Summary: Living a double life isn't easy: a student and a stripper. You find yourself entangled with a mystery man, sleeping with him, sneaking around with him, only for a surprise to change it all.
♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, age!gap, stripper!user, no smut, mentions of sex, mentions of alcohol and drugs, strip club setting, infidelity, lying, manipulation, teasing, sexual tension, use is smart, user is mid 20s, reader-insert, no mentions of y/n.
wc: 3k | : my new little series hehehe i’ll be posting it every monday <3 i dont think it’ll be that long, i just love this trope and couldn’t write it all in one go ^^ enjoy!! i will also be posting an older!bf drabble later yaaay!!!
It’s not like you wanted to get addicted to it, but you did.
Sneaking around at night, slipping out of your house, hopping into that car, and driving to the dingy motel downtown. It happened every night, and there was no end in sight; sleeping with him, feeling his body against yours, those large hands working over your skin like they were meant to, and then the afterwards; where he’d kiss your forehead and cheeks, where he told you how wrong it was, but how good you felt. And you’d sit there, and grin, and he’d play with your hair, and tell you that his wife smelled your perfume.
All you could do was bask in the attention, and pray that the guilt wouldn’t eat him alive, as much as it ate you alive. He initiated it all, anyway.
Working at a strip club brought customers in that you didn’t want to see: older men with a knack for vulnerable young girls, tossing dollar bills at their feet, looks on their faces that screamed they wanted more than a dance. Sometimes young adults for a bachelor party; awkward smiles and laughs, sly comments about your breasts and ass that you’ve already heard. It was expected, but he was unexpected.
A tie loosely hanging around his neck, a wrinkled, damp suit from the heavy rain, and a look in his eyes that said he was looking for more than a dance from a girl, from you. He took a seat before you; your legs wrapped around that pole, moves angelic and slow, your skimpy outfit glinting in the light. He watched those hips, the sways, the way your knees bent, the way your hair brushed your shoulders, your nails you painted to match your shoes. He noticed it all, and he wanted more, more than just a smile and a nod when he tossed you a hundred-dollar bill.
You were by your car smoking when he saw you. You didn’t have smudged eyeliner dripping down your cheeks, no glitter brimming your eyes, no overlined lipstick or long eyelashes, and you were covered, just a pair of denim shorts, a t-shirt, and white sneakers. And he approached you, and he recognized you.
He offered you a free pack of cigarettes, a small peace offering, and you took it, and then he asked about you–not your favourite sex position or how much you’d charge to suck him off in the parking lot, but things about yourself. It was unusual, but you gave in and found yourself at a bar with him, where he told you more.
An uninterested wife back at home, a struggling job, and an income that wasn’t worth much, but enough to spend on you if you flashed him a smile, or slid down to sit on his lap, just so his thumb could graze your thigh before you stood up, and shook your head; no touching.
And then you spilled it all out: the lack of connection you had to your father, the strong businessman he was, who despised his daughter for becoming a stripper and pursuing such an act. He took you in, wrapped that strong arm around your shoulder as he walked you back to the car, and you kissed him. A fleeting kiss between two drunken adults, only to bleed into something more. A motel with him, having sex.
It’s one of those nights; he’s beside you in bed, shirtless, sweat sticking to his forehead, and you’re the same. He’s smoking a cigarette, his focus on anything else but the young thing beside him. His phone goes off on the nightstand, and you bite your lip, peeking over.
“Who’s that?” You ask softly, your voice carrying that seductive drawl, something you don’t even mean to let slip in.
“Why?” He asks, mumbling around the cigarette, and he lets it go off again.
“Because…” you carry on, your eyes trailing down his chest—all soft muscle—and look to the phone again. “I just wanna know.”
“No idea,” he says plainly, blowing a plume of smoke away from your face, though his eyes are on you.
Silence settles in the motel room, and you blink at him.
“Tell me what’s going on,” you whisper to him, nodding, leaning closer to him. “Your job?” You ask.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he shakes his head and turns his head away from you, groaning softly.
“What?” You mumble with a grin, carefully sliding over his lap instead, straddling him. His hand naturally finds your bare hip, his eyes gazing at your soft breasts.
“Don’t wanna get into it, not when you’re here,” he tells you, looking up at you through his furrowed brows, and he pats your bare hip with his thumb.
“Why not? I’m here for a reason,” you explain, licking your lips, and he’s trailing his hand down your hip and to the top of your thigh.
“Yeah, you are,” he hums, tilting his head to the side, blinking slowly. “Not here for me to complain about my problems, though.”
Your eyes wander around the room, a hand lightly reaching out to run your fingers through his hair, guiding it back, and he scrunches his nose. You smile, and he shakes his head lightly.
“And why are you here, sweetheart?” He then asks, gently rubbing your thigh still, blowing more smoke out of his mouth.
“Sex,” you say plainly, leaning back a little bit. “And… you know, I like being here,” you explain more, nodding a little.
Being there was an escape; that’s how it felt to you. Initially, you were putting on a show for every man in your life: doing your hair, putting on that stupid makeup, wearing clothes that revealed exactly the type of woman you are. But with him, it felt different, never like a show—he didn’t expect things from you. He wanted you, not the stage name.
“Why are you here, then?” You ask, tilting your head to the side, and he pushes hair behind your ear, a cigarette between his fingers still.
He purses his lips. “Sex.”
“That’s it?” You ask, shifting your hips against his lap, and he drags his hand back down, cupping your breast.
“Yeah,” he breathes out, lightly rubbing your nipple. “What else?”
Your back arches into his touch, and you roll your eyes almost, reaching down to gently take his hand away. He scoffs and looks at his phone again.
“Come on… there’s nothing else?” you press, your voice softening.
“Baby, I met you at a strip club,” he grins, using his hand to hold your face instead. “You think I want… to date a girl from there?” he asks, eyebrows raising.
Your lips part. “And does your wife know?”
“Fuck off,” he scoffs, lightly pushing your cheek with his hand, and he clenches his jaw. “Don’t use that shit against me; it doesn’t work,” he shakes his head.
“I’m just asking,” you say, licking your lips. “Does she know that you’re with me right now?”
He rolls his eyes again, and he sits back against the headboard a bit more, clicking his tongue. He holds your hip now, squeezing it, and the other hand ashes out the cigarette.
“No,” he mumbles, looking back at you. “If she did, you wouldn’t like it.”
“Why? She gonna kill me?” you ask through a smile, giggling softly.
“No, but we wouldn’t fuck again,” he shrugs, lifting his hand to rub his jaw. “And I know how much you love when we fuck,” he teases, his hand sliding down your thigh, finding your knee.
“I like more than that,” you whisper, placing your hand on top of his. “When… you hold me sometimes, afterwards, and you’re all nice,” you smile, and he has that blank look on his face.
“That’s not what I’m here for,” he shakes his head again, rubbing his chin instead. “It’s sex, baby; I’m not here to build a relationship with you,” he says.
You swallow hard and try to act like the words don’t sting–you don’t know what you expected. A man, in a strip club, cheating on his wife–those weren't the types looking for a relationship, not with a stripper like yourself, but you couldn’t help but find yourself wanting more than just that, than just secret touches behind closed doors or in the back of his car.
“Why though?” you ask softly, sitting up a bit more in his lap, and his eyes are distracted by your breasts for a second. “I wouldn’t be a good girlfriend?”
“No, you wouldn’t,” he mutters and looks up at you, shaking his head again, his hand cupping your cheek again. “Daddy issues, working a club,” he goes on, licking his lips.
“And you’d be a terrible boyfriend,” you shoot back, and you watch him grin. “Lying, manipulative… enjoys being around whores. Doesn’t sound like real boyfriend material,” you shake your head, and he pinches your cheek.
“Adorable,” he murmurs, tugging on your skin. “Trying to make me think that you don’t like being here?” he adds, and you smile too, biting your lip.
“I don’t,” you refuse, crossing your arms over your chest. “I hate it.”
“What’re you doing tomorrow, baby?” he suddenly asks, lifting his hands to pry your arms away from your body, lightly holding your bare waist. “Working a late shift?”
You hum. “No.”
“You got yourself a real job?” he teases, lightly slapping the side of your hip.
“College,” you say plainly, shrugging. “I go back tomorrow, remember…”
“Aha,” he nods, obnoxiously widening his eyes. “Schoolgirl who also strips for men double her age… almost stereotypical,” he quips, and you lean away from him, but he’s bringing you closer.
“You do really sound like a pervert, you know that?” you ask, gazing at him; still sweating, his bare chest broad and strong, and his biceps pulsing, veins in his forearm on display.
“Calling a guy who spends his evening at strip clubs a ‘pervert’?” he teases, and finds amusement in the way you roll your eyes. He likes it.
“I should get going,” you casually add, shaking your head.
“Haven't even given you head yet?” he mumbles, lightly stopping you from moving. “Some random professor more important than us, baby?” he adds, grinning.
“Maybe he is,” you shrug, slowly but surely crawling off his body, and lightly pats your ass as you do. “Besides… you have work tomorrow, mhm?”
“Yeah,” he grunts, glancing over at his phone. “Don’t start it until two o’clock though… we have the whole night still,” he offers, reaching for another cigarette, and you’re sliding on your clothes.
“You make your work sound all sneaky; it’s weird,” you say, putting on your skirt. “Why won't you ever tell me what you do?”
He lights the cigarette. “Doesn’t concern you, really.”
You roll your eyes and slide on your shirt next, and he’s swinging his legs over the side of the bed, balancing the smoke between his teeth as he reaches for his jeans. He stands up too, and slides them up his body, his boxers too, and he puts his belt on.
“Are you… a mafia member?” you tease, sliding on your sneakers.
“No,” he mumbles and shakes his head, sliding on his T-shirt next. “Worse.”
The two of you leave the motel room that he’ll be returning to after he drops you off at home–he never liked going straight home after a hookup, reeking of booze, cigarettes, sex, and your perfume that lingers on his skin days after.
He’s a secretive man; he always has been; you’re not even sure of his name, where he lives, his occupation. You just remember that night he came in, exhausted and looking, and you were being served on a silver platter, and he gave in. And now you’re in this tango of lust and lies, and neither of you wanted to get out of it.
You’re texting your friend on the subway the next day, earbuds tucked into your ears, your satchel on the seat beside you. She’s asking you questions, too many of them; how the sex was, if you broke it off like you say you would, and if you were really going to tell his wife as you threatened him. You’re smiling at the screen, watching her responses.
The walk from the station to the campus is a close one, and your black flats pad across the damp sidewalk, your eyes gazing at the other students filing in through the large wooden corridors. The sun hasn’t come out today, and that’s typical for a September day, and you sigh to yourself, finding your friend waiting by the doors.
“So, are you going to tell me more about last night?” She asks, shrinking her head to the side as she joins you. “You still have glitter on your eyes—really doing the little kids' parties still?”
Yeah. That’s what you told her you were doing late at night; dressing up as princesses, making a young girl’s dream come true that she really was meeting her favourite princess. Nobody had to know that the straight-A student spent her night at clubs, not even your best friend.
“Long night,” you shake your head, the two of you walking down the long hallway. “He wanted me to stay longer… and you know, I just got back from doing a stupid gig, told him I had classes today,” you ramble on.
“And you still don’t know his job?” She asks, gesturing with his hands. “What if he likes… insane?”
“I can only blame myself,” you joke, glancing at your friend. “Hooking up with a guy… I met at a bar, yeah, that’s on me if he’s insane,” you add, leaving out the fact he met you on the job, as a stripper.
“Well, you might as well cut it off now that school is starting,” your friend explains, your shoes clicking down the tile hall. “You can’t be sneaking out when you have exams at eight in the morning; you’ll be a zombie,” she goes on.
“I know,” you shrug, sighing. “He’s sweet.”
She scoffs. “Sweet? A cheating man… not so sweet.”
“His wife is an asshole,” you tell her, and she narrows her eyes, the two of you taking a sharp turn down the long hallways. “Completely hates him—he’s sure she’s hooking up with her own coworker, some young kid, too.”
“Are you like… revenge?” She asks, biting her lip.
“No,” you shake your head. “I’m a secret.”
“Even better,” she says sarcastically, giving you a little nod as the two of you part ways, and she heads to her first lecture, and unfortunately, your first one is at two o’clock.
The halls are mostly empty, a long stretch of grand windows, tall panes of glass, the soft pellets of rain striking against them. There’s not that much time to kill until your first lecture, so you decide to head to it early, get a nice seat tucked in the middle, not having to worry about awkward “sorry”s as you squeeze your way past knees and backpacks.
It’s empty when you walk in, and you walk up the small set of stairs, your eyes finding a seat not too far back, and not too close together. You didn’t miss these uncomfortable wooden chairs, and you take a seat, placing your bag at your feet.
You’ve always hated the uniforms, thought it was the dumbest thing of all time; mid 20s and wearing a plaid skirt like you’re in elementary school, uncomfortable vests and blazers that are too short for your arms, and the dumbest rule of them, the white socks that are always dirty—taking the subway wasn’t ideal, especially when your city rained and rained, leaving them stained and dirty, washing them over and over, even with multiple pairs.
Other students file in, and you’re too focused on scrolling through your phone, reading messages between you and him; the photos you sent that you shouldn’t be looking at in broad daylight, the sneaky addresses he sent you to meet him at, the compliments he left you throughout the day. You squeeze your legs together under the desk, and it’s almost like you hear his voice.
Well, you do.
Lifting your head, there he is: back turned, white button-up, a loose black tie and slacks, his hair gelled back and not messy, the wedding ring glinting in the unnatural lights, and that familiar tattoo on his forearm that you only see when he’s shirtless. Your jaw is agape, and you sit there in awe, wondering if he’ll pick you out in the crowd of students, all two hundred of them. You can’t move; you’re frozen.
“Okay,” he says loudly, ensuring everybody can hear that deep voice. “I’ll be going over the syllabus; you can find that later in your email if you decide not to pay attention… but I’ll be answering questions,” he drones on, sliding on an unfamiliar pair of glasses. He never wore those.
His eyes gloss over the audience as he wanders towards the small desk in the room, where his laptop is flipped open. And he notices you; he finds you there: your lips parted, your hair down, casual makeup, an outfit he never thought he’d see you in, and he freezes, blinking like he’s trying to wake up from a dream. He’s just as surprised, and he shakes his head, rubbing his jaw before looking back at the chalkboard.
How can he ever fail you when you’ll see him again, at midnight, in his bed?
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends to lovers, loss of virginity, age gap (20s - 40s), dbf!dean, angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (dry humping, senstive reader, begging, teasing, light spanking/pussy spanking, praise kink, massive dick dean, fingering, dean's got a panty kink, dean's dirty talk, spanking, oral f!reciving, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, nipple play, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, overstimulation, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 9.6k✦
✦author's note: from a few requests! i need him so so bad its like a problem✦
You know you’re far from the first, who’s dreamt about Dean Winchester. It would be like thinking you’re unique for liking ice cream, or wanting world peace. Nothing worthy of note. You gawk at him when he walks around the yard shirtless, and you’re no better than all the suburban moms and bar girls that lick their lips at his smallest smile. It’s really front page news, to be in love with the handsome, muscular man that holds open doors and helps old ladies cross the street. You’re really breaking barriers, drooling over his biceps when he works on a car and pressing your thighs together when he catches you watching and winks.
But that’s where you do start to get a little ahead of the curve.
Dean looks back.
He’s not supposed to. You both know he’s not supposed to, and you’re both awfully good at pretending you care. Dean walks into your house without invitation, saying he’s looking for your dad, and you suddenly have about fifty different reasons so bend over and stretch and wear the shortest skirt you can find. Your dad asks you to drop something off at Dean’s garage, and his secretary—an even older man named Bobby, who detests the word secretary, but doesn’t really have any other kinds of duties since he stopped being able to work on cars—doesn’t exist anymore. Dean needs to come out to greet you himself. He has to take the package and let your fingers brush, and his sleeves need to be rolled up, and he’s so sweaty he simply must use his shirt to wipe his face.
You gape at his thick, muscled chest and abdomen. He says your name, grabbing your waist for attention, and you both stare at each other a little too long.
He licks his lips. His throat bobs. Your breath hitches, and you take the smallest step forward. His dull nails dig into your hips, and your hand lands on his belt for balance. There’s an electricity in the air you can taste. It shoots down your spine like a lightning and makes your skin wet and hot. Dean’s eyes go dark, and you push up on your toes.
Then something rattles. Someone calls. Your dad walks back inside with a wide grin and spread arms, and you and Dean jump apart like children playing cooties. He steals a glance at you, before you walk away. You lock yourself in your room or car and rub your inner thighs, eyes squeezed shut with frustration, face burning from the flood of arousal between your legs, sticking your panties to your cunt and filling up the air with the smell of shame and need.
Neither of you speak of it. The dance replays itself for almost a year, and you’re not brave enough to change a single step.
But Dean isn’t either. Though he’d call it not stupid enough. It doesn’t matter than he’s told you he’s more at ease with you than anyone else he’s ever known. He doesn’t think the evidence of his need for you—impressive and mouthwatering, straining through his jeans whenever you accidentally let your ass press against him—amounts to anything but a desire that makes him sick.
It’s wrong, he’d say.
And you’d agree, if it wasn’t growing over your life like a weed. If you hadn’t tried to move on—over and over and over, with boys in clubs and co-workers and dating apps—but failed more times than you can count, all because of Dean. He lives in your dream, now. You structure your day around trying to steal a glimpse of him, because it’s all you’re allowed to have. You stop trying to work the weed of your love out. It’s prettier than all the other deadened brushel of your previous crushes. It breeds a new kind of ecology, makes you brave in different ways than you were before. You know more about cars than you ever thought you would. Bobby let you into his old man book club—even Dean and your father aren’t allowed—and you can drive a boat because summer vacation comes with even more Dean, and it was just impossibly important that you basically sit on his fucking knee while he taught you to drive.
You won’t change yourself for him. You won’t play pool—there’s too much math and just… standing around—or pretend to like things you don’t. But you know you’re not the only one changing.
Your dad says Dean’s been listening to different music lately. That he doesn’t kill the fish after he catches them anymore, when they go out to the docks, and you’re sure it has nothing to do with you getting teary eyed when he tried to do it in front of you. He let you describe your makeup routine to him once, and remembered everything you told him, to the point that his sister-in-law Eileen noticed that he understood her product before his brother Sam. He’s even—supposedly—driving slower, after you hit his arm and told him not to get himself killed.
And the big one.
He doesn’t flirt.
Not the way he used to. He doesn’t do cheesy pickup lines that only work because he’s a living Adonis, and he doesn’t stuff numbers in his pockets like spoils of war. You overhear your dad making fun of him for having lost his game, and Dean just chuckles and shakes his head.
“Maybe I’m growin’,” he drawls. “You ever think of that?”
Your dad laughs, and it echoes over the lake. “Why the fuck would I have thought of that?”
Dean shrugs and takes a swig of his beer. You can feel his gaze, over the firepit. It’s warmer than the raging flame. You pull your knees into your chest, and don’t dare to look back.
“You really looking for something serious, Winchester?” Your dad asks, and Dean hums.
“Somethin’ like that, yeah.”
Your dad beams and starts to talk about single women he knows, who might be good for Dean. They all sound perfect. Intelligent and kind and age-appropriate, with no weird complications. Your throat hurts like you’re catching a virus. You excuse yourself for the night, and lock yourself in your room.
And it goes like that for a long, long time.
But when the weeds grow over everything, it does, so slowly, start to change.
It’s almost inevitable. Like you both accept that there’s nothing to do but go with the tide, even if it’s sweeping you out to sea. It’s still not spoken about. It just… is.
“You doin’ something tonight?” Dean asks you, and you shrug.
“I never do anything. Any night.”
He snorts. “That ain’t true, sweetheart-“
“I don’t do fun things,” you counter, and Dean hums.
He’s lounging on your couch like he owns it, his arm tossed over the back of the seat and a beer in his hand. He watches you move around the room with lidded eyes and a hand fisted on his thigh. Neither of you acknowledge the almost bungee like tension, that sends you walking past him, even when you don’t need to be.
“I think you’re plenty fun,” Dean offers, and you roll your eyes.
“Yeah, sure.”
He frowns. “I’m not joking-“
“Dean,” you give him a flat look. “It’s okay. I know I’m not- You don’t have to make me feel better about it. I have other redeeming qualities.”
“Redeeming-“ Dean cuts himself off with a disbelieving laugh. “Jesus, woman.”
“What?”
He shrugs and takes a long swig of his beer. You cross your arms and glare at him, trying not to get too stiff. You know you’re not fun. Not like the women he’s used to, not like most people. You can be fun, but you’re never anyone’s first choice to get a thrill. You keep yourself in your head, and you read, and you work, and that’s it.
Dean’s type, if your dad is to be believed, is long legs that are hard to catch and batting lashes that try to outdo his smirk. You’re very easy to catch. All Dean would have to do is offer a hand, and you’d fall to your knees. You couldn’t outdo his smirk if you tried, because the only weapons you have are eye rolls and sharp words. Difficult, you’ve been called.
Not fun.
But Dean’s looking at you like he’s having the time of his life, staring you down from the couch. You tip up your chin and narrow your eyes, and he raises his brows, amused and lazy.
“What?” You demand, and he shrugs.
“Didn’t say nothing-“
“Yes, you did, you- You said Jesus, woman,” you drop your voice to mimic his, and he snorts.
“I don’t sound like that-“
“You sound exactly like that.”
“No-“
“Yes.”
And this is what you mean. You’re stubborn and mean and a lot of teeth for a girl who doesn’t really know how to use them. But Dean’s eyes gleam, and his smile only grows. Suddenly you’re restless. You need to press your away from that dangerous, hungry gaze, or you need to throw yourself into the dark and hope it’s as warm as you’ve dreamed.
“I think you can be plenty fun, princess,” Dean teases, and you bite your lip. “You just don’t go out.”
“You don’t go out,” you snip, because it’s all you can think.
Dean just hums, looking you up and down. “You’re right,” he muses. “We should fix that.”
You huff, then pause. “We?”
Dean grins, and that’s how it starts.
It’s not a date. You remind yourself of that the whole drive there, that this is not a date. Dean’s just taking you a dive bar he knows, far enough out of town that your dad wouldn’t catch you—though it doesn’t matter if he does, because this is not a date—and he’s going to buy your drinks and sit next to you in the booth and listen to you babble about nothing like you’re telling him the secrets of the universe.
He turns down a waitress with boobs almost spilling out of her shirt, and keeps his hand on some part of your body almost the whole night.
But it’s not a date.
“So,” he murmurs, his thumb drawing small circles on your wrist. You watch him with wide eyes, your breath caught in your throat.
He hasn’t been drinking. You didn’t know that was something he did. And he smells like sweet, summer smoke and leather and oil, and his body radiates heat like a furnace, and you think you might just melt under his gaze.
“You from ‘round here?” He drawls, and you swallow.
You know that tone. He’s inviting you to play, but in a way that feels far more dangerous than usual. Dean leans down until you’re only inches away. Your eyes flick to his lips, and his hands fists on the table.
You shake your head, and his lips twitch.
“Just passin’ through town, huh?”
You nod, and he raises his brows.
“What’s got a pretty little thing like you, hangin’ out in a place like this?”
Oh. He wants to play play. To have the exact kind of fun you warned him you weren’t capable of.
But you can try.
Under Dean’s gaze, it kind of feels like you can do anything.
You pull all your confidence together with clenched knuckles, and lean forward. Close enough for your lips to brush, if either of you dared to breathe a little too heavy. Dean blinks, and his ears go a little red, but he doesn’t back away. You smile as coy as you can manage, and run your nails lightly up his forearm. You’ve watched a lot of movies, and you might not be fun, but you’re a fantastic actress.
“My daddy did me wrong,” you coo, fluttering your lashes. “Hurt me real bad, and now I’m lookin’ for something new.” You lean a little further forward. Dean’s throat bobs. “Can you help me find it, sir?”
Dean stares at you, and for a horrible second, you think you took the bit too far.
Then he laughs. It’s strangled and tight in a way you’ve never heard. It sends a rush through your blood, and paired with his red face and squared shoulders, you think you might get addicted.
“Fuckin’- Christ.” Dean takes a long drink from his beer, grinning like he doesn’t know what else to do with his face. “That was- Good one.”
You beam, your heart glowing under his pride. He pats your shoulder, throat bobbing, and your eyes dart down to his jeans.
To the thick outline, threatening the fabric. Your mouth waters, and you frantically look away before Dean looks back. He’s grinning when he does, casual but wide. His arm slings fully over your shoulders, his thumb dragging in those small circles, and you wonder if he has any idea, exactly what pathetic kind of doll he turns you into.
“See, princess,” he taps your nose, and it scrunches against your will. “You’re real fun.”
“I think,” you say slowly, trying not to sound too breathless, too desperate, too his. “You have a low standard.”
Dean shakes his head. “I think I got a high standard. You just never seen anyone else clear it.”
“But-“ You try to fight the question. It slips out anyways. “I- I clear it?”
And something in Dean’s face softens. You don’t know how to pinpoint it, because it’s so small, you didn’t even know there was tension. But it eases, and it’s like the clouds clearing from the sky.
“Yeah,” he says. “You clear it.”
You smile. He smiles back.
And before either of you can realize what’s happening, you both let go of that edge at the same time. The one you’d been clinging to, that plunges from stares to… Something.
Not dating. There’s nothing but soft touches shared the whole night. Dean looks at your lips but never moves. You stare at his chest but never climb it.
But there’s something.
And together, you start to fall.
Once a week, you go to the bar.
You tell your dad you’re going for a walk, or to a friend’s. You go down the street, and Dean picks you up. Neither of you talk about why you’re sneaking around, even though you’re not sleeping together, because you know.
Whatever this is, it isn’t above board. It’s stolen glances and bodies pressed together against the bar. It’s Dean’s hand on your ass, but only ever over clothing, and you sitting in his lap but never kissing more than your drink. It’s secrets whispered in the dark and being backed up against a wall with no way out, and nothing close to a desire for one.
It’s Dean glaring at men who get too close, and you dressing up in a way you’ve never done for anyone else. He’s a causal man, but he turns wolfish when a guy your age sits next to you at the bar. You never wear anything you don’t want to, and you’ve never been lazy about your appearance, but with Dean you try. You get high on his dragging looks and glinting eyes, giggling and smoothing your skirt like a schoolgirl.
You’ve never been a fool for a man. But Dean doesn’t count.
Because he’s a fool for you in return.
“I don’t need the doctor-“
“Everyone needs the doctor, dumbass,” you tap your fingers on the wheel, and Dean grunts.
He’s slumped like a child in his seat. You rub his neck, trying to soothe him, but all you get is a lean into your touch and a few less complaints.
He made the mistake of telling you he hasn’t been to the doctor since his late twenties. You’d like him alive, so you’re putting an end to that now.
And neither of you mention, that you’re out in broad daylight. It’s dangerous. You can’t care, when Dean holds you hand walking into the office and demands you go back into the room with him. He’s restless the whole appointment, looking at the door like he’s thinking about running. You grab his knee, and he shoots you a glare.
“Please,” you whisper, and his shoulders slump.
“Fine,” he mutters, holding your hand on his leg. “For you.”
You smile, and float through the rest of the day.
For you.
He said it simply. Like it was all the reason he’d ever need. He agrees to eat a banana every once and a while, and lower his salt intake, for you.
“I’m fuckin’ old,” he whines on the drive home, and you smile at the road.
“You complain like you’re young.”
“Haha,” he rolls his eyes, then gives you a strange look. You try not to squirm beneath it, but Dean never makes that kind of thing easy.
“What-“
“You really don’t mind,” he cuts you off with quiet words. You don’t have to ask what he means. “I mean- Princess, you could be runnin’ around with a real white knight, instead of-“
“Dean,” you give him a firm look. “Shut up.”
He raises his brows. He doesn’t look convinced, but his mouth twitches. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, and you huff.
He is a knight. Not the fairytale one, but you’ve never liked things that are so perfect they have to be plastic. You like Dean with all his scars and callouses and rough words. He doesn’t save you, and you don’t save him, but that’s not what this is about.
Your dad says Dean looks alive, in a way he hasn’t in a long time. Your friends say you look happy, in a way they’ve never seen. You don’t cry into pillows anymore. You drive to Dean’s place and knock on the door with teary eyes, falling into his arms because it’s safer than any fortress in the world.
“I’ve got you, baby,” he mutters, carrying you up to his bedroom. “Let it out. I’m right here.”
You still don’t kiss. Dean’s knuckles graze your bare skin, and his morning wood rubs between your thighs, but that’s it. You wear his shirt, and pretend not to notice that your panties go missing, every time you stay at his place.
There’s this line in the sand, and it keeps getting washed away. All that’s left is you and Dean, both pretending it’s still there. So the dance turns. Both of you take new steps in perfect time, staying in the boundaries of something acceptable. Something deniable.
Something leaveable, even if neither of you seem to be eyeing the exit.
Something safe.
It’s all still safe. Your dad has no idea. You think Bobby’s noticed, but he doesn’t say a word. You hold Dean’s hand with both of yours when he pulls you through a crowd, and he looks back to make sure you’re still smiling, but it all coated in the illusion of a friendship.
A friendship where he says he loves you, when he thinks you can’t hear. A friendship where your lips brush his neck when you’re cuddling, and you pretend not to feel his cock rut against your thigh. It’s not sustainable, but you’re willing to let the candle burn itself out, just to have him like this.
But it doesn’t burn out. It’s electric and solar powered, and every bit of warmth only lets it sustain itself long. Nothing dies. Nothing changes. You and Dean never let yourself touch deeper than your souls, and neither of you dare to ask for more.
Until something snaps.
It’s nothing. Compared to the everything that you and Dean have been pretending not to notice, there’s no real reason for this to be the break.
“You goin’ out?” Dean asks from the couch, and you nod, sorting through your purse.
“Yeah, um- Groceries.”
“Ah.” He glances at the fridge. “We outta something?”
Your mouth twitches. “We’re out of everything.”
“We ain’t outta everything, sweetheart-“
You yank the fridge open, revealing it’s bare innards, and Dean cuts himself off. You give him a pointed, smug look, and he drums his fingers on his knee.
“Huh.”
“Huh?” You snort, closing the door. “I think sorry is better.”
Dean laughs, low and rough, his gaze raking over your body. You flush, but don’t shy away. He always does this. It never amounts to something worth being flustered over.
You cross your arms and raise your brows, pretending to wait for your apology. Dean’s jaw works. His tongue flicks out, and you shift on your feet.
“You’re real dressed up for the store,” he mutters, and you shrug.
“So?”
A vein pushes in his brow. “Nothin’. Just- C’mere.”
He stretches out a hand, and you swallow. “Dean…”
He beckons. Two fingers, crooked and pulling you forward like he’s got you on a string. You almost stumble between his legs. You flush for the first time in a while, tucking your hands nervously behind your back. It’s never been this close before. You’ve stood here, but never with his hand so securely on your hip, with him leaning forward so his breath fans over your midriff. His hand drags down the back of your thigh, goosebumps rising in its wake. You shift on your feet, heat pooling in your core.
“You want to come with me?” You whisper, because it’s all you can muster.
“Nah.”
He doesn’t even look up, as he answers. He watches himself touch you, retracing sensitive spots and furrowing his brow in a brutal focus that makes your head spin. You open your mouth to say his name again, but nothing expect a tiny gasp comes out. His fingers are teasing your inner thigh, and it turns your knees to jelly. You brace a hand on his shoulder. His eyes snap to yours, and there’s nothing teasing or restrained behind them.
His face is blown out with hunger, and you could so easily shove yourself away, but you don’t want to. He doesn’t need to give chase or fight. You’re not a hunt he’s going to lose. You’re laying yourself down like an offering, and whatever he does with it, you’re more than happy to comply.
Dean tugs you down to his lap in one movement. You squeak in surprise, and his free hand wraps around your neck. You barely have time to brace yourself, before he’s kissing you.
And this is better than dreaming.
This is Dean, warm and strong and demanding beneath you. He kisses you like he’s both going to and returning from war. His mouth slots perfectly over yours, lips chapped and warm and coated in a thin layer of spit. His tongue slides over your teeth, then presses down your throat, working in a way that makes your legs spread wide, imagining that heat against your count. His fingers press into your soft skin, encouraging you to mold easily into his body. You coo, throwing every bit of friction back, and a low rumble rolls through his chest.
Dean settles back against the couch. You straddle him, your wet core pressed against the tent forming in his jeans. You comb your fingers through his hair, and his beard scrapes against your cheeks and jaw. He sucks on your lower lip, squeezing the back of your neck. Your hips roll, and he groans.
He’s hard. Thick and hard beneath you in every possible way. Combined with the heat and unrelenting kisses, it makes you dizzy. You need him. You need him in a way you’ve never needed anything, so much it hurts, so much you think you’re going to scream.
And there’s a little problem. You think he knows about it. You’re less sure than you’d like to be. The tips of his fingers graze your inner thigh, and you buck against him with a whine.
Sensitive. Too sensitive. You think you could cum just from grinding against his rock-hard bulge, because it’s the only way you’ve cum before, and combined with Dean’s mouth roaming over your neck—planting open, messy, possessive kisses—you’re already halfway there.
“De- Dean-“ You gasp, and he groans against your skin. “Dean, slow down-“
He pulls back immediately, his brow knit with worry. “What- What’s wrong-“
“No- Nothing’s wrong, I just-“ You swallow, and Dean’s frown deepens.
“Sweetheart, if you ain’t ready-“
“No!” You shout and Dean’s mouth curves in a smug, surprised smirk. “No- No, I just- Stop looking at me.”
It’s a pathetic whine, but Dean obeys it like an order. He squeezes his eyes shut and cups your cheek, like he’s still trying to keep track of where you are. You giggle, and his thumb drags over your upper lip. You let your tongue flick against the pad of his finger, and he groans.
Dean drops his face against your chest. Still not looking, but mouthing at the curve of your breasts, in a way that really isn’t fair to anyone. You weave your fingers through his hair, trying to only breathe steady. Dean rubs your waist, humming against your skin.
“Talk to me, baby girl.”
“I- I’m not-“ You’re stumbling. Stuttering even in your own thoughts, unable to think outside of Dean’s lips. “You know I’ve never- Been serious with anyone.”
Dean grunts, nipping at the swell of your tits, and you hide your face in his hair.
“It’s- I’ve never been anything,” you whisper. “Except myself. And I- I’m not very good at it.”
That’s an understatement. You cum too fast and it’s nothing more than a small, disappointing shiver. Toys barely help. Nothing helps, except thinking of Dean.
And now you have him below you. Completely still, breathing so heavy it makes you nervous. He’s gripping your hips tight enough to leave a bruise. Tears start to prick in your eyes, having nothing to do with the dull pain.
“I- I’m sorry-“
Dean’s head snaps up. His massive hand covers your mouth, and you blink with glossy-eyed, nervous confusion. You’ve never seen his eyes so dark, his jaw so set. That hidden gleam, that shines just for you, it’s out and free. Dean looks at you like you’re an angel, falling from Heaven, ready to be dragged to the deepest pits of his desire. Your body starts to tingle with excitement, your heart pounding out of your chest and in your pussy.
“Never?” He asks, his voice impossibly low. You nod nervously, and he swallows. “And you want- You want me?”
He asks it as if you’re insane. As if you could ever want anyone else. You grab his wrists and squeeze gently. His throat bobs, and he shakes his head.
“Princess, you could be doin’ so much better- Yes, you could.” He gives you a stern look, when you shake your head.
You push your hips further against him, and a vein in his neck throbs. You drop your brow against his, and he releases your mouth, cradling the back of your neck instead.
“Baby…” He rasps. “I- I might love you, but I ain’t the only douchebag who’s gonna feel that-“
“But you’re the only one I love back.”
Both of you fall silent. Dean tenses, and you hold his stare. He said it first. You just said it back. Now it’s on him to actually fucking do something about it.
You’re offering to crash into the waves and drown together. He can either stay in line, or try this new dance. Be the one to show you, to have you, to finally just fucking take you. It’s not the noble thing to ignore this anymore. It’s only cruel.
Dean’s throat bobs. You wait.
“Yeah?” He chokes out, and you don’t hesitate.
“Yeah.”
“Are you-“
“Dean,” you breathe. “Please.”
His throat bobs. He nods, once to himself, then once more. Something sharp settles over his features, like a picture coming into focus. His hold on your body tightens, his breath steadies, and his tongue darts over his lips. A satisfied yet starved light shines in his eyes, and your heart thunders. You didn’t know anticipation could feel like wildfire, until you were trapped under Dean’s attention. But he looks at you the same way he looks at a pool table before he makes a move, his hands starting to slowly massage your hips, and you’re being unraveled with nothing but his gaze.
“Please?” His tone is low. Close to mocking. “Please what?”
You swallow, your voice stuck in your throat. You’ve practiced this, in the mirror. Ever since this—this strange, beautiful dance—began, you’d spent hours under the steaming shower water, imagining Dean pressed behind you, the roll of his voice, the way you’d be cool and collected and match his every sparring tease with the ease of a woman he’d want. The older, leather-wearing, red lipstick models that wrap boys around their finger like they’re collecting rings.
But the practice is paying in nothing. You’re not one of those girls. You’re nervous and wired and wound up so tight, you can’t do anything but lean further over Dean’s chest and pant.
Dean raises his brows, dragging one hand down to kneed at your ass. Your breath hitches, and your hips mindlessly roll. Dean’s jaw ticks, his eyes going so dark you think you might be drowning in them. He pulls you closer, his lips parting as he watches you fuck yourself against his thigh, and it starts to dawn on you with the rising heat, electric up your spine.
For whatever reason, Dean doesn’t want the cool, collected woman. He’s entranced by you, confused and rigid and so frantic for him that you don’t know what to do with yourself.
And you’re in the best kind of trouble about it.
Dean splays his hand on your lower back and shoves you down, trapping you against him with no chance for friction. You whine, and his hand slips under your shirt. He drags a rough, light touch up your spine, bunching the fabric against his wrist, and wraps his fingers around the base of your neck.
“You’re gonna need to use your words, sweet girl,” he warns, dragging his thumb in tiny circles. “I ain’t able to help brats that won’t talk to me.”
You nod, but you’re still breathing too fast to speak. Dean hums, settling fully back into the couch cushions, and waits. Patient and cruel, rubbing your lower back and squeezing your neck in a gentle prompt.
“C’mon,” he coos. “Where’d all that smart talk go?”
You don’t know. You dig your nails into his chest and watch him with wide eyes, trying to drag your thoughts out of the humid, demanding throb between your thighs.
“Deeean,” you manage to whine, and Dean’s throat bobs.
“Right here, baby,” he rasps. His voice dropped. It sends a rush through your blood, the ache between your thighs growing.
“I- I-“ You try to grind down, to show him what you need, and a sharp spank lands on your ass. You squeal, and Dean’s mouth twitches in amusement, massaging the sting until it fades to only pleasure.
“You like that, huh?” He mutters, right before landing another. “Dirty girl. Been neglected too fuckin’ long, haven’t you?” Another spank. You fall against his chest with a cry of need, and his hand drags down, letting him thumb at your pussy through your shorts.
You wrap your arms around his neck, and he weaves his hand through your hair, delivering one more spank before kissing the side of your head.
“No one’s been takin’ care of you,” he says, low and rough. You clench around nothing, nodding uselessly, and Dean hums. “Needy fuckin’ baby, doesn’t even know what the hell to do with herself when she’s finally gettin’ some attention.”
“Dean,” you whimper. “Dean, please-“
He moves his hand around, grabbing your jaw and forcing you a little back. You blink at him through teary lashes, the eye contact too intense, too addictive.
“Please, what?” He taps your cheek, and you swallow.
“Please. Fu- Fuck me-“
Dean yanks you forward, cutting you off with a demanding, bruising kiss. Your nails sink into his shoulders, your body turning to putty as his tongue pushes back down your throat. Dean grunts, groping your ass and angling your head so the kiss deepens.
“De- Dean-“
“I know,” he grunts against your lips, barely giving you a second to breather between sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. “I know it’s achin’, baby. I’m gonna take care of it.” He kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I’m gonna take care of it.”
You mewl, nipping at his lower lip with every bit of energy you have. Dean grunts and stands, keeping you tight against his chest. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, and he half-stumbles down the hall and up the stairs. You make it five steps before he’s pressing you against the wall and focusing on sucking and licking your neck, then another five before he’s pulling at your skirt, teasing his thumb back over your clothed cunt. Like he can’t help himself from touching you. Like everything is secondary, to getting his hands all over your body.
The paintings on the wall shake, when he kicks open the door to your room. You hug him tighter, kissing over his beard with sloppy, uncoordinated lips. He grunts, swaying against the door frame. You dare a glance up, and find his eyes rolling back, his jaw gaping and breathing ragged. You double your efforts, hypnotized by the effect you seem to have on him. His fingers dig into your ass, and he moans, pressing further back against the door frame.
His eyes flick down to yours, and you keep thinking you’ve hit the bottom of his desire, just to find a new, rawer layer below.
“You like watchin’, sweetheart?” He rasps, and you flush so hard you think you’re on fire.
Dean chuckles and pushes off the wall, kicking the door closed behind him. His kisses turn suddenly sweet and slow, exploring your lips, working you up until you’re panting and scratching at his shoulders. It’s romantic in the worst way. He’s treating you like a delicate flower—setting you down on the edge of the mattress, kneeling between your legs and massaging your thighs—when you just want to be tossed around and fucked like a doll.
Then his hand glides ever so slightly up, his knuckles teasing against your clothed pussy. Your breath hitches, and Dean chuckles.
“You’ve never let yourself feel good, have you?” He murmurs against your lips, and you swallow.
“I- I don’t-“
“’S okay,” Dean kiss over your cheek, his knuckles grinding into your weeping slit. “Should’ve known my busy girl was neglectin’ herself. So smart, so sweet,” he nips at your jaw. “So fuckin’ bad at relaxing.”
You moan a broken agreement, and Dean hums. His mouth travels down your neck, sucking love bites right as his fingers hook around your panties. Your eyes go wide, your cry a strangle, desperate sound you didn’t really know you could make. Dean smirks, pressing his knuckles right against your clit before he rips your panties clean off.
“Dean-“ You cut yourself off with a choked whimper, your elbows shaking with the effort to keep yourself upright. The air on your pussy is cold, and the need just makes it impossible to do anything but blink at Dean’s set jaw and devout gaze.
He brings your panties up to his face and takes a deep, slow breath, his gaze never leaving yours. You whimper, grabbing his hand on your thigh, and he flips it palm up, letting your fingers lace together.
“So fuckin’ sweet,” he grunts. “Bet you’re gonna taste even better, won’t you.” He squeezes you hand, and you whimper.
“De- Dean,” you spread your legs wider, shameless and needy under his stare. “Just- Please.”
Dean’s gaze drops. He shoves your skirt higher up, fully revealing your slick, pulsing pussy. You’re not sure you’re breathing, as you watch him take you in. He glances up to your wrecked, hopeless expression, a vein ticking in his brow.
“You’re gonna be loud,” he mutters, and you blink.
“Ma- Maybe, I’m not- I’ve never-“ God, you’re seconds from sinking into the bed and never coming back up. “I’ve never- Finished,” you whisper, and Dean’s hand flexes in yours.
He closes his eyes for a moment. Takes a deep, almost labored breath, and shakes his head.
“Gonna fuckin’ kill me,” he mutters, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Swear to god, sweetheart, you could make a man lose it just listenin’ to you.”
You swallow. “So- Sorry-“
“No,” Dean glares at you, and your mouth snaps shut. “No apologies. Never to me. Just gotta- Hold on.”
He kisses the back of your hand, and stands suddenly. You watch, trembling and cold without his touch, as he stuffs your panties into his jean pockets, then yanks his shirt over his head.
And dear lord, he’s a work of art. You’re only able to breathe shallowly, as if something too deep and loud will wake you from this heated, perfect dream. The one where Dean’s towering over you, all muscle and broad shoulders and warm, tanned skin. His chest alone is massive—his tits might be bigger than your—and his biceps bulge with every single movement. You don’t even realize you’re drooling under he’s wiping the spit from your lower lip, smiling with such adoration it makes you squirm.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he mutters, careful and slow. “I’m takin’ care of you, and you’re just gonna lay there lookin’ nice and pretty, alright?”
You nod frantically, trying to lie down immediately, but Dean catches you by the back of your neck. You falter, blinking up at him in confusion, and his lips twitch.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he says to himself, squeezing gently. “Gonna make that wet little pussy feel better, baby girl. Gonna make it feel so good.”
You whimper, and Dean lets out a ragged breath. He ducks down, pressing his lips slowly against your, and you push up on trembling fingers to kiss him back. He rubs your thigh, tracing his tongue over your swollen lips, and slowly presses you back into the sheets. You’re fully trapped beneath him, wrapped in pure warmth and safe, worshipful strength.
Dean glides one hand up your side, teasing over your hips and ribs before resting it right under your breast. Callouses fingers flick your nipple once, before dragging gently over the hurt. He smiles against your lips, at your tiny squeak, the sensation sending a jolt right to your pussy.
“I know it hurts, princess,” he coos. “But you’re bein’ so good for me. So fuckin’ patient.”
You make a disgruntled sound. You’re not exactly choosing to be patient. You just don’t have the strength to wrestle with him, or the mind to argue. You’ve watched enough porn and read enough smutty fanfiction to think you’d understand how this would go. In all your carefully crafted fantasies, Dean rips off your clothing and pins you to the mattress, fucking you suddenly and desperately, like an animal finally let out of its cage.
But Dean’s not the kind of animal that others kept trapped. He had himself on the leash. He’s more practiced in control than you could’ve imagined, an expert at letting himself have just enough to be satisfied, without actually having anything at all. And now you’re spread on the bed for him to take without any kind of consequence he could make matter, and he’s not going to do anything but take his time.
“First time I fuckin’ saw you,” he mutters, lips brushing against yours. “Knew I was goner. Spent four years, hearin’ about how smart and kind you were, never knew you were a fuckin’ knockout too. Thought I’d died and gone to heaven, before I realized who you were.” He bunches the fabric of your shirt in his hand, slowly pulling it up your body. “Didn’t realize I was gonna be trapped in a hell where I couldn’t have the one girl I’d ever thought about wantin’ forever.”
Dean pulls off your shirt and begins to pepper kisses over the curve of your breasts, massive hands massaging your sensitive tits. Your back arches, a soft whimper leaving your throat as snaps your bra strap against your skin, then slowly traces the line of the fabric, all the way around to the clasp. He undoes it with a single, easy motion, and, before something ugly and green—reminding you of how many times he’s done before—settles in your gut, he squeezes your tit, and kisses his way back up your neck.
“You got no idea,” he purrs. “How much I’ve been dreamin’ about this. How fuckin’ hard,” he pushes his hips against your thigh, forcing you to feel the length of his hardened cock. “It’s been to keep my hands to myself, when you were runnin’ around looking like every fantasy I’ve had since I was a goddamn teenager. Used to pop one justwatching these bounce around,” he ducks back down, mouthing at your swollen tits. “And thinkin’ about how reactive you’d be, how good you’d feel…”
He trails off with a groan, wrapping his wet, warm mouth around your nipple, his free hand teasing the neglected bud with careful fingers. You pull on his hair and he groans, pushing his boner harder against you, all while offering no friction to your pussy. You try to protest and whine, try to shove his face lower, but he’s set on taking his time.
Dean switches attention between your tits, letting his hands roam your body with leisure. He maps every curve and dip, letting that dirty mouth follow the wake of shivering, burning need his touch leaves. He pulls your skirt down slowly, kissing over your stomach and hips, wrapping a massive arm around your knees and trapping them together when you try to grind into his face.
“Be good,” he warns, letting the tips of his fingers drag under your ass, barely brushing the lips of your pussy. “I know what you want, baby, but you’ve been waitin’ this long. You can be good.”
You think, somewhere in your lust addled brain, that he has a lot of misplaced faith in you. You cannot be good. Not when Dean kisses everywhere around your dripping mound, but never lets anything but his nose touch that little button. Not when he fully drags your skirt off your legs and teases your knees and feet, smiling to himself when you squirm and splaying a huge hand over your tummy, pinning you to the mattress and kissing his way back up your trembling legs.
He pushes your knees to your chest, and sucks dark, possessive marks on your inner thighs. Two broad fingers press the lips of your fluttering pussy together, and your hips buck, tears starting to spring into your eyes. You’ve never been teased like this. So careful and deliberate, like he’s trying to find every possible way to pull you apart. He kisses every spot twice, glancing at your slack, drunken expression like he’s measuring and memorizing each and every reaction. He blows on your pinched pussy and you cry out, grabbing his wrist and trying to roll away from the touch.
“Ah,” Dean spanks you cunt, pushing up on his knees. “This ain’t bein’ patient, sweetheart.”
“I’m- I’m trying,” you try and push his hand back against your core, but he’s too strong. “Dean, just- Just touch me, pleaaseee- Mhm-“
Dean leans down, kissing you back into the mattress. You’re almost folded in half beneath him, your cunt clenching around nothing, weeping for attention he’s taking his sweet time to give.
“If I’d known I was makin’ you this needy,” he rasped. “I woulda started fuckin’ you that first night.”
He spanks your pussy again, then swallows your needy sob with another kiss. You hump the air, the movements shorts and stuttered with how he’s keeping you pinned down.
“So goddamn wet,” Dean drags his hand against your swollen cunt, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit. Your eyes roll back in your head with every short movement, and his lips curve in an adoring, smug smirk. “You like that, baby girl? Feels good?”
“Ye- Yes,” you manage to stutter, clawing at the arm pinning you against the sheets. “Dean- Deean-“
“That’s right,” Dean spanks your pussy again, before running two thick fingers through your soaked folds. “Just like that. Jesus, you’re dripping on my fucking hand.”
He laughs in disbelief, and you didn’t think you were able to flush more, but the heat starts to cascade like a waterfall, a wet pressure building up at the top of your core.
“De- Dean-“ You’re trying to warn him, but his eyes only darken.
“You’re gonna cum?” He pushes those fingers against your entrance, barely dipping them into your tight channel. “Lose it just from hearin’ about how I wanna fuck you?” He leans down, forcing your gaze to stay trapped against his. “How I wanna stuff this pussy up with my fingers, my cock, my fuckin’ cum? Fillin’ you up like you deserve, makin’ you even stupider and prettier than I’ve got you right now, let it drip out, let everyone see who owns this perfect little cunt-“
The heat snaps, and you cum with a long, broken scream of his name.
You’ve never had an orgasm like this. It makes every single one with your vibrator seem downright pathetic, the way this one crashes through your whole body, forcing stars behind your eyes and making you thrash like a dog in heat. Your pussy is gushing in a way you didn’t know was possible, your body rolling in the sheets as the pleasure crests and becomes almost too much to handle.
And you don’t get a chance to come back down. To settle and collect yourself and just beg for his cock, the way he’s been promising for too long.
Your orgasm doesn’t fade, because Dean doesn’t let it.
He presses your knees right to your chest, tangles your hands back together, and shoves his face right into your trembling cunt.
You thought the fingers and the dirty talk were bad. You thought you knew the limit of pleasure your body could take, but Dean seems to be determined to prove you wrong. You knew his mouth was warm and wet and unrelenting, but you hadn’t been prepared for how it would feel against your pussy. It’s like a vibrator got sent on fire and covered in cocaine, giving you a second hand high just from the contact. Dean makes out with your cunt like it’s your lips, but without demanding a single thing in return.
He groans when you pull on his hair, his tongue flicking back and forth over your clit so fast you can’t even find anything but a high-pitched whine in your throat. He licks a rough stripe up your cunt and mouths at your fluttering hole, drawing out every bit of arousal with the tickle and scrape of his beard against your already overused thighs. He draws back for half a second, spitting on your clit and using three fingers to rub your pussy so brutally, your knees give out laying down.
“Dean- Dean- Fuuuuuuck-“ You cry it over and over like a prayer. You hump his face and try to squirm away from it at the same time, but Dean never lets you get too far. He smiles and nips at your clit when you grind against his jaw, and chases you up the mattress when you try to get away, manhandling and dragging you back against his face. Soon you’ve got nowhere left to roll without falling off the bed, and Dean stops putting up with your antics.
You’re still in half below him, but he’s pressing you down too tight for you to move. You sob and crane your neck, holding onto his head for dear life, the slick between your thighs starting to feel too tight again. You don’t have to say it this time. Dean’s eyes glint, opening to look back to yours, and wraps his lips around your clit, sucking on it like the sweetest candy he’s ever tasted.
There’s a thick, slapping sound that fills the room, and you manage to focus from the blur of pleasure just long enough to crane your neck and find its source.
And Dean was already a sight, between your legs. His eyes peeking up, his muscles budging, the hair you convinced to let him grow flopping over his brow. But there’s a reason he’s pushed himself so high on his knees, dragging your ass fully off the mattress.
He’s freed his massive, thick cock from its confines in his boxers, and he’s beating it into his hand like he’s watching the most sinful, lewd porno in the world. He moans against your cunt, almost drinking up your arousal, and his hips jerk into his fist. A shining pearl of precum, falls from his angry red tip.
Your eyes roll back in your head, as your second orgasm rip through you like a storm. Pulling you so totally apart you think you float out of your body, twitching in the sheets and gaping at Dean under hooded eyes.
Dean groans, his mouth working you through it, and when you float back down he’s already started to rub his cock between the lips of your pussy, tapping the head against your clit, and smiling when it jolts you like lightning.
“Look at this fuckin’ mess,” Dean murmurs, bending over until he’s resting his chin on your knees, still trapped against your chest. “Look at you, sweetheart. Such a good girl for me, takin’ it so well.”
You keen under the praise, past words, past anything but the thought of Dean’s warm skin against your, his dick notched at your entrance, begging to just come inside and take what’s been his since the first time you saw him.
“You gonna talk to me?” Dean kisses the corner of your mouth, and you blink at him under fluttering, doe-like eyes. “Or did I work my girl a little too hard already?”
You shake your head frantically, grabbing his wrist. Dean pauses, raising his brows.
“Baby, if you’re tapped out-“
“No,” you manage to breathe, and Dean’s throat bobs. “Please. Please don’t stop.”
Dean stares at you, the mask of teasing and control slowly slipping away. All that’s left beneath it is a man that’s just as wrecked for you as you are for him. He smears drool over your cheek and takes a ragged breath, glancing down to where your bodies are almost joined, where his dick is begging to just drive into your pussy and make you his.
He looks back to you with a zealous, almost primal need. You tip your head back, offering your neck, your throat, your jaw, anything he wants, just as long as this lasts forever.
“You mine, sweetheart?” Dean says, low and rough, almost desperate. Like he’s afraid to know the answer.
You don’t know why. There isn’t another you could possibly give your heart, knowing their going to destroy it and keep it safe all at once.
“I’m yours,” you breathe, and that’s all Dean needs.
He pushes you into the mattress with shockingly gentle hands, dropping his weight over your legs to keep you nice and curled up beneath his massive body. His cock pushes slowly, inch by inch, into your abused, weeping pussy. You gasp, the stretch both more and better than you ever could’ve possibly imagined.
And the through worship of your body paid off. There isn’t a place in your body you can’t feel him. It’s like you’re being split in half and fused back together, all in the small, shallow thrusts that Dean uses to get himself fully seated inside you. His head kisses your cervix, his balls swollen and pressed against your slick ass, his face buried in your knees and his breath fanning—hot and ragged—over your tits.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he says, squeezing you tighter. “Son of a- You feel so fuckin’ good baby, you- You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”
You giggle. You don’t know why. You can’t really justify it, past being so cockdrunk and wrecked that everything is kind of bubbly and bright. Dean’s head shoots up, his eyes narrowed, and you giggle again, smiling at him so freely, you can’t bring yourself to care about the tears streaming down your cheeks and cunt. You just feel full, and it’s perfect. You never want him to pull out.
Dean’s eyes glint, and you know you’re in trouble.
Good. You really want to be, as long as it’s with him.
Dean snaps his hips, and your giggle falls into a broken, shameless moan. Dean grins, kissing the tears off your cheeks and setting a slow, rutting pace in your cunt. He bumps over and over against your g-spot, fucking you into a whining, squirming mess within minutes.
“That’s right,” he whispers in your ear, pushing your knees a little higher up. “Feels so fucking good, doesn’t it? Sweet girl, takin’ this cock like you were made for it. Lettin’ me use you like the greedy little cockslut you wanna be. Mine,” he kisses a soft spot under your jaw, words rough and possessive. “Fuckin’ mine.”
You nod, babbling out a pathetic agreement. You are his. You’re a useless, soaked wreck beneath Dean’s massive body, but you’re his, and there’s nothing else you’d rather be.
And you were sure that you’d reached the limit for orgasms for the night, especially given that your previous record was one, weak and barely worthy of note.
But you’ve never been fucked by Dean before. And with the way he’s ruining you, you don’t think you’re going to be able to be fucked by anyone else after.
His cock slides in out of your pussy, like your bodies were made to mold together. The sound fills the room, obscene and lewd, mixed with Dean’s low moans in your ear and your own, pathetic whimpering. He bullies that gummy spot inside of you, driving against it over and over, as his thrusts become longer and harsher.
Every inch of your body is so thoroughly claimed by him, you almost can’t stand it. The squelch of his dick, each vein and pulse making your wet pussy throb, his messily connected to yours and his hands groping desperately at your hips as you both reach your peak. The heat is building back up like a flood, making your eyes cross and your head spin. You grip his shoulders with shaking hands, your nose twitching and wrecked pleas falling from your lips.
Dean kisses everyone away, past words himself. He grabs your jaw one last time, angling his hand between your bodies to toy with your clit, and something at the very base of your spine shatters. It’s not like the dreamy floating of your last orgasm. It’s loud and wet, making you feel every single second of overwhelming pleasure as Dean’s thrusts become unruly and frantic. You milk his cock, crying his name, gushing with so much slick that you’re almost worried you’re peeing.
The sound that leaves Dean is almost inhuman. He doubles over, clinging to you with a reverence like you’re holy, emptying thick, hot ropes of cum into your pussy. You’re so full, so loved, you grab Dean’s bicep and gape up at him with open, loving eyes.
Dean grunts, drilling his cock into your g-spot with shallow, uncontrolled thrusts.
“One more-“ He grunts. “One more ‘f me, Babygirl, please-“
One last orgasms blooms and shudders through your core. Dean makes a feral, satisfied sound, and collapses over you with a moan.
And for a little while, you both just lay there. Lost in the feeling of each other, the pure, simple ease. Dean kisses away your tears and buries himself a little deeper, whispering an apology against your lips when you whine.
“’S okay-“ You gasp. “Feels good.”
Dean grunts, still doubtful, and you give him a winning, gentle smile.
“I liked it,” you cup his cheek, pushing your breasts a little higher. “A lot.”
Dean’s cock twitches inside of you. He groans and drops his face between your breasts, shaking his head. You giggle and pet his head, and he props his chin up.
“Too rough?” He mutters, and you shake your head.
“Perfect.”
“Hmm,” he looks you up and down, and you spread your legs a little wide, using your heels to push him closer.
He grunts and braces himself next to your head, eyes soft and gleaming in the dark. He takes you in—boneless, limp, and dizzy with happiness—and lets out a slow, ragged breath.
“Think I mighta just created a monster,” he mutters, and you beam.
“Maybe.”
He raises his brows, kissing the inside of your wrist. And he’s buried inside of you. You’re filled with his cum, and covered in love marks you have no idea how to hide.
You still flush.
Dean’s eyes gleam with satisfaction. He kisses your wrist again, massaging your hips.
“We’re gonna do this again, right?” You ask knowing the answer.
You just want to hear him say it.
“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs, watching you like none of the world matters. Like it’s really only you and him, and a hazy but glowing and certain future. “We’re gonna be doin’ this until you get sick of it.”
“And if I don’t?” You whisper. “Get sick of it?”
Dean shrugs, smiling faintly. “Then I think we’re gonna be doin’ it for a long, long time.”
✦End note: dfb fever is getting me and i'm not. mad about it.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Summary: your boyfriend eats you out for the first time.
♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, older!bf, smut, virgin!user, inexperienced!user, oral sex (f! receiving), lots of spit, teasing, sexual tension, references to sex, taunting + teasing, mock sympathy, pet names (baby, puppy, doll) no mentions of y/n, reader-insert.
wc: 2k | : these inexperienced ones are almost becoming a lil series… i promise i’ll post diff tomorrow lolol <33
The heatwave had knocked you and your boyfriend on your ass, and the trailer barely had any air conditioning; just a few fans shoved into the window, and an oscillating one on your body.
You’re currently sprawled against the bed, in nothing but a white bikini, all soft curves and sweaty skin—not even to swim, just to shed a few layers and keep yourself cool. You’re giggling and laughing, squirming around, your boyfriend between your thighs, kissing at your neck and bare shoulders.
Lips had been placed over your body more times than you can count. Your cheeks, forehead, lips, waist, ankles, stomach, calves, thighs—everywhere, your boyfriend kissed you everywhere, and you loved it more than anything.
But this time was different.
He’s gently kissing your bare stomach, a drag of damp lips down it, dipping to your navel and stopping at the waistband of your bikini. He glances up at you, and your lips part.
“Hey…” you mumble shyly, shifting against the blankets.
“Hm?” He ticks his head, his strong hands sliding up your thighs, thumbs lightly hooking into the string of your bikini. “What, baby?”
“You’re… close,” you whisper, biting your lip.
Sex was a common thing between you two—the most vanilla thing of all time; kisses and giggles, light thrusts until you’d cum, and he was right there, soaking it all up. You barely knew how to give a proper blowjob, and struggled each damn time, and one thing he hadn’t done was go down on you.
You mostly protested each time, shyly closing your legs and shaking your head, the thought of a mouth overwhelming you. You’re used to fingers touching you, those light circles, and then the slight pinch when they slid inside of you, only to relieve and satisfy you in ways you couldn’t comprehend. But his mouth? Out of the question.
“C’mon, baby,” he mumbles, lightly kissing around the waistband of your bikini, eyes glancing up at you. “Would make you feel so, so good,” he reassures you, his thumbs tapping you.
“Yeah… but… but it’s your mouth,” you whine softly and shake your head again, awkwardly shifting. “That’s… that has to be gross,” you tell him.
“Nothin’ gross about that,” he shakes his head, lightly kissing over the waistband now. “Jus’ wanna taste my girl, you know?”
“I don’t know,” you whimper, looking up at the ceiling.
“Listen,” he starts quietly, resting his chin near your hipbone. “Nothin’ gross or weird about your body, doll… jus’ wanna taste this pretty thing.”
You shake your head again, trying to close your thighs, but his shoulders are stopping that option, forcing them apart, and he’s back to kissing.
“What would… it feel like?” You then ask quietly, feeling his nose nudging below your belly button, dragging the tip of it down to your pelvis bone.
“Warm,” he mumbles, nodding. “My tongue would be warm against you, baby… real wet, too,” he adds on, kissing you.
“That sounds… odd,” you mumble, your voice strained, and it’s clear you’re slightly frustrated with yourself. “Like… an alien, or something.”
He chuckles at the comparison. “Nothin’ close to odd, and not an alien…” he drawls, his voice smooth as he dips down, kissing closer to the waistband again. “Would feel nice, doll… all warm n’ soft, you know how well I kiss you, don’t you?”
“So… it’s… it’s like kissing?” You ask, glancing down, watching the way he focuses on soothing your nerves, placing his lips over your skin.
“Close,” he agrees. “Mmm… but I’d be suckin’ too, runnin’ my tongue through you, all through those lil’ crevices that get you shy.”
“Stop,” you whine, getting embarrassed.
“She’s real pretty,” he whispers, nodding. “Can’t even imagine gettin’ to lick it all up, baby… when you’re all wet, and shy. You’re wet right now, yeah?”
You know you are wet; you can feel it pooling against your bikini, that slick he’s about to see when he pulls down your bottoms. You shift when he continues to kiss, and his eyes flick up to you.
“How about you just let me see, sweetheart? Can I see my pretty girl close up?” He asks, resting his chin against your hipbone again.
You nod. “Mhm.”
Two fingers drag down your bikini bottoms, and he carefully helps discard them down your bare legs and off to the side, leaving you bare and visible to him. He sucks in a breath, sighing.
“Oh, baby,” he coos, shaking his head. “You’re fuckin’ drippin’,” he curses, licking his lips.
He could see it coming out of you, a mess of slick gathering in your folds, and he has to restrain himself from just leaning in and licking it all up. He carefully uses his hands to grip under your upper thighs, pulling you a bit closer to his face.
“Look at her,” he mumbles, enamoured by the sight. “So pretty, baby… you sure I can’t taste?”
You whine and shake your head, trying your best not to push him away and cry. He’s so close to your core, his eyes just raking over the soft, tender skin, all warm and wet, and he wouldn’t mind practically devouring you.
“C’mon, doll,” he coos, and gently blows, a light breeze against your core, and he watches you tense up, a soft whine leaving your mouth at the stimulation.
“Please—I’m… it’s embarrassing,” you whimper, squirming against the sheets, and he’s lightly rubbing your hips, blowing on your core, teasing you.
“Mm… baby, you’re swollen,” he tells you, glancing up to see your reaction, watching your hands cover your face. “Poor thing is achin’—is she tingly, sweetheart? All fuzzy?”
“Stop… stop, stop,” you babble, your voice breaking into another whine, your hands covering your flushed cheeks.
He’s using words that have you curling in on yourself, because he’s describing it so well; it is all tingly and fuzzy, pins and needles settling right between your legs, a dull ache, a throbbing right where his tongue could poke and prod at. You breathe in.
“My poor baby,” he mumbles, leaning in to gently kiss just shy of your folds, the soft skin beside it. “You’re bein’ mean, you know that? She’s askin’ for attention n’ you’re bein’ fussy,” he teases, kissing the skin.
Your head is tipped back, and you whine softly, feeling his lips just seconds away from kissing your core, and you’re not sure if you can handle it if he does.
“So swollen, doll,” he taunts lightly, pulling back to lift his head just a bit, dripping his spit over your folds. “This help? She feelin’ any better?”
You gasp when you feel the saliva spreading over you, dripping down and onto the bed. You whimper and shake your head, hands gripping at the bedsheets, and your hips are trying to stay still.
“Glistenin’ in my spit, all wet,” he mumbles, blowing again, watching your body twitch from just words. “Let me take a look, okay? My mouth won’t touch you, angel.”
You hesitantly nod.
His hand slides up, and two fingers lightly spread your folds, his eyes focusing; he watches his spit move around, clashing with your slick, and he listens to you whimper louder, like a pet.
“Shhh, puppy,” he shakes his head, gazing at your entrance, his fingers allowing him a perfect view, and you feel it again. He spits, and then closes you up.
Your eyes are squeezed shut, and you’re trying to ignore the feeling between your thighs—it’s never been this intense; you’ve never been so aroused in your life, and the throbbing is absolutely eating you alive, forcing you to whine and move around.
“My spit is all inside you, baby,” he tells you, going back to lightly kissing the sides of you, shy of your folds still. “How about lettin’ my tongue try? How’s that sound?”
His eyes light up the second he sees that hesitant nod from you, and you just can’t help it anymore; you need to feel him, need him to do something about how horny you are right now. Every part of your body is on fire, and he’s not putting it out.
A swipe of his tongue is the first thing you feel, right up and through your feels, a long stripe that has you gasping, your eyes shooting open at the unfamiliar feeling. He laps at you, working through your folds first, collecting his spit and your slick, drinking it up.
“Taste so good, baby… so sweet, so good,” he groans against you, and then you feel his lips come in.
They move back and forth, like a sloppy makeout session, yet with more calculated moves; light sucks on certain parts, his tongue gently prodding and poking around, and he hasn’t even made it to your clit yet. He’s just helping you get used to it.
“Feels—so… so weird,” you grit out, trying to navigate the odd warmth and wetness, the feeling of tongue and lips against you.
“I know,” he mumbles against you, his deep voice sending vibrations through you. “But… baby, you’re so needy… look at her,” he mumbles, finally finding your clit.
His lips kiss against it, but his tongue stays pressed against it, consistent rhythms and flicks, a constant stream of vibrations and pressure that has your back curling and arching. His fingers feel nothing like this; this is otherworldly.
“Poor clit is swollen, too,” he mumbles to you, gently sucking now, using his lips and spit to create a perfect feeling, all while his tongue flicks and flicks.
You’re wailing and moaning, your head tipped back, and a hand reaches down to thread through his hair, lightly tugging on the strands, and he groans in response. His nose is nudging you too, the scruff on his beard brushing your inner thighs, leaving the skin just as raw and tender.
He dips down away from your clit, pushing his nose against it, breathing in that sweet scent; pure arousal, pure you, and blows again, just before spreading you with his tongue, sliding it into you.
Your back arches even more, toes curling, and you pull on his hair in response. The noises you’re making ring in his ears; all whines and whimpers, moans bleeding in between, all mixed with soft pleas for more, and for him to stop. He’s persistent, of course.
His tongue works in slow motions, but speeds up occasionally, purposely mimicking the way he thrusts; quick and slow, creating a motion that makes you whine and closer than ever, and you don’t think you’ve ever finished this quickly—you hold it in.
He’s kissing and sucking, licking and prodding, making sloppy noises, massaging your hips, just burying his entire face against you; nose stuffed up against you, his beard practically glistening in all of you, just devouring you whole. He’s never been more in his element right now, and it’s eating you out.
“Cum… cum on my tongue, doll,” he encourages and nods slowly, going right back to what he was doing before, ensuring he was doing the same motions, the ones that got you this close in the first place.
It’s a rush of feelings through you, and it’s all over his mouth, dripping down his chin, spilling onto the bed, and he’s lapping it up, his tongue moving quickly, his lips chasing the taste. You’re whining and panting, chest heaving as you try your best not to cry from how overwhelming it was.
“Atta girl… made a mess… it’s okay,” he whispers and shakes his head, kissing your core, gently soothing you. “Shhh… you did good, baby, real good f’me.”
Your legs are shaking around his hand, still holding onto strands of his hair, your heels digging into the mattress. You’re sweating, buckets dripping off your hot body, and he’s finally lifting his head, resting his chin against your lower stomach. His face is covered in your damn slick.
“Mmm… maybe you can sit on my face next time, baby?”
Summary: Your on a road trip with your boyfriend, Beau Arlen, you get bored and put your feet in his lap, rubbing slow circles over the growing bulge in his jeans.
Warnings: MDNI, 18+, NSFW, footjob, public play, teasing, edgeplay, one shot
wc: 900
He’s been driving for three hours straight, one hand lazy on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh like it belongs there. The highway stretches empty in both directions, late afternoon sun cutting gold across the dashboard. The radio’s low, some soft country thing neither of you are really listening to. You’re in the passenger seat of his truck, bare legs curled under you, the short summer dress riding higher every time you shift.
You glance over at him. Beau Arlen doesn’t look tired. He looks steady. The muscle in his forearm flexes every time he adjusts the wheel. You’ve been watching that muscle for the last twenty minutes.
You stretch your legs out carefully, toes pointing, and settle both bare feet in his lap.
He doesn’t flinch. Just glances down once, then back at the road.
“Careful, baby.”
You don’t answer. You just press the sole of one foot against the soft front of his jeans. Feel the shape of him already half-hard underneath. Your other foot rests higher, toes brushing the waistband. You flex, slow, dragging the arch of your foot down the length of him.
You do it again. Firmer this time. Rubbing the ball of your foot up and down over the thickening ridge, feeling him grow under the denim. The friction is rough and perfect. You can feel the heat of him through the fabric, the way he thickens and starts to push against your sole.
“Jesus,” he mutters, voice low. “You’re really gonna do this while I’m driving.”
You dig your toes in a little, rubbing circles right over the head of his cock through the jeans. He hisses through his teeth. One of his hands leaves the wheel and settles heavy over your ankle, not stopping you, just holding on. His thumb strokes the bone there once, then goes still.
You keep going.
Slow, steady pressure. Up and down. Side to side. The fabric of his jeans grows tighter, the outline of his cock clearer under your foot. You can feel every ridge of him now, the thick base, the way the head flares when you press harder. Precome must already be leaking; the denim feels a little damp under the ball of your foot.
His hips shift once in the seat, subtle, like he’s trying not to thrust up into the pressure you’re giving him. You reward him by curling your toes around the shaft as best you can through the jeans and dragging upward, slow and deliberate.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “That feels—goddamn, baby.”
You glance at his face. His eyes are still on the road, but his jaw is tight, a muscle ticking near his temple. Color sits high on his cheekbones. The hand on your ankle squeezes once, hard, then loosens again.
You switch feet. The other sole takes over, warmer now, already a little slick from the heat of him. You press harder this time, grinding the arch of your foot right along the full length of his cock, feeling it jump under the pressure. Your toes find the sensitive spot just under the head and rub there in small, mean circles.
Beau’s hips twitch again. A low sound rumbles in his chest. The truck keeps a perfect, steady speed. He’s still driving like nothing’s happening, but the front of his jeans is obscenely tented now, the fabric stretched tight around the thick shape of him. Your foot slides easier with every pass, the denim growing darker where precome has soaked through.
Long strokes from base to tip. Firm presses that make him grunt under his breath. The occasional wicked curl of your toes that makes his fingers flex hard against your ankle. You’re not in a rush. The road is empty. The sun is still high enough. You can feel how hard he is, how every slow drag of your foot makes him throb under the fabric.
“You’re so soaked already,” you giggle. “Can feel it.”
Beau lets out a rough laugh that doesn’t sound amused at all. “Yeah. You’ve been playing with my cock for ten minutes. What did you think was gonna happen?”
You press down harder, grinding the ball of your foot right over the head, and he swears low and filthy. His free hand leaves your ankle only long enough to adjust himself once, yanking the jeans tighter so the outline of his cock is even clearer, then settles back on your leg, higher this time, fingers curling around your calf.
Beau’s voice is rough when he speaks again.
“When we stop,” he says, eyes still locked on the road, “I’m going to put you on your back in the back seat and fuck that pretty little foot until you can’t walk straight. You know that, right?”
You dig your toes in harder, rubbing right over the head in tight circles, and he groans, low, deep, the sound vibrating through the cab.
“Keep doing that,” he mutters. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”
loophole: listen to mitski and phoebe through the lenses of other people (hannigram, connell & marianne) to avoid feeling the wretched pain in your gut
