the motel bed creaked softly as you shifted your weight, seeking the warmth of your boyfriend sleeping soundly behind you. a small gasp escaped your mouth as you backed into him, feeling a sudden hard line pressing up against your ass. you tensed, hesitating for a moment in your sleepy daze before shuffling further back into it.
dean’s breath caught in his throat, a whimpery sound vibrating into your ear. a surge of excitement shot through you, headed straight between your thighs at the sound, a heartbeat growing against the gusset of your underwear.
dean shifted, still deep in his sleep, and began grinding his bulge into you, slinging an arm over your waist. your gaze flickered down to his hand lazily thrown over your side, and a smile bloomed on your lips as you took in the sight of his finger adorned by that one special ring—permission.
you’re allowed to touch.
the friction of his sleepy grinding meshed with your own teasing movements had dean murmuring incoherent babbles into your ear. his unconscious noises felt almost like an invitation to take things further, so you turned, laying your face in front of dean’s on his pillow.
he looked so precious; all the usual worry and anger etched onto his face had vanished, washed away by the deep sleep. instead, his features had morphed into something more boyish. there was an innocence about him while he slept, something so sweet it made your heart lurch. it was rare seeing the unarmed guilt-free version of dean.
dean was still dean though, and his bulge was still pressing into you, albeit your thighs now, seeking friction to satiate the throbbing from his increased blood flow.
you smiled to yourself, letting a hand slip beneath the sheets and into his boxers. he was warm, so warm, and so hard, pulsating with every beat of his heart. you wondered what he was dreaming of, your eyes trained on his face, studying every microexpression as you stroked him.
dean’s sleepy little whimpers became more frequent as the slow minutes passed—your hand gently wrapped around his length, playing with it for your own amusement more than anything. dean’s lashes fluttered against his cheeks, and his brows twitched whenever your thumb swiped his swollen tip; he looked so desperate, even in his sleep, and you just couldn’t wait any longer.
as you tugged back the sheets with your free hand, dean shifted, rolling onto his back, unknowingly baring himself for you in his drowsy state.
you were gentle as you tugged down his boxers, allowing his cock—flushed red and already wet at the tip—to spring free, bouncing up against his lower tummy. the sight of his weeping cock never got old; it was always so beautifully pink, leaking out beads of his clear precum.
dean tensed as you grabbed him again, his unconscious body responding to your touch. his needy little whimpers started up once more as you stroked him, tugging back the skin of his length, the weight of it heavy in your hand.
it was only a handful of minutes before dean’s tired eyes fluttered open, the green of irises disappearing as his pupils dilated, taking in the scene before him.
“mmmphf… what are you–” dean mumbled out, still half asleep.
“shh, just go back to sleep,” you cut him off, your hand still pumping. “you’re being so good, dean. you were begging for me, weren’t you? with your pretty little cock pressing into my ass? what were you dreaming about?”
“don’t know… you, probably,” dean muttered, attempting to rub the sleep out of his eyes.
you made a small sound of amusement and watched dean’s sleepy smile grow. “could get used to this,” he continued. “waking up to a pretty hand wrapped around my cock, i mean.”
you laughed again, quietly, trying not to break the moment—or wake sam, for that matter. “what do you mean ‘a’ pretty hand?” you chided, releasing his cock and smacking it gently. “my pretty hand, dean.”
dean grunted at the smack, his hips bucking slightly, but he huffed knowingly through a smile. “fuck, sorry, your pretty hand… i could get used to waking up to your pretty hand wrapped around my cock.”
“that’s right. keep wearing that ring, winchester, and maybe you’ll get lucky.”
dean grinned, all teeth, the sleep slowly vacating from his features as he took in your words. he thumbed with the ring on his finger, playing with it while you played with him, his hips slowly rocking up against your ministrations. he bit his bottom lip with his teeth, trying to stifle the noises from exiting his mouth.
you caught his pathetic attempts to quieten himself, and you tutted. you weren’t having it; you earned those noises.
releasing his cock again, you smacked his ruddy tip, harder this time. “don’t hide from me. show me how good it feels, dean,” you scolded lightly, enjoying how his hips bucked at the contact of your hand.
“but sam–”
you scoffed, raising your brows at him. “sam, what? you think he’s in charge right now?”
“no–” dean whimpered, “but h-he’ll wake up.”
“yeah? and see his brother whining at a handjob?”
dean throbbed in your hand. “nnnggh, yes…”
you hummed, slowing down your hand on his cock. “quit being pathetic. you’re embarrassing yourself.”
“i’m not– oh, jesus christ…”
dean was easy to drive insane—all it took were a few condescending words and a few smacks. you watched his head spin, every emotion and bit of pleasure showing on his face.
“i’m trying to be good,” he grunted out, letting his head fall back into the pillow, his lips parting, letting a moan fly out. “i just– faster, please.”
“yeah, look at you using your manners, de,” you smirked. your hand continued its leisurely pace on his length, pumping from root to tip teasingly slow. you were enjoying the moment, and you didn’t want to end it so early. “but no, you’ll take what i give you.”
dean audibly whined, hips stuttering up into your hand. “oh, fuck, please…”
you squeezed your fingers tight around his cockhead, squeezing out more pre from his piss slit. dean groaned, and you raised your other hand to torture his pinkened tip with your palm, smearing his pre all over.
“fuckfuckfuck–” dean whimpered out in one quick breath. “please, i can’t take it.”
“yes, you can. relax, pretty boy.”
you continued toying with the head, feeling his erection throb in your hand at every swipe over his sensitive tip. dean took his bottom lip between his teeth again, his eyes squeezing shut and brows pinching—the peak of ecstasy threatening to burst out into his face.
“nuh-uh, dean,” you murmured, shaking your head. “don’t even think about it. not until i say.”
dean’s hips thrashed around against the bedsheets, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady his desperate breathing. “please, i– shit! i’m so close! i can’t!”
his movements were hypnotising, his hips flailing and knuckles gripping the bedsheets so tight the whiteness of his bones seeped through his flesh.
it was nothing short of amusing, watching your boyfriend fall so far into the deep end, so far from the usual hardened front he puts on for other people.
“you cum, and you can kiss goodbye to my pussy for a week, dean,” you murmured like it was nothing, squeezing him again.
a whine left dean’s lips, and he bucked his hips up in protest. “fuck, please, no. please, i can be good. m’gonna be so good.”
his glossy green eyes glimmered in the darkness, searching your face desperately. you could still feel the steady rhythm of him throbbing in your hand, the pleasure building in his core.
“yeah, you’re gonna be good? my good little slut?”
dean whimpered at the taunt, turning his head away to groan, blush heating up his already flushed face.
“answer me.” you dropped his cock to his stomach. you landed a smack on his balls, and an even louder groan ripped out of dean’s mouth—the sound so pathetic, it was almost cute. “don’t ignore me ‘cause you’re embarrassed.”
“fuck! yes, i’m your– i’m your slut! please, just– jesus!”
you smirked, pride flaring warmly in your chest. you’d broken down dean winchester, watched him crumble into a shell of himself, overcome by need and desperation.
his whimpers shot out in quick succession with your slow stroking, the noises exhaling from his lungs every time your hand reached his tip. dean’s balls twitched beneath his achingly stiff member, ready to shoot out ropes of his cum.
but toying with him was just too much fun, tearing down the walls that dean had so carefully built up made you throb between your legs. you felt on top of the world; only you had the power to break him like this.
“c’mon, big boy. you’re not seriously gonna cum from this. it’s just a handjob,” you murmured, watching dean’s face scrunch up at your taunting.
“i can’t– mmphf…” he gasped out, jolting up again into your hand.
“nuh-uh, don’t you dare, deanie.”
ragged breaths escaped dean as he fought off his orgasm, and beads of sweat began to form at his hairline, tears welling in his eyes.
“pleasepleaseplease–” dean begged, catching your gaze, his eyes flickering between yours, hazily searching for the tiniest glint of permission to let himself unravel.
“you beg so pretty, baby,” you grinned. “why don’t you gimme a little more?”
“oh, jesus chr– ahh, fuck!”
“c’mon, pretty boy,” you laughed, love-tapping his sack over and over. “beg me.”
dean whimpered at every little smack, his muscles tensing in pleasure and pain at the feeling of your hand coming down against his sensitive skin.
“please, i’m so close– can’t hold it– ahh!”
“yeah, you’re gonna cum for me?”
you sped up your pumping on his throbbing dick, tugging him harder with intent. his angry inflamed tip leaked out rivulets of pre, dribbling down his cockhead deliciously.
“ahh! please, can i? mmmph– fuck, baby!”
“hmm,” you hummed. dean tensed over and over under your touch, his balls tightening in preparation, his muscles clenching. he was close, so close, just sitting there right at the edge. you wanted to push him further.
“i– oh! i’m gonna– ahh!”
dean whimpered, his hips jerking up off the mattress. maybe it was cruel, but you let go of his cock, taking away the stimulation and letting his impending orgasm fizzle out.
“too close there, baby. i didn’t say you could,” you smirked down at him, patting his lower stomach. “c’mon, now.”
your hand wrapped around him again, and dean hissed. “fuck, please don’t do that.”
you chuckled quietly, “do what?”
“ruin it. please, don’t– ahh…”
dean blinked at you, his need written all over his face in the form of pink cheeks and wide watery eyes. his length pulsed in your hand as you began working him up to his peak once more. it was only a minute before he was tensing again, fighting off his orgasm. dean groaned, toes curling, legs tensing.
but you just couldn’t help yourself—you dropped his cock again, edging him just as he was about to bust.
“no–” dean whimpered out. his tears were starting to spill, small beads of salty water clinging to his lashes, making them clump together. he looked fucking pathetic. “please, let me cum… please…”
his grip on the bedsheets tightened, and the frown stretched across his face, his downturned mouth parting to let heavy breaths escape into the air. his expression was broken.
“aww, baby,” you cooed, still pumping him. “you’ve been so good, haven’t you?”
dean nodded, fast and desperately.
“alright, fine. i guess you can cum for me.”
the fire in dean’s belly spread rapidly, your touch like gasoline, lighting up every nerve in his body. his quiet noises grew more frantic as your free hand began rubbing at his cockhead, your two hands tugging and rubbing and abusing his overstimulated member.
“mmm… pleasepleaseplease,” he begged, his voice ruined and raw.
“that’s it, baby boy. cum for me. show me how good it feels.”
your words sent dean over the edge. he gasped as aggressive white spurts shot out of his slit and up into the air with force. the sticky fluid landed all over your fingers and his lower belly in little puddles. “oh, fuuuuck!” he yelped, loud enough to earn an incoherent noise from sam’s bed across the room.
you laughed, “shh, baby. sammy doesn’t wanna hear this.”
dean groaned. “fuck…” he uttered and slung an arm over his face, breathing deeply into the pit of his elbow. “can’t– oh my god.”
“you were so good, de. look at the mess you made for me,” you said, gently dropping him from your hands to his stomach.
he peeled his arm off his face and glanced down at the streaks of cum branding his skin. he smiled tiredly at his release before looking up at you. “that was–” he started, cutting himself off to sigh.
“yeah,” you nodded, understanding him perfectly. “you gonna be a good boy and clean me up?” you asked, raising your hand, fingers covered in cum.
dean’s lips parted in hunger, and he shifted his head on the pillow. “yeah.”
you held your soiled fingers up to his mouth, and his lips wrapped around them in an instant, his tongue warm as he lapped up his salty essence from your skin.
“oh, good boy,” you grinned down at him. his teary eyes had glazed over completely; he was so deep in whatever this was, his brain running on autopilot to please you. he moaned around your fingers, sucking them clean. “yeah, that's my good boy,” you repeated.
fig yaps: this is over 2k whoops anyways yay first kinktober fic i am not proud of this but we ball LMFAOO
my kinktober masterlist // VISUALS (18+) for this fic
x fem reader ୨୧ ִ ࣪ ⋆ dean winchester taking the strap like a good boy
character featured. dean winchester.ᐟ + sub.ᐟ dean
rating: mature.ᐟ
The smirk, the swagger, the leather jacket, the “I’m fine” that means absolutely nothing. He’s spent his whole life being the strong one, the protector, the one who takes care of everyone else. So when you take charge? When you put him down?
He short-circuits. Immediately.
requesting rules. masterlist.
Dean doesn’t do vulnerable. Dean does jokes and deflection and sex as a weapon. But with you.. the second you say “tonight, you’re going to let me fuck you,” his whole facade cracks. He laughs first. Nervous. A little too loud. “Yeah, right. That’s funny.”
Then he sees your face. Sees that you’re not joking.
His throat works. Adam’s apple bobbing. His hands find his own thighs, gripping hard. “You- wait. For real?”
You don’t answer. You just start unbuckling his belt.
And Dean lets you. That’s the thing. He could stop this. He’s stronger than you. But he doesn’t. His hips lift off the bed so you can pull his jeans down. His arms go over his head without being told. He’s already panting.
“This is so fucked up..” he whispers, but he’s half-hard. “You’re gonna make me into a- a bitch or sumthin'...”
“That's kind of the plan.” you say. “Now shut up and turn over.”
He does. God, he does. Dean Winchester, on his hands and knees, ass in the air, face burning red. He can’t look at you. He buries his forehead in his crossed arms and mumbles, “I hate you. I hate this.”
But his hips are already rocking. Small, involuntary circles. Seeking.
“sure you do, Deanie.”
When you grab his hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, he groans. Deep. Guttural. “Fuck. Yeah. Hold m'down. Don’ let me move. I’ll be bad. I’ll be so fucking bad. You have to make me.”
He talks constantly. Dean cannot shut up when he’s turned inside out like this. Sam whines and begs and cries. Dean runs his mouth like a fucking porn star, and it’s the hottest, stupidest thing you’ve ever heard.
You lube him up—two fingers, then three—and he chokes on a groan. His hips push back onto your fingers like a starving thing. “More. More, more, more. Give me another. I can take four. I want four. Stretch me open. Make me a mess.”
He’s dripping precum onto the sheets in thick, sticky strings. He reaches back with one hand and tries to help you finger himself. You slap his hand away.
He whines. Dean Winchester whines. “fuuuuckkk, jus' gimme anotherrrr.”
When you finally line up the toy he pushes back onto it before you can even thrust. Impales himself in one desperate, reckless movement.
“Oh fuck-”
His voice cracks, his arms give out. He collapses to his elbows, face in the sheets, ass still up, and he’s grinding back onto you. You grab a fistful of his short hair and yank his head back. He moans like a whore. His back arches harder, presenting himself to you like it’s the only thing he knows how to do. You set a brutal pace: hard, fast and mean, and Dean meets every thrust with a slap of his hips, no shame, no hesitation. He’s fucking himself back on you so hard the headboard is banging against the wall.
“Harder-” he gasps. “Fucking destroy me. I want to limp tomorrow. I want everyone to know.”
He’s just a man. Loud, wrecked, and greedy.
“Oh fuck- oh fuck- yeah, yeah, yeah, just like that, don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop, holy shit-”
His mouth is running nonstop. Dirty, broken, desperate nonsense. “You like that? You like fucking your boyfriend’s tight little ass? God, you’re so deep, you’re so deep- faster, come on, fuck me faster, I can take it, I’m not fucking made of glass-”
You, suprisingly, listen to his demands and speed up the pace to his heart's content.
“That’s my girl,” he pants, grinning through the sweat and the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “That’s my fucking girl. Look at you. Look at what you do to me. I’m such a mess. I’m such a fucking mess for you—”
He reaches back with one hand and spreads his own cheek wider. Wider. For you. Just to give you a better angle. Because Dean Winchester in doggy style isn’t just submissive—he’s an exhibitionist about it. He wants you to see every inch of how pathetic he is. He wants you to know that he’s yours.
“Harder,” he gasps. “Harder, harder, fuck- break me, I don’t care, I want to feel this tomorrow, I want to sit in the Impala and wince every time I hit a bump and remember-”
His cock is leaking onto the sheets, untouched, and he’s so close you can see it in the way his thighs shake. But he doesn’t ask to come. He doesn’t even think about it. All he wants is more. More thrusts. More depth. More of you.
“Tell me I’m yours-" he moans, and for the first time, his voice cracks. “Tell me I’m your good little slut. Tell me or I’m gonna fucking lose it-”
You lean down, lips to his ear, and you whisper exactly what he needs to hear. It makes him choke on a breath that turns into a sob once and then come so hard his vision whites out. His mouth falls open, eyes wide, as he spills all over the comforter in thick, pulsing ropes.
And when he comes back to himself, ten seconds later, he just laughs. A breathless, wrecked, happy laugh. He doesn’t move from his position. He just looks over his shoulder at you with those fucked-out green eyes and grins.
“So,” he says, voice hoarse. “Same time tomorrow?”
lowdown ☆ soldier boy spends the ride home pretending he’s not jealous. he lasts approximately three minutes after the van doors open.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 4821 ride style ☆ smut !!
danger on the trail ☆ explicit sex, rough wall sex, blowjob, possessive behavior, hand over mouth, bruised knuckles, jealousy, soldier boy being demanding, unsafe levels of tension in a crowded safehouse
liv's log ☆ took us +55k words but we're finally going at it!!
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
the safehouse is loud before the van doors finish closing.
not the sharp, ugly kind of noise that follows somebody stumbling in with blood down their face or butcher dragging a new disaster over the threshold and calling it useful. this is different. relieved. restless. too many voices moving at once because the mission actually went well and nobody quite trusts that yet.
frenchie is talking before his shoes touch the floor, holding the black electroshock device up between two fingers with the pride of a man returning from war. “she performed beautifully,” he announces.
“you electrocuted the deep?”
hughie appears from the hallway so quickly he almost walks into annie. his hair’s messy, sweater sleeves pulled low over his wrists, eyes moving between frenchie, the duffel, you, and the very obvious red mark starting to rise across your knuckles.
“oui, petite hughie,” frenchie says.
“saw it with my own bloody eyes,” butcher confirms, entirely too pleased with himself for a man who spent the whole mission sitting inside the van at a safe distance. “fish boy’s probably still explainin’ himself to a seal.”
hughie blinks. “a seal?”
you barely have time to answer before annie catches your wrist carefully, turning your hand toward the kitchen light. “did you punch deep?”
“sadly, no,” you grin brightly. “some vought guy that was reaching for a radio. i’m saving kevin for a later time.”
annie gives you a look that says she’s too aware of your commitment to being difficult and is choosing not to rise to it. “sit down.”
“it’s fine.”
“sit.”
you sit at the edge of the couch because there’s no point pretending you’re going to win against annie when she uses that voice. the adrenaline is still buzzing beneath your skin, bright and uncomfortable, making your limbs feel lighter than they should. your knuckles throb when you flex them just enough to make the memory satisfying.
hips first. shoulder follows. fist last. clean hit. the vought employee went down hard enough that the clipboard flew out of his hand. you keep seeing it in quick, stupid flashes: the startled look on his face, frenchie’s grip closing around your arm, the two of you running while papers scattered across the dock and the deep twitched dramatically behind you.
no blood. nobody dead. nobody hurt enough that your brain has to crawl back into that warehouse and stay there for the night.
good mission.
annie disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a bag of ice wrapped inside a dish towel. you take it from her before she can press it against your hand herself. “i can manage.”
“clearly.”
hughie drops into the armchair opposite you, eyes wide with the kind of curiosity that makes him look almost boyish and innocent. “wait. go back. there was a seal?”
kimiko perches against the armrest beside him. frenchie settles near the table with the duffel, already dragging the stolen drive free while mm opens his laptop. butcher hovers behind them, cigarette tucked behind one ear, attention divided between whatever information they stole and the story he already heard through the comms but apparently intends to enjoy twice.
“the deep was giving relationship advice,” you say.
hughie’s face tightens. “to the seal?”
“yes.”
“about another seal?”
the question makes you tilt your head. “uh, i think so.”
“did it seem helpful?”
you look at frenchie. frenchie considers the question with grave seriousness. “the seal appeared emotionally resistant.”
“he brought fish to her cove after she asked for space,” you explain. “it was a boundary issue.”
annie’s mouth drops open slightly. “you’re kidding.”
“i wish i was.”
hughie stares at you for one silent second. then laughs. the sound catches you off guard badly enough that your own mouth moves before you can stop it. a small laugh slips out, then another when frenchie starts reenacting the deep’s expression with insulting accuracy, eyebrows pinched together in solemn marine concern.
the ice pack sweats against your knuckles. your shoulders loosen by a fraction.
you don’t look toward the hallway when heavier footsteps approach. soldier boy has been quiet since the van. you feel the shift in the room before you see him. the blunt weight of his attention.
frenchie is halfway through describing the snitch’s moustache in full detail when soldier boy appears near the living room entrance. he looks at you, jaw is tight enough to show beneath the rough shadow along it. his shoulders haven’t come down from the docks. something in his face still carries the same irritation he wore in the van, meaner now that there are walls around it and fewer immediate reasons to pretend it is only professional concern.
hughie follows your gaze and stops talking. annie looks over her shoulder. butcher, unfortunately, notices everything.
soldier boy grunts out a “need you.” that is it. not your name. not could i talk to you. not a glance toward the others suggesting privacy might be socially beneficial before announcing whatever this is. just need you, flat and direct, like he has already decided the rest.
you blink once. “right now?”
his eyes narrow slightly. “now.”
for one second, the room is so still you can hear the faint hum of mm’s laptop from the table. hughie looks down at his hands. frenchie turns toward the drive with sudden, passionate interest. mm doesn’t look up at all, which somehow makes his refusal to get involved more obvious. butcher’s mouth starts to curve around something deeply unhelpful.
annie takes the ice pack back from you slowly. “i’ll put this in the freezer.”
your face warms. “thank you.”
“mhm.”
soldier boy turns away before you stand. of course he does. apparently, the possibility that you might not follow has never occurred to him.
you catch butcher watching when you get up. his eyebrows lift by the smallest amount, cigarette still tucked behind his ear, expression rich with the private satisfaction of a man discovering a new form of leverage he absolutely doesn’t deserve.
you point at him as you pass. “don’t.”
“didn’t say anythin’, love.”
“your face did.”
“handsome face, that.”
“nightmare face.” he grins.
soldier boy is already halfway down the hall. he doesn’t take you to your bedroom. that would feel too familiar. too obvious after the nights he has spent there taking up your bed, complaining about your mattress, making himself at home in a place neither of you has been brave enough to call shared.
instead, he pushes open the door to the empty room near the back of the safehouse. plain walls. narrow bed. a chair shoved into one corner. a window with the blinds drawn against the afternoon light.
he steps inside. you follow. the door closes behind you with a quiet click.
you turn toward him. “well?”
soldier boy leans back against the door for half a second, eyes moving over you once. not the quick assessment from the van, searching for damage beneath the places another man touched. this is slower. your jacket. your shirt. the jeans sitting snug across your hips. your wrist where the deep grabbed you. your mouth.
“blue tide summer?” he says.
you stare at him. of all the ways this conversation could start, you should’ve known he’d choose the one most likely to make you consider violence. “are you serious?”
“dark blue wristband,” he continues, voice rough with disbelief. “little trident logo.”
you fold your arms. “you were listening very closely for someone who spent the entire mission pretending he didn’t care.”
“hard not to hear you giggling like an idiot through the comms.”
“i was distracting him.”
“you were having the time of your life.”
you laugh once, sharp and incredulous. “oh my god.”
“thirteen years ago and you still remember which fuckin’ color bracelet you wore.”
“i was fourteen.”
“fourteen-year-old you had shit taste.”
“fourteen-year-old me had limited options.”
“guy talks to seals.”
“he was helping a friend through a difficult breakup.”
soldier boy pushes away from the door. the movement is slow enough that you have time to register it. not enough time to decide what to do with your pulse when he crosses the room and stops in front of you. close but not touching. not yet.
“you think this is funny?” he asks.
you tilt your chin up. “a little.”
his mouth pulls to one side, but there is no real amusement in it. the frustration has followed him home intact, restless under his skin, searching for somewhere to go. “he had his hands all over you.”
“he touched my back.”
“grabbed your wrist.”
“for two seconds.”
“two too many.”
your chest tightens at the echo from the van. you shouldn’t enjoy this. the whole thing is absurd. the deep is not a threat to whatever strange, half-built thing exists between you and soldier boy. he’s barely a threat to himself near open water and an emotionally complicated seal.
but soldier boy looks furious anyway. not because he thinks you wanted the deep. because he hated watching someone else touch what he’s started thinking of as his before either of you have agreed to anything sensible.
you narrow your eyes. “you’re jealous.”
his stare turns flat. “of fish sticks?”
“you nearly climbed out of the van.” you breathe out through your nose, fighting a smile because smiling would only encourage him and apparently encouragement is no longer necessary. “you hated hearing me laugh with him.”
his jaw shifts. there it is. small. ugly. honest enough to be dangerous.
you wait.
he looks at your mouth when he answers. “i hated hearing him breathe near you.”
the room changes—no lightning strike, no sudden soft music—just a quiet loss of oxygen, your body reacting before your mind has the dignity to object.
soldier boy steps closer. the back of your shoulders meets the wall. the space between you disappears and leaves you with the blunt heat of his body crowded against yours. one hand’s braced beside your head, the other catches your waist. rough. familiar. possessive enough to make your stomach pull tight.
you breathe in. “you dragged me in here to complain?” his eyes stay on yours. “or are you planning to make a point?”
that does it. his mouth comes down on yours hard enough to knock the next breath out of you. you kiss him back immediately.
your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer even though closer has become largely theoretical. his hand tightens around your waist, dragging you flush against him. his mouth moves against yours with the same rough certainty it did the night before, except there’s nothing restrained about it now. no last-second thought. no mission waiting in the morning. no line he intends to respect simply because one of you might regret stepping over it too quickly.
the kiss turns filthy almost immediately. tongue, teeth, the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin when his mouth slips from yours and catches at the corner of your jaw. you tilt your head instinctively, giving him room, and his breath leaves him in a low sound that makes heat drag down your spine.
“fuck,” you whisper.
“getting there.”
you almost laugh. it dies when he bites lightly beneath your ear and your fingers tighten in his shirt. your bruised knuckles complain immediately.
his hand catches your wrist, dragging it away from his shoulder before you can put more weight against it. “quit using that hand.”
“i punched a man.”
“yeah.” his gaze drops briefly to your knuckles. something satisfied passes through his face. “saw.”
“and?”
his mouth finds yours again before he answers properly. “clean hit.”
the praise lands somewhere deep and embarrassingly tender beneath the heat. you don’t get time to examine it. soldier boy hooks your uninjured arm around his shoulders instead, positioning you the way he wants you, then catches both your hips and lifts.
you gasp against his mouth.
your back presses into the wall. your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, jeans pulling tight between your bodies while he settles you against him like your weight is nothing. his mouth drags down your throat. your head tips back against the plaster hard enough to make the blinds rattle faintly beside you.
“someone’s going to hear,” you whisper, though your body has apparently decided this isn’t a meaningful concern.
“then be quiet.”
his hand slides beneath the edge of your shirt. hot palm. rough fingers. skin against skin. the contact makes your whole body jolt. soldier boy’s mouth curves against your neck when he feels it, smugness finally slipping through the anger. he drags his hand upward slowly, learning the line of your waist and the soft warmth of your stomach with the same shameless entitlement he brings to everything else. his thumb presses into your side. his fingers spread wider.
“still laughing?” he asks near your ear.
“still jealous?”
his hand tightens. “careful.”
you know better than to ask. you do it anyway. “or what?”
his eyes lift to yours. green gone darker in the thin light coming through the blinds. his mouth is swollen slightly from kissing you. hair messy from your fingers. expression rough enough to make your pulse jump.
“you really need everything explained to you?” he asks.
you pull him down by the back of his neck and kiss him again instead. he makes a low, approving sound and drives his hips against you. the friction punches a moan out of your mouth before you can swallow it. soldier boy’s hand leaves your stomach and closes over your mouth. the movement is quick. firm enough to stop the sound dead against his palm while his eyes stay fixed on yours. your breath catches through your nose.
“you gonna be good for me, doll?” he murmurs, voice low and filthy near your ear.
your entire body goes hot. you glare at him.
his mouth twitches. “if only you were always this obedient.”
you bite lightly at the heel of his hand.
“brat,” he says, almost fond and not remotely soft.
his palm slips away just long enough for his mouth to take yours again, swallowing the smaller sound you make when he rolls his hips between your thighs. there’s no patience left in either of you. not after the night before. not after the dock. not after an entire van ride spent refusing to look at each other for too long because butcher was sitting close enough to weaponize eye contact.
your fingers drag beneath his shirt. muscle and warm skin, solid under your palms. his body feels unfairly built, every inch of him hard where you’re soft, heat collecting quickly beneath your touch. you push the fabric higher. he breaks the kiss only long enough to drag the shirt over his head and throw it somewhere near the bed.
then he’s back—mouth at your throat. hands at your waist. broad chest pressing into you while your fingers find his shoulders and cling there, careful of your bruised knuckles this time.
his hand moves to the button of your jeans. the button comes loose. your zipper follows. “lift,” he says against your mouth.
you do. he gets your jeans and underwear down far enough to make the entire situation feel suddenly, brutally real, fabric caught awkwardly around one ankle until you kick the rest away and nearly lose your boot with it. soldier boy laughs once under his breath, rough and mean. “smooth.”
“shut up.”
“you always this graceful?”
“you’re welcome to leave.”
“not a chance in hell.”
his hand slides between your thighs. your breath catches so sharply it almost becomes a sound. he looks at your face when his fingers find you wet already, his expression shifting into something dark and deeply satisfied.
“think fish sticks could do this to you?”
his thumb circles slowly, once, and the shape of whatever insult you meant to throw at him disappears before it reaches your mouth. “fuck,” you breathe.
“yeah,” he says, eyes fixed on your face. “thought so.”
you grip his shoulder with your good hand when his fingers press into you, the stretch immediate and sharp enough to make your legs tense around his hips. he works you open with none of the delicate patience another man might use to prove something about himself. soldier boy is rougher than that. direct. watching every change in your expression while his thumb keeps dragging over you until your breathing turns unreliable and your head tips back against the wall again.
“quiet,” he reminds you.
you bite down on your lower lip. he watches you do it and swears beneath his breath.
somewhere beyond the closed door, a cabinet shuts in the kitchen. footsteps move faintly through the hallway, then fade again. the safehouse remains full of people. mm and frenchie are probably already pulling apart the stolen drive. butcher is almost certainly standing near the table with a look on his face that makes future humiliation inevitable.
soldier boy’s fingers curl inside you. you forget all of them.
your hand catches at his wrist. “ben.”
his eyes snap to yours. the name does something to him every time. you know that now. it moves beneath his expression like a bruise pressed too hard, pain and want twisted too closely together to separate. his mouth finds yours again. slower for half a second. then harder.
he pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you breathe out something embarrassingly close to a whine.
“impatient,” he mutters.
“stop teasing.”
his eyes narrow. you have enough time to regret saying it before he sets you down just long enough to undo his belt. the metal buckle clicks loudly in the small room. your mouth goes dry.
you kick your jeans the rest of the way free while he shoves his trousers and underwear low enough to free himself. the sight of him should be unfair at minimum. thick, hard, already leaking at the tip.
you stare.
his hand closes around his cock. one slow stroke. eyes on your face. “problem?”
“unfortunately, i’m only human.”
his mouth twitches. his hands return to you. hips. thighs. lifting you back against the wall. your legs lock around his waist. his cock presses against you. both of you stop breathing properly. soldier boy looks at your face. not softly. not asking something he can’t say. just giving you the second you need.
you tighten your legs around him and pull him closer. “do it,” you whisper.
he pushes into you.
the stretch knocks every thought out of your head at once. your mouth opens around a sound that doesn’t make it far because his hand closes over it again immediately, palm warm and broad across your lips while his other arm braces hard beneath your thighs to hold you in place.
“quiet,” he says through clenched teeth, voice rougher now.
you breathe hard against his hand.
he gives you a second. barely enough for your body to adjust around him, but enough for the ache to turn into something hotter, fuller, impossible to ignore. then he draws back and thrusts into you again, deeper this time, the force driving your shoulders harder against the wall.
your fingers dig into him.
his forehead nearly drops toward yours. breath mixing hot against your face while his hips move with an unforgiving rhythm that makes your legs tighten around him and your body jolt against the wall with every thrust.
the room narrows down to pressure and heat and the rough drag of his cock inside you. the muted sounds trapped behind his hand. his breath turning harsher every time your body clenches around him. his eyes fixed on yours as if looking away would cost him something.
“fuck,” he mutters. “that’s it.”
you make another sound against his palm.
his gaze sharpens. “you like the whole goddamn house hearing you?”
you shake your head quickly.
“could’ve fooled me.”
his hand leaves your mouth only long enough to kiss you, hard and messy, catching every broken breath before it becomes too loud. you kiss him back with whatever coordination remains, nails dragging down his shoulder, body moving with his.
his hand slips between you again. your entire body tenses when his thumb finds you. “oh, ben—”
his palm covers your mouth again. “what did i say?”
you stare at him, furious and breathless and so close to losing every remaining scrap of control that it feels humiliating. soldier boy looks entirely too pleased by that.
“there she is,” he murmurs. “mouthy until it matters.”
you bite his palm again. harder this time.
his hips snap forward with enough force to make your eyes roll shut. “fuckin’ brat.” the words hit low.
so does the next thrust. and the next. each one rougher than the last as his control frays, his hand firm over your mouth, his other arm holding you against the wall like he could keep you there forever if he decided the rest of the world could wait.
the pressure builds too quickly. your body already overstimulated from his fingers, from last night, from the whole horrible day of wanting and waiting and listening to him pretend jealousy is just another form of irritation.
your thighs shake around his waist. he feels it. “look at me.”
you open your eyes.
his breathing is wrecked now. face tense. hair falling forward. jaw tight with the effort of staying quiet himself while his thumb circles harder and his cock keeps dragging deep enough to make every thought fracture apart.
“come on,” he says, voice low. “give it to me.”
your body breaks around him.
the orgasm hits hard enough to make your back arch off the wall, every muscle drawing tight at once while the sound tears against his palm and dies there. your vision blurs. your fingers clutch at his shoulders. heat rolls through you in sharp waves, knees pulling tighter around his hips while he keeps moving through it, rough and relentless, dragging the pleasure out until it tips almost painfully sensitive.
“ben,” you cry against his hand.
his forehead drops near yours for half a second. his breathing comes apart completely now, every inhale rough and uneven, his chest moving hard beneath your palms as he tries and fails to keep quiet.
you catch his wrist and pull his hand away from your mouth. “put me down.”
his eyes open properly. dark. unfocused at the edges. still hungry enough to make the words catch briefly in your throat. “what?”
“down.”
he stares at you for one second longer, like his brain has stopped cooperating with the rest of him. then his hands shift beneath your thighs and he lowers you carefully enough to be insulting after everything else. your feet meet the floor. your knees nearly fail you.
his hand catches your waist immediately. “easy,” he mutters.
you look up at him. his chest is still rising too fast. his mouth is swollen. there’s a flush climbing along his neck, disappearing beneath the line of his jaw, and the sight of it makes something hot curl low in your stomach all over again.
you keep your eyes on his as you sink to your knees.
the floor is hard under you but you don’t care. your legs are still shaking from the orgasm he dragged out of you, thighs slick, heartbeat loud in your ears.
soldier boy stares down at you. his cock is right there, thick and flushed dark, still wet from being inside you. it twitches when your breath ghosts over it.
“fuck, doll,” he mutters, voice wrecked.
you wrap your hand around the base first, giving one slow stroke just to watch his abs clench. then you lean in and lick a broad stripe up the underside, tongue pressing flat against the vein that runs along his length. he hisses through his teeth, one hand flying to the wall for balance.
you take your time at first. swirling your tongue around the head, tasting yourself on him, sucking lightly at the sensitive spot just under the tip until his hips jerk forward. a fat drop of spit slides down your chin already.
you look up at him through your lashes as you open your mouth wider and slide him inside. he’s thick enough that your jaw aches after only a few inches, but you push further anyway, cheeks hollowing.
“shit—that’s it,” he groans, low and rough. his free hand finally lands in your hair, resting heavy there. like he needs the contact.
you bob your head, taking him deeper each time, saliva coating him, dripping messily down your chin and onto your shirt. the wet sounds are obscene in the small room. you relax your throat and take him further, until your nose brushes the dark hair at his base and your eyes start to water.
you choke. a small, wet sound that makes his grip tighten in your hair.
you pull back, spit wet on your lips, and stroke him with your hand while you catch half a breath. your mouth feels swollen already. your chin is damp. his cock shines with spit under your fist, and soldier boy stares at the sight like it might kill him.
“still jealous?” you tease.
his eyes snap to yours. a mistake. a wonderful one.
his hand on your hair pulls your mouth back to him. “open.”
your pulse kicks as you obey.
he slides back across your tongue, and this time, he doesn’t let you tease. his hand guides you down, firm and filthy, until your lips stretch around him and your throat starts to resist. you gag, soft and wet, nails dragging down the hard muscle of his thigh as your eyes sting.
“there you go,” he breathes.
your hand grips the base of him, working what your mouth can’t take, spit slipping over your fingers. he holds you there for a second too long, just enough to make the room blur at the edges, then lets you pull back with a messy inhale.
a string of saliva breaks from your lower lip to the head of his cock. his control takes visible damage. “look at you,” he says, voice thick. “all that attitude, and now you’re drooling on my cock.”
you dive back down, faster now. messy. greedy. your head moves in a steady rhythm while your tongue works the underside. soldier boy’s breathing gets louder, rougher. his hand shifts in your hair, fingers tightening, starting to guide you.
“yeah… just like that. good fucking girl.”
the praise hits low in your stomach. you moan around him and his control slips another notch. his hips start moving, shallow thrusts at first, then deeper. he fucks your mouth with growing urgency, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat over and over.
you choke again, throat convulsing around him, tears slipping down your cheeks. spit drips freely now, soaking your chin, running down your neck. you don’t care. you dig your nails into his thigh harder and take everything he gives you.
“fuck—i’m close,” he pants. his voice is completely shot. chest heaving. abs tight. “gonna come in that pretty mouth if you keep—shit—”
you look up at him and hum, eyes watering but steady.
that does it.
his hand fists tight in your hair, holding you in place as his hips stutter. he comes with a broken groan, thick and hot across your tongue. pulse after pulse, salty and warm, filling your mouth until you have to swallow around him. he keeps thrusting through it, shallow and desperate, panting your name under his breath.
when he finally stills, you keep him in your mouth a second longer, sucking gently, milking the last drops. only then do you pull off slowly, gasping, lips shiny and swollen, chin a complete mess.
soldier boy stares down at you, chest still rising and falling hard. his thumb brushes your bottom lip, smearing the spit and cum there. something soft flickers across his face for half a second—too raw, too honest—before he tucks it away again.
you stay on your knees a moment longer, looking up at him. he hauls you up by the elbows, kissing you deep and filthy even though his taste is still in your mouth. his arms wrap around you like he’s not sure he’ll let go anytime soon.
the safehouse is still noisy outside the door. voices, laughter, the faint clack of keyboards. none of it feels real right now.
you press your face into his bare chest, listening to his heart slowly calm down, and try not to think about how much you like being held by him after he’s fallen apart. how dangerous that is.
he doesn’t say anything else. just holds you tighter, nose buried in your hair, like maybe he’s thinking the same thing and doesn’t know what to do with it either.
I actually need dick from dean winchester rn 😂😂😂😂😂😂😂 please ughhh I'm actually crawling on the floor and meowing like a cat, need him to stuff me full 😂😂😂 in heat rn😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂
sam winchester absolutely sucks the strap. he does everything for the strap. he fingers himself for the strap. he douches for the strap. he LOVES the strap. he worships the strap like it’s actually a dick even though its not. bless his little heart
ꜱᴜʙ!ᴅᴇᴀɴ ᴡɪɴᴄʜᴇꜱᴛᴇʀ who may seem confident and cocky in public, turns to a mess beneath you when you sit on his face, cunt soaked with arousal and his own saliva. he whimpers as he laps at your pussy desperately, fingers leaving imprints in the soft flesh of your thighs with how tight he was gripping you, teary green eyes fixated on your face as you degrade him and use his face like a fuck toy, your hands almost pulling strands out with how hard you tug at it.
ꜱᴜʙ!ᴅᴇᴀɴ ᴡɪɴᴄʜᴇꜱᴛᴇʀ who will have you sit on his lap, back snug against his chest, as he snaps his hips into your ass, his arms wrapped tight around your waist and his face fitted in the crook of your neck. there’s a large dark stain where the tip of his cock is tented against the fabric of his boxers, sure to crust after he was done chasing his third orgasm without even being inside of your tight cunt yet.
ꜱᴜʙ!ᴅᴇᴀɴ ᴡɪɴᴄʜᴇꜱᴛᴇʀ who can’t remember his own name as you ride him with purpose, hands tied to the bedposts with handcuffs, your panties stuffed in his mouth to deafen his pathetic whines (although wasn’t succeeding very well) and toes curling into the bedsheets. he had fucked you stupid plenty of times, always mocking you and smirking, but now, with your hands around his throat and belittling words being spat at him, he knew exactly how you felt. and, god, if he didn’t love it.
ꜱᴜʙ!ᴅᴇᴀɴ ᴡɪɴᴄʜᴇꜱᴛᴇʀ who will sit on his knees and rut his leaking cock against your foot when you walk through the door, fingers clawing desperately at your jeans as if trying to tear them apart. he would never even think about taking them off himself without your permission, knowing he’d be in big trouble if he did. his drool would leave a damp stain on your jeans, needy whimpers of your name and pants rolling off his tongue with each grind of his hips. if he had a tail, it most definitely would be thumping against the floor erratically.
ꜱᴜʙ!ᴅᴇᴀɴ ᴡɪɴᴄʜᴇꜱᴛᴇʀ who just wants to be your good little boy and listen to your every word. if you tell him to strip, he’s standing with nothing on but pre-cum smeared on his cock. if you tell him to get on his knees, he’s digging his knees into the carpet and looking up at you with half-lidded eyes. if you call his name, he’s already beside you, eyes fixed on you as he awaited your next command.
ꜱᴜʙ!ᴅᴇᴀɴ ᴡɪɴᴄʜᴇꜱᴛᴇʀ who is just an attention whore in the body of a sexy man trying to seem cool.
bfs dad! dean who buys you matching jewelry as a subtle way to ensure you know you’re always his. it’s typically something small, maybe a necklace charm for your birthday or a ring. he doesn’t wear his other half often but if he does it’s tucked in his pocket or hidden under his shirt.
when he fucks you, the necklace dangles in your face and gets tangled with yours. sometimes he has you suck on the pendant, lips wrapped around it as he buries himself deep inside you in the back of the impala, hidden away from the motel you’re staying in so no one sees. you can’t risk it.
dean smiles when he sees the silver charm in your mouth. pure silver, always. never the fake shit that turns your skin green. only the best for his girl.
“tastes good, yeah?” he laughs, hands firm against the leather seats. he rolls his hips up into you, cock pressing deep inside. the metal clangs against itself, your teeth digging into the flesh of it and grinding down at a particular thrust.
he grunts as his hand manages to find its way back to your face, thumbing your lip open gently and watching your tongue swirl. it turns him on so bad every single time you do it, whether it’s a ring around his finger or the glistening chain around his neck.
“keep doin’ that and you’re gonna make me cum, sweets.” he gasps, eyebrows furrowing and eyes squeezing shut. your arms find their way around his neck, dipping his head closer and swallowing him with your tongue. the charm is still in between your teeth. every long stroke of your tongue against his twists it around between your muscles.
dean moans into you, rutting his hips and cumming deep inside you. when he rips his mouth away from you, sweat dripping from his forehead to yours.
“jesus christ,” he exhales, pulling out and sitting back. he lifts you up into his lap. “where’d you learn that?” he murmurs, kissing your temple. you shrug, resting your head onto his shoulder. “dunno. thought you’d like it.”
tw. trailer park princess! reader x soldier boy. alcohol use. pillow humping. age gap. reader is of age. southern aesthetic. icky ben! loss of virginity (r). p in v. cowgirl position. creampie. pet names (baby, honey, dolly, sweetheart.) sex under the influence. title from only angels have wings - nicole dollanganger.
the trailer park squatted at the edge of town like a stray dog too tired to bite. rust-buckled trailers leaned crooked beneath a bruised southern sky, porches sagging under ashtrays and dead plants and old men too drunk to remember what year it was. weeds swallowed fence posts whole, cicadas screamed loud enough to drown out the highway. every evening smelled like wet dirt, gasoline and somebody frying meat in reused grease.
dirty and sometimes too rough, but the only home you’ve ever known.
you lived in lot seventeen with your mama’s old floral curtains still hanging in the windows and a busted washing machine sitting permanently in the yard like lawn decor.
and three trailers down in lot twenty, lived ben.
nobody called him soldier boy around here. not unless they were stupid. to everyone he was just ben- the broad-shouldered veteran with mirrored aviators, cigarettes tucked into the sleeve of his white T-shirt and enough violence simmering under his skin to make stray dogs avoid his porch.
he’d arrived six months ago in a black pickup with new york plates and a duffel bag that looked heavy enough to carry bodies. folks whispered, said he killed a man in pure rage. said the government was after him. said he wasn’t right in the head.
you mostly noticed how lonely he looked.
sometimes late at night you’d see him sitting shirtless on his trailer steps under the jaundiced porchlight, smoke curling around him while old songs from before your time crackled from a radio inside. almost like he was waiting for something that would never come back.
one afternoon he caught you snooping out the window, your fingers gently folding the curtains back and he smiled. whistled and held up his lit joint like an offering, frowned when you cowered back inside with wild thoughts and a pillow between your legs, pink panty clad pussy grinding against the plush while thinking about him.
the first time he spoke to you, you nearly dropped your groceries.
“hey, dolly.”
you froze halfway up your porch steps, clutching a paper sack full of canned beans and bread. ben leaned against the railing of his trailer porch, beer bottle dangling from two fingers.
“ya’ got a second?”
you glanced around like maybe he meant somebody else but there was nobody else.
your cheeks went hot as you crossed the dirt path between the trailers slowly, flip-flops crunching over gravel. up close he smelled like old Spice and cigarette smoke and something metallic underneath. blood maybe. or motor oil.
ben looked you over in that lazy dangerous way older men did around town sometimes- except somehow meaner and softer all at once.
“you livin’ at seventeen, right?”
you nodded.
he tilted an empty beer bottle toward you.
“need a favor.”
you stomach fluttered nervously, what could ben possibly need from you?
“…what kind?”
“the gas station down the road. he reached into his pockets pulling out crumpled bills. “need’a beer.”
you blinked, boots nervously scuffing against the dusty road. “they won’t sell it to me…”
“sure they will.” he held the money out. “ya’ got one of those faces.”
“what’s that suppose to mean?”
“innocent, young. just flash em a bit a cleavage’ they’ll serve ya.” he said it like it amused him, no hesitation at how inappropriate his words may be.
mama always warned you about men like ben. men with charm sharpened into weapons. men who smiled like they’d already survived the electric chair once before. you should’ve said no. its inappropriate and illegal.
but you’d been lonely yourself for so long that sometimes loneliness made bad ideas feel holy.
so you took the money.
the corner store sat beside an abandoned car wash twenty minutes away on foot. neon faulty beer signs buzzed in the windows. old men crowded around scratch cards whistling when you walked past, cleavage on show just like ben had said.
you bought the cheapest six-pack they had and the cashier barely looked you in the eye. on the way back you didn’t pull your top back into place, you wanted ben to see what you did just for him.
“took your sweet time.” he called.
you held up the plastic bag. “they only had warm ones..”
“tragic.”
he stood and took the bag from your hand. his bruised knuckle velvet fingers brushed yours, eyes trailing down your body, lingering at your chest.
your heartbeat stumbled.
he pulled a beer free and cracked it open against the railing, liquid sputtering down his fingers.
“you want one?”
“I’m not really supposed to drink..”
he barked a laugh. “jesus, kid.” then he looked at you again, slower this time. “i aint’ gonna ask again.”
you should’ve walked home then. instead you made your way up his steps, boots clanking against the wood taking a seat next to ben.
ben laughed when you coughed after the first sip.
not a mean laugh. low and rough and surprised, like he hadn’t expected anything genuinely sweet all week.
“easy there, sweetheart.” he leaned back in the rusted lawn chair, boots kicked up on the porch railing. “beer ain’t’ supposed to be fought hand-to-hand.”
you wiped your mouth quickly, embarrassed. the can felt ice-cold in your hands, condensation dripping over your chipped polished nails.
“it tastes awful.”
the bitterness made your face scrunch up. ben smirked around his cigarette.
“jesus’ ya really never drank before?”
you shook your head.
“not even at parties?”
“i- i don’t really get invited places…”
the words slipped out before you meant them to. bens expression shifted into something- not pity but worse somehow. like he understood too well.
“you serious?”
you shrugged staring into the can. “people around here think I’m.. weird.”
“that’ so?”
“mama says I’m too soft.”
ben huffed smoke into the humid night air. “ya’ mama’s probably right.”
you glanced at him, fingers tight around the metal.
“but” he added, “ain’t the worst thing to be.”
the beer made everything warmer after a while. your cheeks tingled. your limbs felt floaty and loose, porchlight glowing syrupy gold around the edges.
ben watched you carefully.
“you okay?”
“mhmm..”
“ya’ sure?”
you giggled unexpectedly at the seriousness in his voice. “think my head’s fuzzy.”
“that’ll happen.”
he stood then, broad and imposing even in the dim light and crushed his cigarette beneath his boot.
“cmon’ dolly.”
you blinked up at him, “where?”
“inside. before mosquitoes carry you off.”
bens hand closed around your elbow as you stood before you could stumble. the touch sent a strange nervous flutter through your chest.
“tsk. ya’ lightweight.” he muttered.
“sorry..”
“s’ alright, sweetie.”
the rusted door of the double-wide groaned as ben pulled it open, the stale scent of cheap beer and unwashed denim washing out into the humid evening. the inside was dim, a single yellow lamp casting long shadows over a sagging couch, empty bottles scattered. He kicked the door shut behind you, the latch clicking loud in the sudden silence.
his eyes narrowed, hands still holding on your hips as you looked up at him nervously.
“yknow why i invited you here, dont you smart girl?” he mumbled.
you nodded breathe heavy lingering with his.
“say it.”
“b-because you want me… and i want you..” you whispered.
“thats right. ya gonna’ let me pop that cherry right here on my couch.” he let go of your chin and stepped back, pussy fluttering at his words.
your hands shook as you fumbled with the buttons of your blouse from the excitement that ben could actually like someone like you. he watched patient as a cat, his eyes tracing every inch of skin you revealed- your collarbone, the curve of your breasts in their cotton bra, the trembling line of your belly as you pushed your shorts down your thighs. when you stood before him in nothing but panties and bra he let out a low whistle.
“sweet’ jesus.” he muttered, his hand moving to the front of his jeans, palming the obvious bulge straining the denim. “turn around let me see that peach.”
you obeyed turning slowly, your hands clasped behind your back. his palm landed flat on your bare hip then slid down, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass cheek. he squeezed hard enough to make you gasp
“perfect body, honey.” he breathed. “now get on the couch for me okay?”
you climbed onto the worn cushion, knees sinking into the ancient foam as you faced him. he unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, watching your tongue peeking out between your lips like a puppy to a bone. He didn’t bother pulling his jeans off- just shoved them down enough to free his cock. springing up thick and heavy, the head flushed with a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.
“this is what’s gonna fill that tight little cunt.”. he said, wrapping his fist around the shaft, giving it a slow stroke.
“i-its big..” you mumbled innocently.
“thats okay honey, feel better snugged in that little hole.” he settled onto the couch, back against the armrest and pulled you onto his lap. your thighs straddled his hips, the rough denim of his jeans rasping against your sensitive inner thighs. his cock pressed against your belly hot and hard. he reached between you hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and tore them off with one sharp tug.
“no need for those..” he grunted tossing them aside.
his hand slid down, fingers finding your pussy. they were rough and calloused, knowing exactly where to press. he circled your clit with his thumb, laughing as some of your juices sputtered onto his hand.
“look at you..” he murmured, his eyes dark and hungry. “so wet already. you were made for this weren’t you? made to take my cock.”
you whined deep in your throat, hands digging into his shoulders. “mmmf- mhm.”
he lined himself up, the fat head of his cock nudging your slick folds. you felt the pressure, the stretch and you braced yourself.
“ready, dolly? say ya want it.”
“i want it.” you whispered, voice trembling but sure.
he smiled and then he thrust up. the pain was sharp, a burning stretch that stole your breath. you whined out, your nails digging into his skin. he held your hips stilling you, letting you adjust.
“shh.. take it slow.” he said with a voice surprisingly gentle. “first time always hurts.”
you nodded tears pricking your eyes. he stayed still with just the tip buried inside you until you relaxed. then he slid deeper inch by inch until he was fully seated, his balls pressed against your ass.
“fuck- yeah..” he groaned, his eyes half-closed. “feel that? your so tight. so fuckin’ tight.”
he gave you a moment to breathe then he began to move—a slow deep grind that rocked your whole body. his hands found your hips, guiding you into a rhythm. up and down, your pussy gripping him sliding down his length. each stroke sent fresh waves of sensation through your core, the pain melting into a deep aching pleasure.
“thaaats it..” he encouraged. “ride me. show me what you got.”
you found your pace, your body moving instinctively, your breasts bouncing in front of his face. he leaned forward taking one nipple into his mouth sucking hard, his beard grazing the sensitive peak. you moaned with your hips moving faster, the friction building into something urgent desperate.
“i-im close i think..! you gasped though you barely understood what that meant.
“good job dolly- cream on my dick..”
his thumb found your clit again rubbing in tight circles and that was it. the orgasm crashed over you like a wave your whole body tensing, your pussy clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. he groaned his hips thrusting up chasing your pussy burying himself deep as he spilled inside you hot, thick filling you up.
you collapsed against his chest, breathless your skin slick with sweat. he wrapped an arm around you holding you there, his cock still twitching inside you.
“good job, honey. did so good just f’me.”.
“j-just for you ben..” you mumbled breathlessly and full, letting yourself sink into his warmth.