his mouth, letting a cloud of smoke drift around him. You almost asked for a hit, but decided he probably wouldn’t be too eager to share. If you’d known he had weed, maybe you would’ve reconsidered being such a bitch. Well. You still had clonazepam left.
Soldier Boy leaned in slightly without really bending. He smelled like weed, tobacco, and whiskey. His eyes had gone amber in the reflected light from inside, and you could see the resentment in his face perfectly. You held his gaze, bringing the cigarette to your mouth as you took a long drag.
“I could blow your fuckin’ head off right here, babe” he murmured, almost a growl.
You took a couple of seconds before answering.
“That’d be a bitch for the cleaning crew,” you observed. “Blood’s a hell of a mess to scrub out.”
He muttered something under his breath, something like fuckin’ mouthy bitch, or maybe an even dirtier variation. Didn’t matter. What mattered was the tone: quick poison, childish, almost offended.
And then you laughed. That was the mistake.
Not the insult. Not the mocking. The laugh.
Because laughter was intolerable to a man built like him. Violence they understood. Hatred they understood. But ridicule shrank them down, it turned rage into impotence. And all at once they weren’t feared anymore, they were just embarrassing.
Soldier Boy’s face changed.
For the first time all night, you genuinely thought he might hit you. Like hit you for real.
And for some absurd reason, it almost pleased you. There was something perversely satisfying about pushing people until the mask slipped and whatever was inside came crawling out.
Then the balcony door opened again.
“Benjamin.”
Stan Edgar’s voice cut through the tension like a clean blade.
Soldier Boy stepped back half a pace almost on reflex, irritation still burning across his face.
Edgar walked in with that surgeon’s calm he always seemed to wear, his eyes moving between the two of you with such precise attention it made you want to wipe the room down out of respect for his neatness. And if you weren’t imagining it, there was a nearly imperceptible kind of amusement in his expression.
Interesting.
“Well, I see you’ve met,” Edgar said, as if this were some charming coincidence at a charity cocktail hour.
Soldier Boy turned to him, still wearing a trace of confusion on his forehead.
“You know each other?”
Edgar tipped his glass slightly in your direction.
“You could say that.”
You said nothing.
Not because you had nothing to say, but because, suddenly, you felt something odd in Soldier Boy’s face. Not just annoyance. Not merely wounded pride. Something else. Faster. More animal. A reaction that hadn’t finished taking shape and was already turning poisonous.
Stan Edgar, with the calm of a man who enjoyed nudging pieces on a board they still hadn’t understood, took another step onto the balcony.
“Ben,” he said, using his name like a key sliding into an inconvenient lock. “We were talking about her the other day, remember?”
Ben.
The way he said it had almost a physical effect.
Soldier Boy blinked once. The smile vanished. His eyes sharpened.
He looked at you with a new intensity, focused now, like he’d just clicked together a piece he hadn’t expected to find. His face emptied of amusement and filled with a colder, more exact kind of rage. The sort of rage that doesn’t need to raise its voice because it’s already deciding what to break.
That was when you recognized the moment.
The realization.
Not all of it yet. Just the edge of it, but enough.
Enough to make his neck go taut. Enough to make his hand, still half-idle near his waistband, close up suddenly. Enough to make something in the way he was looking at you change irreparably.
Stan Edgar watched that change with something almost like polite interest.
“It’s one of the commentators from the program we watched,” Edgar said, unhurried. “Now do you remember?”
You let the smoke out slowly, fixing Soldier Boy with a studied calm that cost you less than it would have cost someone else. Inside, you didn’t feel fear. You felt tired. That thick, ancient tiredness that sometimes felt too much like peace.
The supe stared at you like he was trying to figure out exactly when you had become a mistake to him. And you, through the smoke and the empty glass and the exhausted body, knew with absolute clarity that this night was not going to end like a party, or like a conversation, or even like a threat.
This had just started.
“Have you all been talking about me?” you asked, smiling with absolute bullshit innocence. “Aw, that’s sweet, Stan. You put my shows on for the boys? I’m fucking flattered.”
Edgar only pressed his lips together in something remotely close to a smile, while Soldier Boy was still trying to work out what the hell you were supposed to ring a bell for. You could almost measure the exact moment when his two half-baked brain cells made contact, because his eyes widened and his brow furrowed in a flash of contained fury.
“Oh, of course,” he sneered. “You’re the mouthy internet cunt, the fuckin’ commie ball-buster dyke who won’t shut the fuck up, right?”
The way he said it clearly expected a different reaction. Maybe indignation. Maybe a flinch of embarrassment. Maybe the same tiny physical recoil he’d managed to wring out of so many people over the years, that minuscule defensive gesture that confirmed he still ran the show even when he didn’t.
But you only raised one eyebrow and smoked the cigarette down until your fingers were almost burning.
“Man, you’re real obsessed with lesbians. What’s your problem with them?” you asked, studying the glowing tip like the topic didn’t deserve any more ceremony. “Is it because they eat more pussy than you?”
“You write the beginning and then you go back and rewrite the beginning, and you never got off page one. It’s kind of a syndrome, and I have a rash piece of advice which is — Go on, page two, page three, and never look back. Get something finished, no matter how lousy it is. […] Perfectionists cannot get going unless they kind of do violence to their own instincts, and just blast ahead.”
— Ursula K. Le Guin, The Last Interview and Other Conversations
summary: ex!boyfriend rafe doesn’t trust the new guy you’re dating and tries to get rid of him, only to end up hurting you in the process.
warnings: light violence. angst. fluff if you squint.
you and rafe cameron had very nearly been broken up for longer than you were ever even together, but he couldn’t seem to let go.
when he heard you were seeing someone new, something inside of him broke. it was as if he had been hanging on by a thin piece of thread and then it just . . . snapped.
you wouldn’t return his calls or texts, claiming you wanted to be respectful of your supposed new relationship.
rafe knew better than that, he knew you better than that.
what he didn’t know, is that you would be at the same bar as him tonight, hand in hand with your new boyfriend.
you were looking up at him, a dazed smile on your face as you lead him to the tables at the back of the room, not noticing rafe with his head low and his eyes alert.
there was something that rafe didn’t like about this guy, and it wasn’t just because you were with someone other than him. although, that would be reason enough.
the minutes ticked by and when you got up to go to the bathroom, your boyfriend wasted no time in heading for the bar.
“i’ll have two beers” he says to the bartender, impatiently drumming his fingers against the wood like a prick.
jesus, you didn’t even like beer. did this guy know anything about you?
he threw some cash on the side when she came back with the drinks, “thanks handsome” she says, a playful grin on her face.
rafe narrowed his eyes as he watched this interaction play out, grateful that you had no idea he was even here right now.
”what’s your name gorgeous?” he murmured to her, his eyes scanning the length of her body in the least subtle way possible.
was this guy fucking serious? you had been in the bathroom for two minutes and he was really going to stand here flirting with someone else?
“did you not walk in here with someone else?” rafe interrupted, tongue pressed against his cheek in restraint as he tried to calm himself down.
your boyfriend turned to face rafe in annoyance, “mind your own business, pal”
rafe nodded to himself before grabbing him by the scruff of his collar, “let’s get one thing straight, i am not your fuckin’ pal. you do not get to break her heart, you hear me?”
he looked at rafe in pure confusion, “who? y/n? if you want her then she’s fair game, brother. i was just bored”
the harsh noise of the room became nothing but an incoherent buzz, rafe’s heartbeat pounding so loud in his chest that he could hear it in his ears.
rafe had him on the floor before he could even register what he was doing, fist forcefully slamming into his face.
blood sprayed out of his nose as hands grabbed at rafe’s shoulders, bystanders trying to pull him away from someone they probably deemed innocent.
“get the fuck outta here” rafe spat, wiping his knuckles on his pants.
it looked like he wanted to argue, but instead chose the smart option and left in “peace”, slamming the door shut behind him.
“a goddamn beer” rafe huffed to himself in amazement, still pissed off that he didn’t even know what drinks you liked.
rafe’s head snapped up in surprise when your worried voice reached his ears, “what have you done?”
he sighed and avoided looking at you, not wanting to see the disappointment in your eyes.
the audience that had been listening in started to disperse, going back to nurse their overpriced drinks.
“you don’t have to believe me but he’s not good for you, y/n. he’s just not” rafe muttered, distractedly picking at the blood on his fingernails.
you marched over to him, shoving him in the chest, “and how do you know what’s good for me? you’ve hurt me more times than i can count on both hands”
that made him flinch. he hated to be reminded of all the times he’s let you down.
“if you heard the shit he wa-“ rafe started to say before you swiftly cut him off.
you took a seat on one of the bar stools, feeling like your legs were going to give out any second, “i know what he said, rafe. i heard all of it”
fuck. how did he not see you come out of the bathroom? fucking idiot.
rafe stared at the bottom of his empty whisky glass, wishing there was something in it right about now.
shakily sighing in defeat, you tried to stop the tears that had started to pool in your eyes before he noticed but failed miserably.
“hey, shhh. don’t cry over him. he’s not fuckin’ worth it” rafe whispered, a sharp pain shooting through his heart at the sight of you upset.
“why can’t i ever just choose good people” you sniffled, wiping your tears with the back of your hand, wondering why you were breaking down in front of the man who broke your heart.
“you will, baby” he lied as he softly rubbed his thumb against your chin, knowing full well you were going to end up with him and he was anything but good.
baby. that was something you hadn’t heard from him in a really long time and you hated that your body responded to it.
your eyes met rafe’s for a split second and you knew you had to get out.
pushing your chair back, rafe’s hand fell to his lap as you hurriedly ran out of the door, not having the stomach to look back.
☆ an ☆ hellooo, hope you like this one, I tried so hard to portray charlie as best as i could since I’ve just read fanfics and haven’t actually watched the series, BUT as soon as it’s available on Disney+ I’ll watch it 🙂↕️
**also, keep in mind that this is just a fanfic, I don’t mean any disrespect towards religion or anything.
There wasn’t a way to explain the feeling, for it made his heart quicken and resolve to thin— sinful thoughts to dance around his mind like tiny devils with horns and tails, whispering wrongdoings to his ear.
He never considered himself to be weak and uncharacteristically doubtful. He knew right from wrong, yet he couldn’t help but steal a glance your way during mass— white lace veil hiding your face from his eyes, waiting for the minute you’d uncover and showed your tight knit brows and full lips, gaze set on the chapel’s ceiling as if looking directly at god’s eyes and wishing you’d glance his way instead, but you never do.
And he always finds himself thanking God you didn’t, as he wouldn’t find it in him to hold back if you had look his way and realized his sinful intentions, the way his thoughts traveled to your Sunday’s attire and pretty hands touching every surface in his office.
That’s why he’s been intentionally avoiding you— walking out of his office five minutes before you come to clean it, and if by any chance you came in earlier, he wouldn’t engage in conversation, making something up and mumbling a quick goodbye so he could avoid looking at your buttocks, displayed beneath that pretty white dress you choose to always wear on Sundays, or the way you chewed on your pencil in thought.
He’d find himself secluded in his room trying to find a way to get you out of his mind, and he found one, but eventually it failed.
The first time he’d done something like that, he thought all it took to forget about you was to rub one off and get on with it, but it was useless— he knew this the moment he realized, that, after every Sunday mass where he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, he locked himself inside his room and jerked off to the thought of you: kneeling on the pew, hands on a prayer and brows furrowing while your lips formed shapes and let out soft exhales with every word spoken.
Just like now, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you.
“Father Charlie, did I do something wrong?”.
Your voice pulled him out of his trance, eyes blinking twice and mind focusing in the present. He’s daydreaming. Again.
“Mmh?”.
He hasn’t been listening at all, too busy looking at your clavicle where a cross rested to notice the concerned tinge in your voice.
“Are you okay, Father?”.
He nodded, hands intertwining behind his back and anxious fingers scratching at each other, “Yes, don’t worry, my mind drifted elsewhere for a minute- what were you saying just now?”.
“Alright, umm- I asked if I had done anything to upset you?”.
“Of course not, why would you think that?”, he scoffed, trying to come up with something to change the subject. He didn’t want to say he thinks about you in a sinful way, he’s the father of this chapel after all— it wasn’t remotely okay to think about one of his parishioners that way.
Your gaze nervously shifted to the ceiling, fingers fumbling with each other in front of you, “Well, you’ve been ignoring me lately I tho-”.
“Is not what you think, I’ve just been busy with… something”.
Well, he couldn’t say he’s been busy jerking off to the thought of you sprawled on his desk could he? It was the smartest response he could come up with but also the dumbest.
“Oh well, then uhm… my mom’s waiting for me so I’ll go now”.
Charlie couldn’t do more than watch as your figure disappeared and get lost in thought once again.
Since that interaction, he hasn’t seen you around much— you didn’t attend church two consecutive Sundays, but eventually you returned, looking as beautiful as ever. He’s watching you again, but just to a certain point where your parents won’t notice the lingering glances and tiny smiles he’d send your way.
He has just finished the mass, everyone scattered around, greeting friends and family, him too- he was a loved priest. And of course, your family had to greet him.
“Father Charlie, we’re so pleased to see you again”, your mother spoke fondly, gaze shifting to you, standing behind your father as if you were a scared child. “C’mon honey, Father Charlie is waiting for you to say hello- oh sorry, she’s not in the mood now, she fell sick and she’s not feeling well…”.
Charlie tried to ignore the fact you were partly avoiding him, gaze set on him but also full of doubt. He could just smile thinking that you probably thought he was mad at you. “Don’t worry, I was quite surprised by your absence, but I’m glad you’ve returned”, he nodded, adding teasingly. “You’re my most devoted congregants, and not seeing you here for so long had me thinking you’ve found another church”.
“Oh no! Don’t say things like that!”, your mother giggled and shook her head, “We would never, we’re very attached to this church, my family and I used to come here every Sunday when I was young- I have many great memories here…”.
Charlie wasn’t paying attention to your mom and her incessant rambling anymore, he was paying attention to you. Maybe a little too much that he didn’t hear half of what your mother said.
“… and now we’re looking for a suitable husband for our dear daughter, of course we’d want him to be one of our dear brothers of this church, they all are decent men”
That caught his attention and a mocking snort left his lips. Your mom’s confused gaze made him remember his current position, and awkward cough leaving his lips, “Don’t mind me, continue…”.
You, marrying one of these guys? One of these prude and revolting guys being able to take your hand in marriage…? He couldn’t imagine of one of them warming your bed every night, was it jealousy? That, one of these men, would have you first?
“actually- we wanted to reach out to you, father, we believe you can be of great help for her to learn the ways of a happy marriage, based on respect and love. So, father, what do you think?”.
He couldn’t allow that, not even in a million years.
“Sorry, what I think about what?”. Charlie replied apologetically, looking partly ashamed for not paying attention to your dear mom. Though he wasn’t sure what she was really asking for, he missed half of the speech because of thinking about your possible suitors.
“About teaching our daughter the ways to a happy marriage, you know, principles, respect, values… we’d be very happy if you could help her learn- me and her father are far from being a perfect marriage, and we tried to teach her to some extent, but we’d like it if she learns from God’s hands from now on…”.
Your mom really shouldn’t have said that.
“Fa-father, are you sure this is the right lesson?”. you asked breathless, lips puffy and covered in a thin layer of spit, glistening under the warm lights in his office.
You were quite confused since this wasn’t the usual lessons Father Charlie imparted.
He glanced down at you, hand touching your cheek affectionately, the corner of his mouth twitching. He loved your innocence. “Of course, you need to learn to give proper head to your soon to be husband- now keep going, yeah? Your mother was quite specific when she said she wanted you to learn”.
With a nod of your head, you returned to your task. Tongue peeking out to give a lick to his reddened tip, a bead of salty precum attaching to your warm muscle. You were so close to stuff him all inside your mouth, he’s been working your throat muscles to accommodate him completely and you were quite greedy now, you think you can take him all the way in without your throat burning from the tight stretch.
From your position on the floor, you could look up at any moment and see his conflicted features, he was holding back so you could learn properly— or so he told you.
He was being patient and generous with you, he didn’t want his student chocking on his dick on her first try.
“Careful with those teeth, don’t want my dick bruised”. you hummed and he groaned, loving the way it felt when you did that. A desperate cry left your lips when you couldn’t stuff his dick completely inside, it was so thick and long that it almost embarrassed you to think you could take it without a problem. He noticed that and caressed your hair reassuringly, holding your nape and pushing you down carefully. “Slow, take your time yeah?”.
Breathing through your nose, you held back your tears and let him take the lead. You tried so hard not to gag, thinking about other things like the rough fabric of the tapestry beneath your knees, just to distract your mind from the pressure his dick was inducing your throat in.
But it was futile.
He tried to pull you all the way down but when he heard your muffled gag, he stopped, leaving you to catch your breath, not minding the way your nails dug into his hips trying to push away from him. He held you in place and consoled you.
“It’s alright, don’t worry, it’ll pass… I thought you were ready to take this lesson, tch… I think we should stop now”. The voice that was once filled with lust, now was filled with mockery.
You made a sound denying his request, taking a deep inhale through your nose and engulfing his shaft inside your mouth again, almost going all the way down— it was still a hard task but you found a way to accommodate more of him inside.
“God help me…”. He murmured, eyes shooting up to the ceiling, chest heaving up and down, balls tight and jaw locked. If he kept clenching his teeth like that, they’d surely fall out.
Charlie couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, the way your mouth was full of his dick and mouth corners were glistening with a mixture of spit and cum, traveling all the way to your chin and jaw, made his mind spiral with lust and exasperated groans to leave his lips— he didn’t want to cum so soon.
You were doing so good for him, so good… Even if he wanted to blame himself for falling into temptation, he couldn’t think about that now— about the hopefulness on your mother’s face when he accepted this task. He wanted to make it right. So he was going to give his all, even if it meant tarnishing your innocence with his selfish and lust filled soul.
You started sucking his dick as if you were drinking through a straw, a tiny gasp leaving your mouth the moment his hips jerked, filling your mouth with his dick entirely, no restrictions, without consideration... Your eyes opened wide, nails digging again in his thighs, tapping incessantly on them to make him stop. You couldn’t breath, but you could hear his own moan ring through the room.
Your protests fell into deaf ears, Charlie’s hips kept fucking your mouth as if he was fucking your pussy— with a hunger equivalent to that of the abstinent man he was.
Even if he wanted to stop, he couldn’t. He felt so good he didn’t find it in himself to cease the attack on your mouth, he wanted you to learn, so stopping now would be wasting all the hard work he’d been doing.
Tears escaped the corners of your tight closed eyes, your clit throbbed with every push of his hips and moans he left out, you were so enjoying it even if it hurt a bit, even if it was hard to breath you didn’t want him to stop, not when he tasted this good.
“I’m gonna cum now, princess— won’t do that while I’m inside your mouth, but I want you to keep it open, tongue out”, he instructed, pulling his reddened dick out of your mouth with a pop, a thread of saliva and cum keeping it connected to your lips.
Your mouth opened and your tongue peeked out, showing the thin layer of cum that accumulated on your pink muscle. You watched as his hand grabbed his dick, jerking it up and down with desperation.
He lasted a few seconds before he came, white spurts of cum falling all over your chin and inside your mouth, “Swallow”, he ordered before you did exactly that. Charlie smiled, hand lifting up to wipe the corner of your mouth with the pad of his thumb, pushing it inside your mouth with more of his cum.
✩͏ cw: fem!reader, unprotected, established relationship, fingēring, overstim, bēgging, brēēding. brat taming? dirty talk, praise, light degradation. mdni.
dean wasn’t sure what led him to this.
never in his twenty-six years of life, and through all his many sexual experiences, had he ever thought of doing it raw. never.
not until he set eyes on his girlfriend’s pussy. your pussy.
it was glistening with your juices, sending an intoxicating scent straight to his nose; he simply couldn't look away. not while you clenched rhythmically around his fingers, following the precise movements he was working inside you.
was it normal that he wanted to take his cock out and breed you like a fucking animal?
he couldn’t even look at your face. not because he didn’t want to, but because he was too enthralled, watching the part of you that was practically devouring his fingers.
“deaaan,” you called out, your voice slightly slurred as your head finally lifted from the pillow to look at him. he has been fingering you for hours. literally, “hurry.”
you were desperate to come, you couldn’t lie. not since you'd seen him flirting with a pretty blonde at the bar—for work, of course, but you couldn’t help the spark of jealousy. not when he looked that good in his leather jacket and those perfectly fitted jeans that hugged his ass deliciously. you'd wanted to ride him the second you set foot inside the motel room, but he had insisted on 'making it up to you'.
and thats how you ended up on the bed with only your crop top left and no panties.
“you’ve got to be patient, sweetheart,” dean mumbled with a smirk, without even looking up. the wet, squelching sound resumed, and your walls clenched around his hand immediately. “see? you want my fingers inside you. it feels too good, doesn't it?”
your back arched cleanly off the bed, a broken moan leaving your lips.
he kept moving his fingers in and out, simulating the deep thrusts of his cock when he fucked you. a sharp shudder wrecked through you the moment he hit a sensitive spot. dean chuckled against your skin, hitting the same spot repeatedly, deliberately keeping you just shy of the release you were begging for.
“dean, s-stop teasing me.” you gasped out, eyes barely open. you couldn't even wipe away the stray drop of saliva on your chin before begging, “just fuck me.”
“you’re so whiny,” dean teased, his gaze finally snapping up to yours as he withdrew his slick fingers. you watched him unzip his jeans and push them down, the damp, dark spot staining the fabric of his boxers telling you exactly how hard he already was. “can’t even let your boyfriend play with your sweet pussy.”
a broken moan wrecked through you the moment he finally pulled his hog out, your thighs opening wider in a desperate instinct. dean let out a low chuckle, his large hands gripping your thighs to force them even further apart, exposing your dripping pussy to his hungry gaze. oh, god, how he absolutely loved that sight.
“here it comes, sweetheart. open wide,” dean murmured, his large hand guiding his thick cock against your dripping heat. your walls stretched painfully well around just the tip, and then he began sinking his cock into you with agonizing slowness.
“dean, hurry...” you pleaded weakly, your mind completely hazy as your head rolled back against the pillows.
dean grunted, keeping up the agonizingly slow torture just to tease you. but before he could pull back, you locked your ankles behind his lower back and pulled him hard against you. his entire length buried deep, filling you to the absolute brim, a sharp gasp leaving both of your lips at the sudden depth.
dean collapsed forward, heavy hands pinning the pillow on either side of your head, a look of sheer ecstasy taking over his rugged features. he swallowed hard, trying desperately not to lose his grip and spill his load right then and there.
a few tense seconds passed before his eyes finally opened, a dark, teasing smirk pulling at his lips. “fucking brat,” he growled. his large right hand immediately came up to cover your mouth, muffling your whimpers as he began driving inside you with a heavy, steady rhythm. “not even gonna ask me for a rubber? you really want my load that bad, huh.”
he continued to muffle your desperate moans with the heavy palm of his hand, his ruthless movements working your walls into a complete frenzy. your mind was short-circuiting; you just wanted him to come inside you. you needed it. there was nothing hotter than the thought of him filling you up.
“sweetheart, you gotta keep it down, alright?” dean grunted right against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. “sammy’s just in the next room. we don't want him hearing his big brother fucking his girlfriend, do we, babe?”
you shook your head frantically, hot tears of pleasure rolling down your cheeks. a desperate whimper of denial tried to make its way out of your mouth, only to end up completely smothered by his heavy hand.
dean stared down at your tear-stained face, a deeply satisfied smirk stretching across his lips as his tongue darted out to wet them. “that’s a good girl,” he growled softly, the vibration hitting your ear. “keep it up for me, and i might just leak my entire load inside you as a reward.”
you nodded frantically, your legs locking even tighter around his hips to pin him deep inside you. you were right on the edge of coming, and he was right there with you; you could already picture his thick seed overflowing and running down your thighs.
“please, please...” the desperate pleas were completely muffled against his palm, but he heard them anyway. with a wicked, deliberate tilt of his thick shaft, your walls snapped—clenched in tight, violent waves around him as you came.
dean kept pumping his hips until a heavy grunt left his chest and he finally came inside you. he stayed buried deep, his thick shaft acting as the only barrier stopping his warm seed from escaping. moving his hand from your face, he captured your lips in a long, bruising kiss, his tongue thoroughly claiming yours.
pulling back from the kiss with a rough chuckle, he smudges away the saliva at the corner of your lips with his thumb, his fingers then trailing down to softly stroke your cheek.
“good job keeping it down at the end, princess,” he’d whisper against your mouth, a teasing glint in his green eyes. “sammy’s a heavy sleeper, but i think we definitely pushed our luck tonight. let’s just stay like this for a minute, yeah?”
warnings - miscommunication, my shaylas, avoidant reader, she/her pronouns but they arent really used (i yhink) , athlete hater!reader, reader caved LMAO, lmk if theres more
tags (if orange, that means i cant tag you!) : off campus tags - @antisirkbitch , @ethanthequeefqueen , @zophiathefirst , @dooubleooseven , @virgoalert123 , @harls-sturn , @lisiely | series tags - @ethelcainlxver , @mariiibash , @thecraziestcrayon , @cutiesinthecosmos , @bearymuchso , @letterboxd-lovr , @beammeupthisplacesucks1
breaking the rules series list
After that hookup with Tucker, you couldn't stop thinking about him.
At first, it was little things. Seeing his Instagram stories at the top of your feed. Catching posts of him on the Fifth Line instagram. Every time you opened the app, there he was.
So you stopped checking his account, but thay didn't help.
So you deleted instagram altogether, which judt made it worse.
The athlete kept finding ways to invade your life. Everywhere you went, you spotted him. Across campus. At bars, parties.. It was like the universe was trying to play some cruel joke on you.
Tucker was having the opposite problem. No matter how many parties he went to, how many bars he stopped by, or how often he wandered around campus, he couldn't find you anywhere.
A week after the hookup, he finally texted.
Can we talk? Maybe grab coffee?
Then, as if he could somehow sense your hesitation through the screen, he added:
A neutral territory. Doesn't have to be a date if you don't want it to be?
You trusted him enough to say yes.
Even if it still felt like a date.
When the day came, you arrived early. You sat nervously at a small table, sipping your drink and trying not to overthink. Your outfit was simple, but cute. Casual enough that it didn't look like you'd tried too hard.
Five minutes after the agreed time, he still wasn't there.
You started bouncing your leg.
Five minutes turned into ten.
Ten turned into fifteen.
Fifteen turned into twenty.
You scoffed in hour head, stood up, and left.
Of course.
You knew you shouldn't have trusted an athlete. And honestly, you weren't even sure why you had.
So you left.
Later that night, your phone buzzed.
'Why didn't you show up?' Was the text you had gotten.
You immediately went off on him.
He was completely confused. Because according to him, he had shown up. he sat there waiting for almost longer than half an hour.
The more he explained, the more you started to believe him.
Then the realization hit both of you at the same time.
There were two coffee shops with the exact same name.
You had gone to one.
And he had gone to the other.
That same night, you finally met up.
you both ended up sitting on a random patch of grass somewhere around campus, talking for hours.
About everything and abput nothing.
And at some point during the conversation, Tucker teally asked you out.
"I don't know," you said. "That seems like a bad idea."
Tucker laughed.
"And sleeping with me wasn't?"
You rolled your eyes.
Unfortunately, he had a point.
So, despite every rule you'd made for yourself, you agreed.
One date turned into two.
Two turned into three.
Then four into fibe.
And after the fifth date, the two of you stood outside your apartment door, neither quite ready to say goodbye.
"This was fun," you said softly.
"Can I be your boyfriend?"
The words came out so fast you almost thought you'd imagined them.
You blinked.
Tucker immediately started panicking.
"Sorry. I just— I really like you, and it's totally okay if you don't want that. I just thought that these dates were going really well and..." He let out a nervous laugh. "Y'know.."
You couldn't help smiling.
"Again," he added quickly, "you can totally say no."
Instead of answering, you stepped forward and pressed a quick kiss to his lips.
When you pulled back, Tucker looked completely stunned.
"I'll text you later, boyfriend," you whispered.
His grin was so ridiculous that you had to fight back your own.
Then you slipped inside and shut the door.
The second you were alone, you leaned against it and let out a dreamy sigh.
A smile spread across your face so wide it almost hurt.
For the first time since meeting him, you weren't thinking about the fact that he was an athlete.
You were just thinking about Tucker.
And maybe, just maybe, dating an athlete wasn't such a bad idea after all.
✩͏ cw: fem!reader, unprotected, established relationship, fingēring, overstim, bēgging, brēēding. brat taming? dirty talk, praise, light degradation. mdni.
dean wasn’t sure what led him to this.
never in his twenty-six years of life, and through all his many sexual experiences, had he ever thought of doing it raw. never.
not until he set eyes on his girlfriend’s pussy. your pussy.
it was glistening with your juices, sending an intoxicating scent straight to his nose; he simply couldn't look away. not while you clenched rhythmically around his fingers, following the precise movements he was working inside you.
was it normal that he wanted to take his cock out and breed you like a fucking animal?
he couldn’t even look at your face. not because he didn’t want to, but because he was too enthralled, watching the part of you that was practically devouring his fingers.
“deaaan,” you called out, your voice slightly slurred as your head finally lifted from the pillow to look at him. he has been fingering you for hours. literally, “hurry.”
you were desperate to come, you couldn’t lie. not since you'd seen him flirting with a pretty blonde at the bar—for work, of course, but you couldn’t help the spark of jealousy. not when he looked that good in his leather jacket and those perfectly fitted jeans that hugged his ass deliciously. you'd wanted to ride him the second you set foot inside the motel room, but he had insisted on 'making it up to you'.
and thats how you ended up on the bed with only your crop top left and no panties.
“you’ve got to be patient, sweetheart,” dean mumbled with a smirk, without even looking up. the wet, squelching sound resumed, and your walls clenched around his hand immediately. “see? you want my fingers inside you. it feels too good, doesn't it?”
your back arched cleanly off the bed, a broken moan leaving your lips.
he kept moving his fingers in and out, simulating the deep thrusts of his cock when he fucked you. a sharp shudder wrecked through you the moment he hit a sensitive spot. dean chuckled against your skin, hitting the same spot repeatedly, deliberately keeping you just shy of the release you were begging for.
“dean, s-stop teasing me.” you gasped out, eyes barely open. you couldn't even wipe away the stray drop of saliva on your chin before begging, “just fuck me.”
“you’re so whiny,” dean teased, his gaze finally snapping up to yours as he withdrew his slick fingers. you watched him unzip his jeans and push them down, the damp, dark spot staining the fabric of his boxers telling you exactly how hard he already was. “can’t even let your boyfriend play with your sweet pussy.”
a broken moan wrecked through you the moment he finally pulled his hog out, your thighs opening wider in a desperate instinct. dean let out a low chuckle, his large hands gripping your thighs to force them even further apart, exposing your dripping pussy to his hungry gaze. oh, god, how he absolutely loved that sight.
“here it comes, sweetheart. open wide,” dean murmured, his large hand guiding his thick cock against your dripping heat. your walls stretched painfully well around just the tip, and then he began sinking his cock into you with agonizing slowness.
“dean, hurry...” you pleaded weakly, your mind completely hazy as your head rolled back against the pillows.
dean grunted, keeping up the agonizingly slow torture just to tease you. but before he could pull back, you locked your ankles behind his lower back and pulled him hard against you. his entire length buried deep, filling you to the absolute brim, a sharp gasp leaving both of your lips at the sudden depth.
dean collapsed forward, heavy hands pinning the pillow on either side of your head, a look of sheer ecstasy taking over his rugged features. he swallowed hard, trying desperately not to lose his grip and spill his load right then and there.
a few tense seconds passed before his eyes finally opened, a dark, teasing smirk pulling at his lips. “fucking brat,” he growled. his large right hand immediately came up to cover your mouth, muffling your whimpers as he began driving inside you with a heavy, steady rhythm. “not even gonna ask me for a rubber? you really want my load that bad, huh.”
he continued to muffle your desperate moans with the heavy palm of his hand, his ruthless movements working your walls into a complete frenzy. your mind was short-circuiting; you just wanted him to come inside you. you needed it. there was nothing hotter than the thought of him filling you up.
“sweetheart, you gotta keep it down, alright?” dean grunted right against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. “sammy’s just in the next room. we don't want him hearing his big brother fucking his girlfriend, do we, babe?”
you shook your head frantically, hot tears of pleasure rolling down your cheeks. a desperate whimper of denial tried to make its way out of your mouth, only to end up completely smothered by his heavy hand.
dean stared down at your tear-stained face, a deeply satisfied smirk stretching across his lips as his tongue darted out to wet them. “that’s a good girl,” he growled softly, the vibration hitting your ear. “keep it up for me, and i might just leak my entire load inside you as a reward.”
you nodded frantically, your legs locking even tighter around his hips to pin him deep inside you. you were right on the edge of coming, and he was right there with you; you could already picture his thick seed overflowing and running down your thighs.
“please, please...” the desperate pleas were completely muffled against his palm, but he heard them anyway. with a wicked, deliberate tilt of his thick shaft, your walls snapped—clenched in tight, violent waves around him as you came.
dean kept pumping his hips until a heavy grunt left his chest and he finally came inside you. he stayed buried deep, his thick shaft acting as the only barrier stopping his warm seed from escaping. moving his hand from your face, he captured your lips in a long, bruising kiss, his tongue thoroughly claiming yours.
pulling back from the kiss with a rough chuckle, he smudges away the saliva at the corner of your lips with his thumb, his fingers then trailing down to softly stroke your cheek.
“good job keeping it down at the end, princess,” he’d whisper against your mouth, a teasing glint in his green eyes. “sammy’s a heavy sleeper, but i think we definitely pushed our luck tonight. let’s just stay like this for a minute, yeah?”
