[wh01e10tta10ve]

Kaylynn- she/her

I love Supernatural, The Boys, TWD, Jensen Ackles… and that’s mostly what this is for… but I love movies and tv so this is really for everything.

This is mostly going to be for me to read and reblog fanfics, but I might post too

[dontyouworrydaddy]

Dean’s Girl

Dean Winchester x fem!Reader

summary: two months of being away from each other was driving you both crazy.

warning: MDNI 18+, smut, car sex, breeding

A/N: it’s a little unfair that I only wrote one fic about him, which was months ago, and never continued.

3K Special Event

You haven’t seen Dean in two months. So it would be an understatement that you missed your boyfriend, and the sex with him. And oh boy, he missed you even more. You were all he could think about while he was away with his brother Sam and Castiel.

So when he was finally back, he took you for a ride in his baby, somewhere quiet and private. He parked under a bridge near the riverside, and it was in the middle of the night. Which means nobody could disturb you. 

You were both in his backseat, both of you naked, and he was on top of you. Your lips collided and moved together with a hungry, breathless patience. His tongue slipped between your parted lips and he could taste the coffee you had earlier today. His hand was tangled in your hair, leaving you no possibility to pull back as he pressed his body on top of yours. 

It was embarrassing to admit, but kissing you alone was making him hard. 

“Fuck, I missed you so much.” Dean whispered as he broke from the kiss just to take a look at your beautiful face. 

“Yeah yeah, I missed you too. Now spare your romantic talk and fuck me already.”

“That’s my girl.” he let out a laugh and immediately started kissing you again. Your hands were now resting on each side of his neck, and you felt his pulse hammering against your fingertips. 

Without a warning, you felt his cock slowly sliding into your wet pussy, stretching your walls around him. A gasp left your mouth but that didn’t stop him from continuing to kiss you, even if your mouth was hanging open. It’s only been two months since you last had sex, but fuck it felt like it was your first time with him. 

As soon as you felt him start moving, you dug your nails into his shoulders deep enough to leave marks. His pace was slow at first, and once he felt the tension leave your body, he started to pick up his speed. Sending deep thrusts into you, his lips started trailing down your neck and sucking your sensitive skin. This earned him a needy moan from you. 

“Fuck, I missed you so much.” he vocalized. And the filthy noises that came from him? Sexy, this only made you want him even more. 

You wrap your legs over his lower back, and close your eyes. All you could think about was how good he made you feel. The way his cock was buried deep inside you, the way he was sucking your skin was enough to make you feel like you were on cloud nine. 

Dean branched his hand against the window frame, which was now foggy, leaning further into the already small space. The leather seats squeaked in protest against the frantic movements. 

The only sounds you could hear were the breathy gasps from Dean… and maybe the car shaking. To be fair, for two months all he could think about was you, and filling up your sweet cunt with his warm cum. And now that he had you, he wasn’t going to hold back. Unless you told him to slow down. He was drowning in pleasure.

Dean lifted his head and pressed his forehead against yours with shared breaths while his fingers were now tracing paths across your hips. The feeling of his touch made you arch your back from the leather seat.

“I love you, I love you, I love you” he kept repeating, and he meant it every single time. “You waited so long for me, didn’t you?” 

“Yes mhmm-” a shuddering breath left his lips at your answer. 

“Yeah? Me too. I can’t believe you’re mine.” 

Dean’s skin was hot, sweaty, and vibrating under your fingers. But you were no different. Your whole body was covered in sweat as well. As he continued pounding his hips against yours, you felt a coil built in your belly. The need to cum was tumbling over the edge. 

“Cum all over my cock, show me how much you missed me.” He whispered as soon as he felt the way you were clenching around him which was an indicator for him that you were close

You felt yourself cum over him with a choked moan which made Dean fill you up with his release. He let his body rest on top of yours while you both were panting raggedly. 

He left a quick against your sweaty, and sensitive skin with a smile on his face. “Can I be romantcíc now?”

taglist: @star-yawnznn @calzone-d

[wintrynightz]

Dean Winchester teaching you about cars ˙⋆✮

✮ Most people would expect him to be impatient when teaching someone. That he’d get annoyed when they repeat a question or can’t seem to learn. And in most cases yeah he would be, but with you? Never

✮ You could ask him the same question four times and he’d still explain it to you kindly and throughly “yea’ nah sweetheart that’s not where ya put the oil, this is”

✮ Dean will be positioned behind you, his arms coming around you as with one hand points at what he’s talking about while the other is rested on your waist

✮ Radio station playing classical rock can be heard in the background as he explain

✮ Dean loooooves it when you ask questions about what he was explaining

✮ He will suddenly kiss you when you’re all focused because he just thought your concentrated expression was too adorable “ ‘is not my fault you’re all cute”

✮ Lastly will do a lil pop quiz asking you questions about everything he had taught you

[lashehsal]

Beau Arlen

Crave your name into my bedpost

One shot

Words count: 13,8k

Key words: dad’s bsf, age gape, smut, love confession

story: You always had a crush on your dad’s bestfriend who seems to hate every damn guy you take home.

My fingers ran along the different hangers, examining every piece of clothing carefully. Nothing appealed to me. Everything was too short, too flashy, too expensive. It was a waste of time. This was already the third store I'd tried and still nothing. Not one item made me want to bother trying it on. So I made my way over to find Benjamin, my boyfriend. I spotted his dark blue cap in the crowd waiting to get into the fitting rooms.

Because on top of not finding anything I liked, the store was packed and I was starting to suffocate. I needed air.

I waved to let him know I'd be waiting outside. It was almost his turn, and seeing that took the edge off the deep boredom of waiting around for hours. Knowing Ben, he wasn't going to try on much and he'd be quick.

I pulled myself out of the store and a wave of relief washed over me. Sure, I was still in the mall where people kept bumping into each other, but it was spacious enough to give me a little more fresh air than the store I'd just left.

I was about to pull out my phone to look at whatever, just to kill time until Ben came out, when a voice rang out.

"Kiddo?" The nickname pulled a smile out of me before he even came into view. I knew that voice too well, and that nickname especially — there was only one person who called me that.

Beau.

"You lost or something?"

I looked up in his direction. He was, as usual, decked out in jeans and cowboy boots. He walked with that easy confidence, that smile hanging on his face. He always smiled. That was probably one of the reasons I loved Beau. He made me want to smile too.

"Would it really be that strange for me to be at the mall?" His dimple peeked out from behind his beard, and it caught my attention a little too much.

I looked away to watch a couple walk by. Pretending to be interested in the way they held hands gave me something else to look at besides Beau and that gorgeous smile of his.

"Well, don't take this the wrong way, but you don't exactly seem like the shopping type."

His lips didn't stop curling up. He tilted his head a little without breaking eye contact.

"Fair enough. I'm too old for this crap."

I let out a small sound that came close to a laugh but was too muffled to really count as one.

"So why are you here? You on duty, Sheriff?"

He shook his head and wrinkled his nose without losing that grin.

"Please don't call me that."

I tilted my head to the side with fake innocence, pretending not to know he corrected me every time I called him that. Still, despite his many attempts to get me to drop the nickname, I kept using it, tossing it out all casual-like in some of our conversations.

I let myself do it because deep down I knew it amused him. Sure, he'd give me that tired look, that barely-disapproving stare, but I could see the spark in his eyes that told me it didn't bother him all that much. I liked calling him that anyway. It just rolled off my tongue.

"But you are the sheriff."

I played dumb, which earned me a raised eyebrow from him. The corners of his eyes crinkled from smiling so much, and even when he gave me that knowing look, the lines stayed put.

He was devastatingly handsome.

If I weren't who I was and didn't know him, I'd probably speed up on purpose, blow past the limit, just to see his sheriff's car show up behind me.

He made me want to get a ticket.

That was the whole problem.

"Yeah, but not for you."

I frowned like I was offended.

"So I don't get a sheriff?"

He rolled his eyes.

"You know exactly what I mean."

I crossed my arms over my chest, settling into a comfortable stance. Talking with him was comfortable. He always had that mix of funny and kind. He was easy to talk to. He watched you like he was actually interested, and every time, he gave the impression he was really listening. I loved that about him. But what made it stand out was that it wasn't just an impression. He really listened. He was attentive. He didn't just hear you — he genuinely listened, even when he didn't have to.

"It's just a nickname."

"It's too formal."

"But it's what you are."

He kept looking at me with that not-quite-discouraging amusement.

"No. I'm your dad's best friend. To you, I'm Beau."

My dad's best friend.

Like I was ever going to forget that little detail.

Beau had spent most of his free time at our house since I was six years old. I was as used to the sound of his truck in the driveway as I was to the theme song of my favorite show, just like I knew the sound of his laugh when he'd had one too many beers with my dad after a long day. Because when I got home, most of the time, Beau was there. When he had time after a shift, he'd swing by to see my dad, plant himself at the dinner table, and try to fix the world like saying it out loud over a can of beer would actually change anything.

That was family.

Especially after my parents' divorce, and after his own divorce. Beau had told my dad he was planning on moving to Montana for a sheriff position in some small town — quiet enough for a simple life, but big enough that he wouldn't be bored just writing parking tickets.

My dad had decided to follow him, figuring the farther he got from my mom, the better off he'd be.

He wasn't wrong. My dad had taken the divorce pretty hard, and starting fresh somewhere new could only do him good.

And most of all, Beau was good for him. He was a good best friend. Always there to lend a hand, always there as a shoulder to cry on when my dad got a little too down over the divorce.

He showed up.

And he never just showed up for my dad, either.

When my dad finally went to bed after one drink too many and too much exhaustion from stewing over things, Beau always stuck around a little longer. He'd watch me quietly, help me tidy up whatever was lying around, and then always end up asking if I was okay.

I hadn't really suffered from the divorce, and he knew that.

After all, when my parents were together, even though they loved each other, all they did was fight. So I didn't take their split hard. It was almost better that way. It spared me the shouting at ten at night and the dirty looks they threw at each other all day long. I was just sad for my dad. Because even with all the fighting, he loved her.

He was the one who needed comforting, not me.

But Beau always managed to show me that even if I thought I didn't need it right then, if I ever did need someone to listen, he'd be there.

Like when he was the one who'd come find me after I got in trouble. He was always there to cheer me up when I wiped out on my bike in the yard. Always there with a joke to soothe my rebellious teenage heart. Always the one who sacrificed his time to teach me chess even though my dad had told me a thousand times it wasn't the moment.

He was always there.

All the time.

Everywhere.

Constantly.

Always in the town where we lived. Always in the kitchen at home. Always in my head for no reason at all.

That was the problem.

Because it was family.

Because he was my dad's best friend.

And he definitely shouldn't have been in my head all the time. A presence that felt that natural to me should not have been showing up here, of all places.

That was way more unsettling than him standing in this mall.

"Well, Beau," I stressed his name like I thought it was ridiculous he'd correct me on something so small. And yet I did it on purpose, just so he would correct me. Note the hypocrisy. "That still doesn't tell me why you're here."

His head tilted forward slightly, and just when I thought it was impossible for his smile to get any bigger, it did.

That damn smile.

It was exactly the reason I used to run around the house at seven years old announcing that when I grew up, I was going to marry Beau.

Because yeah, most little girls that age claim they want to marry their dad, since he's the only man in their life — unfortunately for my dad, I'd always had other priorities. And I'd already clocked, tragically early, that my dad's best friend was gorgeous and way more interesting.

I was just a kid. I didn't understand what I was saying. Unlike me now, old enough to understand exactly what it means and to get tortured by the guilt of it. Back then I just thought he was handsome, and instead of saying it that way, I said it the way a kid does. I said we were going to get married.

I was young, but I remembered the way he'd smile and answer with something like, "Sure thing, kiddo."

My innocence and my naivety always pulled another smile out of him. I liked his smile a little too much.

And that was still true today.

Just like sometimes, if I thought about it too long, I'd land on the conclusion that I really would've liked to marry Beau.

He really was perfect.

Unlike my parents' relationship, which had been kind of a mess, I'd always found myself envying Carla. Well — not that I'd ever been a big fan of her, since my dad never had been either. He was of the opinion that she always looked down on Beau and that she was rigid. That wasn't entirely wrong. Every time I saw her, she managed to say something snide to her husband. Meanwhile Beau was the total opposite of all that. He praised her constantly despite her questionable attitude, and always made time to be helpful.

While my dad was threatening to run off and exile himself to Brazil to get away from my mom, Beau was bringing Carla flowers and apologizing for whatever ridiculous thing she'd accused him of doing.

Trust me, a husband like Beau was worth ten of one like my dad.

Even though I loved my dad.

But none of that mattered much in the end, since they both ended up alone with a nice thick stack of divorce papers.

Beau pulled me out of my thoughts.

"I wanted to get something for Emily for when she gets back from camping with Avery. Only I'm realizing I have no idea what to get her." He glanced at the store behind me, looking a little embarrassed. "I almost bought her a set of forks, thinking she could use 'em later."

He got a little laugh out of me.

On top of being a good husband and stupidly good-looking, he was a good dad too.

He was unbearably perfect.

"Emily's sixteen. I doubt she needs forks."

He ran a hand through his hair, looking desperate.

"I know. But how am I supposed to know what a sixteen-year-old needs?"

He was trying to make it sound funny. He had that gift, making everything feel light and warm. Still, I could see real distress in his eyes, hiding behind his usual good mood.

He pressed his lips together and looked back up at me.

"You know Emily pretty well. Maybe you could help me out?"

The question caught me off guard.

My boring shopping date with my boyfriend was suddenly opening up into something a lot more interesting. And I wouldn't have admitted it under torture, but that excited me a lot more than staring blankly at store shelves.

Except I was here with Benjamin.

"I'm sorry, I can't right now."

He looked pretty disappointed by my answer and leaned in with a confident tilt of his head.

"Come on, you're gonna leave an old guy like me wandering around a place like this? I'll actually get lost."

I couldn't help but giggle at that, shaking my head at the same time, reluctantly. My tongue was practically hanging out waiting to say yes.

"I'd love to, but I'm here with—"

"Baby?"

Benjamin stepped into view before I could finish my sentence. I couldn't say why, but I felt a little uncomfortable. Probably because I felt Beau's whole attitude shift. He was still smiling, because Beau without a smile wouldn't be Beau, but his grin didn't quite reach his eyes anymore. They were fixed on Benjamin, more serious now.

And I recognized that look way too fast.

He was sizing him up, the way he always did. Running him through the wringer, clocking every little movement. He had his sheriff face on — steadier, more in-charge.

"My boyfriend. I'm here with my boyfriend."

I felt Ben's eyes land on me, curious, as Beau straightened up a little.

"Hey, I know you. You're Dan Hopper's kid? From the ranch?"

My boyfriend nodded while I watched the interrogation begin to unfold.

My dad was more in-your-face about it, while Beau knew how to be subtler. Probably because he had that likable, sociable side that masked how closely he was analyzing everything. But that didn't make him any less critical.

The first time I ever brought a guy home, Beau was there. He was supposed to be helping my dad fix the plumbing, but he ended up leaning against the kitchen counter, firing off a hundred questions at the lucky — or rather, unlucky — guy in question. He'd been funny and charming, like always. Because that's who he was. Except once the guy left, he told my dad he needed to keep an eye on me, because "that kid," as he'd liked to call him, wasn't good enough for me.

And it had been like that every single time.

One time, my boyfriend was too quiet, so Beau decided that was a front to hide the fact that he was probably a druggie or a sociopath. But the next one dared to drink and laugh, so obviously he was a shameless degenerate. Or the guy I brought home was too loud. Too boring. Not funny enough. He didn't look at me the way I was supposed to be looked at.

There was always something.

And every single time, I caught myself agreeing with him.

Not just in some shameful corner of my mind, either — in real life too.

Beau Arlen had a gift for making my boyfriends look like idiots.

And judging by the way he was sizing up Benjamin, he was already working out what was wrong with the way he was standing, or the way he talked to me.

"Yeah, that's him! You're the sheriff, right?"

He nodded without taking his eyes off him.

"That's right. Sheriff Beau Arlen."

"I thought you didn't want people calling you Sheriff."

His green eyes landed back on me, and for a second I cursed myself for opening my mouth.

Because none of my other boyfriends had ever made me feel like this.

Definitely not Benjamin.

"I don't want you calling me Sheriff. Everybody else, that's different."

I rolled my eyes, keeping my face indifferent while I was boiling on the inside.

Then Benjamin turned to me with an apologetic look that made me pull my eyes away from Beau, who hadn't stopped watching me since my dumb comment.

"I'm so sorry, my dad just called. He needs me. We're still meeting up tonight, right? You're staying over?"

I nodded with a smile that felt a little too forced for my liking.

"Of course, no problem."

In no time at all, Benjamin had planted a quick kiss on my mouth that tasted a little too bitter for my taste, and then left me alone with Beau.

Silence followed after he left.

Then it hit me that I wasn't busy anymore. I was almost glad Benjamin had had to leave, and I caught myself thanking fate for the timing.

What is wrong with me?

"So, I've got nothing else to do. I can help you out if you want."

I made myself look at him again and had to fight down the feeling that stirred in my stomach when I realized he was still watching me, the exact same way he had been a few minutes ago. Like he hadn't looked away once this whole time.

I had a serious problem.

"How long have you two been together?"

He ignored my last comment with obvious intent. He didn't look the least bit concerned about whatever gift he supposedly still needed to find, and my help clearly wasn't a priority for him anymore.

"Two months."

He nodded slowly.

"And you stay over at his place? Must be getting serious."

The word serious hung there like one of his jokes. He didn't make it obvious, but he was mocking the word anyway, with an annoying kind of confidence.

"Yeah. He's got an apartment in the next town over."

His expression got harder to read. Still, his smile took on a mocking edge.

"Never heard you had a boyfriend. Your dad know?"

I straightened my shoulders, standing up a little taller. I could feel my tone turning defensive. Like I had to justify myself.

Like I'd done something wrong.

"He's heard about him but he hasn't met him yet. And my dad doesn't need to know everything."

He let out a short laugh.

"Yeah, your dad's probably better off not knowing."

I frowned, a little irritated by his attitude. I was never irritated with Beau, but somehow, right then, I was. I felt like a kid getting a lecture.

"What's that supposed to mean, exactly?"

He looked past me, thinking for a second before he spoke. I already knew I wasn't going to like whatever came next.

He didn't seem to have any hesitation about sharing his opinion, though.

"Your boyfriend's an idiot. Your dad would have a heart attack if he met him."

And there it was.

I'd seen it coming, and yet I was still somehow surprised by how predictable he was.

He looked me dead in the eye. I had the feeling he was trying to talk sense into me, and I couldn't stand it. I wasn't a kid anymore. I could make my own choices and date whoever I wanted without Beau Arlen handing down his opinion like some kind of verdict.

"You talked to him for like five seconds."

I tried to sound more tired of his attitude than actually hurt. If I looked hurt, he'd just throw it back at me with something like "the truth hurts."

"Yeah, well, five seconds is plenty."

Beau might've been the most laid-back man I knew, but he still had one ugly flaw.

He was stubborn.

Bullheaded.

The kind of stubborn where he'd decide in five seconds flat that my boyfriend was an idiot, and that was that — he wasn't changing his mind.

"Ben's great."

I could feel myself getting annoyed that he didn't like him.

Or maybe I was annoyed that the only guy who might actually meet Beau's ridiculous standards was Beau himself.

But that was, without a doubt, the worst idea I could possibly have.

Because Beau would never be an option.

"He calls you baby."

That blinding smile of his was starting to grate on me just as much as this whole conversation. Because even saying something that mocking, he still managed to be charming and composed. He wasn't being mean or nasty about it.

He was just Beau.

Except what he said got under my skin in a way that felt way too intense.

"It's a nickname. It's cute."

He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Yeah, well, not when it's him. It's the way he says it. Makes him sound like an idiot."

I let out a sound that was closer to a laugh but too mocking to really count as one.

"You've always got an excuse."

I said it quieter, like it was more meant for myself than for him.

Still, he didn't miss the accusation in my tone. He kept looking at me with that advisor look of his.

Like I needed his advice about my love life.

"Not my fault you've got a habit of dating idiots."

I looked him dead in the eye before firing back, sharp:

"Maybe you're the idiot."

He went quiet, caught off guard. The smile dropped off his face for a second.

I'd never talked to Beau that way before. I'd never felt the need to. And yet I've got a temper, and I've never exactly been known for holding my tongue.

Still, Beau had never made me want to snap back like that before.

That was probably why he didn't call me out on it. He was too thrown off by what I'd said to come up with something fast enough to sound properly disapproving.

I felt the word idiot hang there between us. His eyes had changed — he wasn't looking at me the same way anymore. I couldn't tell if that spark came more from being offended or genuinely disappointed.

Either way, I felt guilty about it.

"You've never stayed with any of those guys. Guess I'm not that much of an idiot after all."

The way he said idiot came out bitter. It didn't match the smile that had settled back onto his face, like it had never left.

The worst part was, he wasn't wrong. I always ended up breaking things off.

But I was the problem, not usually them. I always got tired of it eventually. The pattern was pretty much always the same. I'd meet a guy, think he was cute, convince myself I'd fall for him with time, but I never fell — period.

I'd had boyfriends.

I'd never really been in love. Butterflies in my stomach weren't a thing for me. Neither were those big romantic stories like in the movies.

I felt something, sure, something that was enough for a while but that always ended up not being enough.

And maybe the most infuriating part of Beau's whole lecture was that he was reminding me just how much I was starting to feel the absence of everything Benjamin had never made me feel.

That was annoying.

"I haven't broken up with Benjamin yet."

I said it with confidence, to save face in front of Beau, but the little voice in my head was already whispering that it was only a matter of time.

His jaw tightened, and I could tell he was holding himself back from adding anything else. He wasn't the idiot I'd called him a few seconds ago. He was smart enough to notice it was getting to me.

Still, I hoped he wasn't sharp enough to realize that Benjamin wasn't really my problem.

"Because you actually love the guy?"

I'd been avoiding his eyes out of irritation, but I found myself looking straight at him. I stared, wondering if he'd really asked that or if my brain was just messing with me.

But the way he held my gaze, waiting for an answer, told me it was real.

I opened my mouth, ready to fire back an obvious "yes" so I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of the doubt he'd just planted. Instead, I couldn't do it.

A laugh slipped out of me, stunned on the surface but nervous underneath.

"None of your business."

He looked away from me, past my shoulder, with a satisfied look. I could see on his face that he'd taken that as confirmation, and it made me want to scream.

Because he was right.

Because I didn't want to give him that, and I hadn't been able to help it.

And now he was sure he was right.

"Stop looking at me like that."

I wasn't holding back the irritation anymore. It was stronger than me.

His eyes locked onto mine again with that unbearable confidence.

"Like what? Like you're wasting your time on a guy you're not even in love with?"

The truth hit me like a punch to the gut.

A.

Guy.

You're.

Not.

Even.

In.

Love.

With.

Ouch.

He was right. So right it was hard to hear, especially coming from him. Especially knowing full well that every time I dated a guy, I told myself, "It'll never be Beau, but he'll do."

I wasn't in love with Beau.

But some small part of me wanted him. And that small part had never once gone away.

Whereas with everyone else, there was always an expiration date.

"I never said I wasn't in love with him."

I was still justifying myself.

And doing it badly, on top of that. It was pathetic. I was ashamed to keep opening my mouth and digging myself deeper every time.

"You never said you were, either."

He was right again.

I shifted my purse on my shoulder to give my hands something to do. Maybe that would let me think about something other than this exhausting conversation.

"You know what. I should head back. I need to pack for Ben's and—" Saying his name made me feel sick. So sick I cut myself off. "I should go."

On top of stammering, I was repeating myself.

Nothing but obvious proof that he was completely right, and that I refused to accept it at all.

Maybe he thought I was in denial.

I wasn't.

But I was ignoring it anyway.

His expression softened, and I felt something like guilt settle over him.

"No, kiddo, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" I saw a weak wave of his hand, like he was trying to brush his own apology aside before it could land. I tried not to look hurt.

I only tried.

"It's fine. I'm not mad at you. I really just need to go."

We looked at each other for a moment, and the air between us was nothing like it had been when he first showed up. It was tense, and no matter how much I pretended I didn't care, that was a ridiculous thing to try to pull off.

He looked at me with a suffocating kind of guilt. And yet I also knew that it wasn't going to change his mind about anything, about what he'd said.

Because it was true.

I gave him a fake smile before turning my back on him, leaving him standing right there in the middle of that mall that suddenly felt way too big and too crowded. I turned on my heel like I hadn't, only minutes before he criticized my boyfriend, told him I could hang around because I had nothing else to do.

Funny how I'd suddenly found something to do in just a few minutes.

Note the irony.

I'd seen it in his eyes — he knew I was running from him.

I was.

————————————

I'd put my brights on and I still couldn't really see the road. The rain was brutal. I'd never seen rain like this before. I felt like my windshield was going to give out under the relentless hammering of the drops. The noise was starting to give me a headache and I had to squint just to make out the little I could see.

Then suddenly a doe ran across the road.

I jerked the wheel. Except instead of stopping like I meant to, with my foot slammed all the way down on the brake, the wheels hydroplaned. I lost control of the car and I panicked.

I watched my life flash before my eyes.

When the car finally stopped, it took me a second to pull myself together and realize the car hadn't flipped and that I'd avoided the worst. I was on a slope, but by some miracle I'd stopped. I figured the mud must have grabbed my wheels just enough to keep me from rolling.

My heart was pounding and I was breathing so hard I was giving the rain a run for its money.

I should've stayed at Benjamin's. He'd offered to let me crash on the couch because it was pouring way too hard and it was dangerous to drive home that late.

But I felt too awful to stick around one more minute after the conversation we'd just had.

After running into Beau at the mall, I couldn't stop myself from thinking. My head kept replaying what he'd said, on a loop. Not the part where he claimed Benjamin was an idiot. The part where he told me I was wasting my time with someone I didn't love.

I'd tried, really tried, to dig up some disagreement inside myself, or even just a sign that he wasn't completely right. But it was pointless. He was right. I wasn't in love with Benjamin. Just like I'd never really been in love with anyone, and that made me sick. I'd tried to convince myself it would happen eventually, but before I'd left my dad's place to go to Ben's, I'd felt that knot in my stomach, and I'd known I couldn't do it.

I was forcing myself.

So I'd left with the firm intention of putting an end to this charade, again.

I hated myself. Because my relationship with Ben was pretty much the one thing I wanted. I wanted a boyfriend who was kind and who wanted something real. That was what I wanted from the bottom of my heart.

But I didn't love him.

I was the problem, and I felt like I always ruined everything.

I felt guilty.

That's exactly why I'd refused to stay at his place. He'd tried to talk me into staying, because contrary to what Beau thought, he wasn't an idiot. He was actually too good for me, and that's exactly why I couldn't stay there. It hurt too much.

And in some twisted way, I was chalking this little accident up to karma coming back around.

Maybe I deserved it.

My eyes started to sting and I found myself crying like an idiot in my car. A mix of fear from what had just happened and guilt over Ben.

In a burst of frustration, my forearm slammed down on the wheel, and the little jolt of pain slowed my breathing down. Like it had snapped me back to reality.

I was in a ditch. I was alone. I was stuck.

And I hated crying like a little kid and wallowing in my own misery. I had to do something to get out of this godawful situation.

I grabbed my phone, praying I had enough signal.

Turned out I wasn't completely cursed. My phone showed two bars, and that was plenty to call my dad.

Except, scrolling to find his contact, I quickly remembered that my dad wasn't even in town. He was away for work, a good two hours from here. That was actually the whole reason I'd taken Benjamin up on staying over in the first place.

Maybe I was the biggest idiot in this whole mess.

I stared at my dad's contact, scanning the digits of his number, trying to decide whether to call or not. It was a bad idea. There was nothing he could do for me. He'd worry. It would turn into a whole thing.

But if I didn't call my dad, I knew exactly who the only other person I could call was.

Beau.

And I wanted anything but to call Beau right now.

Especially after the conversation we'd had earlier.

Especially after I'd told him I was spending the night at my boyfriend's, that it was serious between us.

Especially now that my mascara had run, my eyes were swollen, and I'd gone and done exactly what he predicted.

I'd dumped my boyfriend.

Damn it.

Maybe I had signal, but that didn't make the situation any easier or any less awful.

Part of me almost wished I didn't have signal.

I thought about just waiting in the car and hoping someone would drive by and decide to help. But my dad had made me watch enough news and winter safety segments that the idea left my head fast. I didn't want to think about how many girls had gone missing on roads like this one.

Now I was scared of a stranger stopping too.

Stupid.

I hurried to pull up Beau's contact instead. I hesitated for a second before hitting call, when a loud noise from outside made the decision for me and I hit "call."

So I did it.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

What if he didn't pick up? What was I supposed to do?

Damn it.

Four rings.

Five—

"Kiddo?" His voice crackled through, but it brought a relief I couldn't even put into words.

"Beau… I had some trouble on the road, I— I don't have anyone else to call. Dad's out of town and I—"

"Where are you?"

I paused, realizing he hadn't hesitated for even a second.

I'd never actually let myself imagine he might tell me he couldn't come, or anything like that, but it was still a relief hearing him confirm it.

"I was driving back to Helena. I'm somewhere on the main road but I don't really know where I am."

Through the line I heard the jingle of keys, then a slam, followed by the sound of rain. He was leaving his house. He didn't say anything for a second, probably making his way to his truck, but I stayed on the line, patient.

Maybe what I hated most about calling Beau was the ridiculous relief that only his help could give me.

It was pathetic.

The sound of the rain got farther away and a door slammed shut again. He'd made it to his truck.

"Okay baby, you with me?"

The nickname sent a warmth low in my stomach that had absolutely no business being there given the circumstances.

I swallowed hard before managing a barely-there "yeah."

Good thing he was on the other end of the phone, because he had no idea what that damn nickname did to me. If he'd been standing right in front of me, I wouldn't have been able to hide it.

Especially since he was right.

When Ben said it, it sounded dumb. Childish. Meaningless.

But when Beau said it, it sounded different. It lingered in the air and haunted my head in the most ridiculous way. His voice stayed lodged in my mind while the word just hung there, pathetically.

I was a lost cause.

"You lock your doors. You wait for me, and only me. You don't open up for strangers, got it?"

His truck engine rumbled behind him and I figured he'd started it even though he was still on the phone with me. I could picture him driving one-handed, gripping the wheel.

One of the many signs that maybe I had a little bit of a thing for my dad's best friend was my uncontrollable habit of watching him drive. I loved watching him drive. I'd first noticed it back when he used to give me driving lessons whenever my dad didn't have time. Unfortunately for me, I'd spent way more time behind the wheel than he had, but whenever we swapped, I still watched him like a hawk. I told myself it was because I was studying his technique, but honestly, in the moment, I couldn't have told you a single thing he did with his hands.

Beau was way more interesting than any driving lesson.

Static crackled through the line and Beau's voice got harder to make out.

"Is it… stuck in the mud, kid?"

I could barely hear him now.

"I can't really hear you, Beau."

"The truck. Is it stuck?"

"Yeah, I think so. I'm in the ditch."

My phone was drowning between the rain, the bad signal, and the frantic bursts of static on the other end.

"Don't touch anything, okay? Are you… it's… okay? Don't try… the car."

I could sort of piece together what he was saying, so I didn't bother asking him to repeat it and just nodded along.

"I'll be there soon, kid."

I nodded like an idiot, like he could actually see me.

The rain was still hammering down just as hard, and being still made it feel even worse somehow. It was probably just the stress messing with my head. At least that's what I told myself to keep from really losing it.

"Thanks, Beau."

A silence settled and I figured it was just the bad signal, until I caught his low, steady voice again on the other end.

"Don't mention it. I'll always be there for you."

I sat with that quietly for a second before hanging up, the static finally winning out.

Good thing I'd called him. Obviously I would've rather this happened on literally any other day, or better yet, not at all. But I'd been an idiot to think I couldn't call him. The thought had only crossed my mind because of some unjustified anger the situation had stirred up, but it was nonsense.

It was stupid.

Especially since if there was one person to call in a situation like this, it was Beau.

I flipped down the sun visor and looked at myself in the little mirror. My face looked like a disaster zone. My eyes were red and puffy, my mascara had left two big streaks down my cheeks, and my nose was running a little. It was time for some damage control before Beau showed up. Because even though I'd changed my mind about calling him, I still didn't want to talk about our conversation earlier, or the fact that I'd just dumped Ben. Or the fact that at this hour I was supposed to be at his apartment and not out on the road driving home.

And I knew Beau well enough to know he had a good memory, and that he'd probably remember I was supposed to be with Ben right now.

I tried to look around, but it was way too dark and the rain was too heavy to make out anything. I didn't know if I was two minutes from town or ten. So I had no idea how long I was supposed to wait for Beau.

The car was also tilted pretty badly, and it wasn't until I'd calmed down some, reassuring myself with the thought of the Sheriff on his way, that I really registered it. I was alert enough to realize the car was in a pretty dangerous spot.

I couldn't really put a number on how long I waited because the low-grade panic of the whole thing made everything feel skewed. It felt like I'd been waiting a good thirty minutes, but really it had only been two and a half Taylor Swift songs. Which was honestly pretty ironic, stuck in the rain with "Dress" playing in the background. The vibe of that song didn't exactly match the dark, rainy mess going on outside.

Still, listening to it calmed me down a little. It was probably one of my favorite songs, and at least it kept me from bursting into tears over some breakup anthem.

Because trust me, I would not have been nearly as calm if "champagne problems" had come on instead.

Suddenly a bright light appeared behind me. I couldn't really make anything out, but it stopped. I froze, praying it was Beau and not some random stranger. I had nothing against strangers, I didn't like judging people I didn't know.

But I did have a thing against strangers, at night, on the road.

I thought I heard a door slam through the noise of the rain and I flinched a little.

It was only a few seconds later that someone knocked on the passenger window. My heart skipped a beat, but the second I caught Beau's green eyes in the dark, I didn't waste a second unlocking the doors.

He climbed in, and in the moment he opened the door, I got an even better sense of just how bad the storm outside really was.

He was soaked, his hair dripping a little onto his face.

Once he was safe and dry, he ran a hand through his hair before turning to me with that unmistakable smile of his.

Like always.

"You okay?"

I nodded and let out a loud breath, relieved. Just seeing him there was already enough to calm me down.

I still hadn't gotten out of the car, still stuck. But Beau was here. His presence alone made everything feel simpler, less scary. He had this image in my head, the one where he was always the guy who showed up and fixed things. Since I was a kid he'd give me that reassuring smile of his and crack his mediocre jokes to take my mind off whatever was bothering me.

I needed to get my mind off things.

I sank into my seat, relieved, and closed my eyes for a second to soak in the absence of the fear that had had a grip on me this whole time.

"So I've got good news and bad news. Which one do you want first?"

I made a little face before turning my head toward him and saying, "Bad."

Despite the mess I'd just dragged him into, he shot me an amused sideways glance and pressed his lips together.

"Well, the truck's really stuck in the mud. I'm not gonna be able to pull it out."

I swore, dragging a hand over my face.

"And what's the good news?"

His smile widened.

"You get a nice little ride in the Sheriff's truck."

My head was pounding a little too much and my mood was questionable at best, but he still managed to pull a quiet laugh out of me.

"That is not good news."

He raised an eyebrow, still grinning.

"Course it is. People would kill to be in your spot."

I rolled my eyes, pretending I wasn't maybe exactly the kind of person who'd kill to be with him in this damn truck.

At this point, I was getting to be a pretty good actress.

He put his hand on the door handle and got out before I could even sit up straight.

"Wait, I'm never gonna manage to get out."

He ignored my protest, and right before he shut the door I heard him call out.

"Course you will. I'm gonna help you."

I let all my weight sink back against the seat, wondering if this day was ever going to end, because right now, it was really, truly, one hell of a bad day.

————————————

“I could have gone home.”

He set his keys on the little table by the door and shrugged off his jacket, which had taken the brunt of the rain. I wiped my shoes on the mat and crossed my arms, trying to warm up after the wave of water we’d caught just walking from his car to his house.

The rain still drummed outside and I shivered, remembering what it felt like to be caught under it. I wasn’t completely soaked, but my jacket was cold and damp, which left me colder than I should have felt inside his house. It was warm, and from the smell, I was pretty sure he’d had a fire going. Still, the fire must have had plenty of time to die out during his little midnight rescue mission for me.

I felt guilty.

Just like I felt guilty for softening at the smell of cedar and coffee, a mix that was way too familiar. It was warm and comforting. Probably because it smelled like Beau.

I’d been to his place before. Not often, though. I’d tagged along with my dad a few times to spend the evening here, and I’d come once or twice to help Emily with her English homework. She was really smart, but unlike me — I’d always been better with languages — she was built for math. I used to look through her notebooks and be pretty impressed.

Then again, it wasn’t exactly surprising. She’d always been logical like that.

Emily was a few years younger than me. She was sixteen, and I was twenty. Which meant that back when I was her age, Beau used to ask me to babysit her in the evenings. We’d always play board games together, and she had a real gift for beating me at anything that involved numbers.

I’d always loved spending time with her. She was, in a way, the little sister I never had.

But this house only made me think of Beau. It was just him, only him. Not like their old place, before he and Carla split. You could see a woman’s touch in the decorating there, and a kid’s stuff scattered everywhere.

Not here, though. Here it was just Beau.

And it was terrifying, being alone with him in a place that felt like him in exactly that way.

It was terrifying to like him this much.

I was completely out of my mind.

“I know you could’ve.” He kicked off his shoes and added, “But you live clear across town, and either way, tomorrow we’re going to get your car.”

I rolled my eyes, still planted in the entryway.

I’d told him to take me home. He’d stayed quiet and driven straight here instead.

It wasn’t that I minded being at Beau’s place.

But today was different.

I wanted to go home and wallow. I wanted to feel guilty for dumping my boyfriend over some stupid comment he’d made that made me realize I was pretty much destined to end up the lonely, bitter cat aunt.

Except I didn’t have a sister. So I could never even be an aunt.

Plus, at Beau’s place, I couldn’t sprawl out on the couch and eat myself sick on ice cream in front of The Notebook. No. At Beau’s place, I’d be constantly reminded that I was never going to find a guy as good and as gorgeous as my dad’s best friend, and deep down I knew that was exactly my problem. Because I could tell myself all I wanted that I liked him because he was a good person, because he took care of me, because he’d always been there — I knew perfectly well that no one else made me feel this way even if they did twice as much as Beau did.

Because in the end, the problem had never been that my exes were too boring or too over-the-top. The problem was that Travis didn’t have a Texas drawl and didn’t smile like he could make you forget every bad thing in the world. Sam didn’t crack ridiculous jokes and didn’t have that habit of driving with one hand on the wheel. And when Gale wished me happy birthday, he didn’t tack on “kiddo” like some kind of damn punctuation mark.

Those shouldn’t be dealbreakers. I never expected my boyfriends to do any of it. I didn’t expect anything from them, because none of it would have mattered anyway — they could have done all of it and it still wouldn’t have been enough.

They didn’t say my name the way he said it. Didn’t walk the way he walked. Didn’t laugh in that same easy way. Didn’t drink their beer with that same careless tilt he had.

They just weren’t Beau. Ben wasn’t Beau. None of them were Beau.

It was ridiculous.

It was flat-out unfair.

But there was nothing I could do about it. When I looked at him, and then looked at them, it was different. There was no comparison.

I definitely shouldn’t be thinking like this. I wish I didn’t.

Just like I wish I didn’t think he was unfairly attractive with his hair still wet and his cheeks flushed from the cold.

It was wrong.

All of it was wrong. I was being straight-up wrong, and I was starting to suffocate under my own bullshit.

I needed to bury this feeling deep enough that it would pass, so Beau could just go back to being my dad’s best friend.

“You can grab some pajamas from Em’s room. Make yourself at home.”

He was sweet. He treated me with a tenderness I was nowhere close to deserving.

I’d left him to go find his daughter’s birthday present all on his own, and for what — because I couldn’t stop sabotaging myself over some completely inappropriate thoughts I couldn’t seem to shake.

If he knew even half of what I felt, what I thought about, he wouldn’t be this nice to me. He’d probably be disgusted and run the other way.

I was a kid to him.

He probably thought of me like a daughter, or something close to it — definitely not the way I wanted him to.

I was messed up.

I felt his eyes linger on me. I still hadn’t moved from the entryway. My feet wouldn’t budge, because every part of me knew this was absolutely the worst possible time to be at Beau’s.

He sighed and shook his head, resigned.

“Look, if you want to go home, I’ll take you. It’s just they’re saying the rain’s gonna turn into a storm, so it’s probably smarter to stay off the roads.”

He looked at me like being here was some kind of torture.

If only he knew — I would’ve rather that be true than feel this warmth spreading through my chest just from the smell of him soaked into these damn walls.

“But if you really want me to take you home, I will.”

I hesitated a second before shaking my head.

He’d just given up his whole evening to come help me, when he probably had a thousand other things he could’ve been doing. I wasn’t about to ruin the rest of his night by making him drive me home in weather like this.

I could handle it.

Even if just knowing he’d come to get me made my heart race a little faster, and it definitely wasn’t from the stress — maybe I’d realize I was overthinking things, and that deep down my endless string of breakups had nothing to do with him.

Maybe I could convince myself that if Ben had come to pick me up, I would’ve felt exactly the same thing seeing him walk in.

“Thanks.”

He waved it off like it was nothing, like it was perfectly normal that he’d rushed out to his car to come help me at this hour.

I knew that for him, it was.

He thought it was completely normal to do something like this for me, because of course he did. Of course he cared.

The way you care about your best friend’s daughter.

Remembering that put a cramp in my chest that, once again, had no business being there.

I should’ve felt touched that he’d do this for me. I did.

Just not enough.

He gave me one more of those smiles that hit me with that same damn feeling all over again.

It didn’t help. Not even a little.

I needed air.

I pulled off my shoes in one quick motion and headed toward Emily’s room. I needed to shower, change, and scrub away every trace of these indecent thoughts.

—————————

My fingers stopped on a loose t-shirt and shorts, a sweatshirt that seemed meant to be worn as pajamas.

As I changed I could still smell the shower gel I must have used. It smelled like Beau. Like this whole house did. Except this time, I was the one soaked in his scent. I’d hesitated to wash with that shower gel, knowing full well the smell would haunt me with a delicious kind of pain.

Because of course it smelled unbelievably good.

And of course having his scent on my skin like some damn tattoo wasn’t helping me get my mind off things.

When I’d smelled that damn scent I’d thought about Beau. Under that damn shower. Hair wet the way it had been wet earlier from the rain. Washing with that same shower gel.

This.

Was.

Not.

Okay.

And I’d turned the water as hot as I could stand it, and it hadn’t done a damn thing to cut through that mix of heat, steam, and Beau.

So pulling on Em’s pajamas, I genuinely hoped it would erase the smell. And if it could erase what I felt for Beau, or the thoughts that wouldn’t leave my head, that would be more than perfect.

Especially since I had to go back and find Beau in the kitchen before I ran from him like the plague, and I needed my head empty. Because usually, I was capable of thinking about something else. I was probably in some kind of denial that let me easily ignore this kind of thought. But right now I couldn’t. Since I’d talked to him, I’d spent two long hours torturing my own mind. I’d realized it. I’d understood it. I could no longer not think about it. I couldn’t have a normal thought in his presence anymore.

Like in his truck during the drive after my little accident. He’d been right there. In my head. He was everywhere. And I hadn’t been able to say a single word. I’d just kept quiet and tried to stop myself from staring at him like my life depended on it.

It was bad.

It wasn’t okay.

And I knew that once I joined him in the kitchen, I’d feel the same thing, think the same thing, and it would be worse. Because he’d actually be there. Just the smell of his shower gel was making me lose my mind, so him in person —

It was insane.

I glanced quickly at my reflection in the mirror. Trying to smooth my hair down. I hated myself for regretting having washed my makeup off. Because I wanted him to think I looked pretty.

I shouldn’t want something like that.

When I finally made myself leave the room, I took it in for a second. Because even though I smelled like Beau, this room was the one place that didn’t remind me of him. It was far from personal. You could tell it was a guest room that rarely saw much of Emily. I knew Em spent more time at her mom’s, and looking around the room you could tell she was just passing through.

But it smelled more like her than like Beau, and that was simple. I needed something simple that didn’t stir up a certain feeling low in my stomach.

I took a breath before opening the door and walking, slowly, toward wherever I figured he’d be. I could hear him doing something in the kitchen, so I made myself go find him.

Not without mentally briefing myself not to think too much.

I kept repeating to myself like a mantra that he was my dad’s best friend. He was just Beau. Nothing more, nothing less.

When I found him in the kitchen he was drinking a cup of coffee. My eyes dropped to the counter behind him. There sat a second cup that must have been meant for me.

I was dying for coffee.

I stepped closer to grab my cup and tried, as best I could, not to look up at Beau.

He was just my dad’s best friend.

Just Beau.

I felt his eyes land on me as I brought the cup to my lips. I checked the contents before taking a sip and caught myself noticing he’d added milk.

I always took my coffee with milk.

The liquid was still a little warm but not enough to burn me. On top of the milk, I could taste the sugar softening the bitterness.

He’d put in sugar and milk.

Exactly the way I made it when I was alone.

I set the cup down, repeating my damn mantra again. I couldn’t let this coffee thing get to my head. It was nothing. Nothing at all. Definitely not something I should be noticing, or something I should feel as touched by as I did.

“You gonna tell me why you were headed home?”

I fought to hide the tension that shot through my whole body. I still wasn’t looking at him. Especially not after he’d asked the exact question I didn’t want to touch.

I played dumb.

“Because I wanted to sleep in my own bed.”

I refused to look up, but I could picture exactly how he was looking at me. Probably an amused smirk, one eyebrow raised, showing his surprise at my obvious attempt to dodge the subject.

Didn’t matter.

I couldn’t look at him.

“I thought you were supposed to be sleeping at your boyfriend’s.”

The word boyfriend sounded strange coming out of his mouth.

It sounded strange, period.

Especially since he wasn’t my boyfriend anymore. He was my ex-boyfriend. And that reminder made me grab the cup again to drown the lump in my throat with a little coffee.

“Well, I changed my plans.”

“Why?”

I exhaled loudly before setting the cup down a little too hard on the table. The clink of ceramic echoed through the room and I felt guilty for it.

“Is that really necessary?”

This time I couldn’t stop myself from lifting my eyes to his, and I cursed myself the second his green irises met mine.

The more I tried not to find him gorgeous in that light, the more I did.

I hid behind a pleading look, silently begging him not to push, to let me ignore the subject.

He didn’t seem convinced in the slightest. If anything he looked even more determined, to my great misfortune. He watched me like he was going to find the answer in how I acted, and in some way he’d probably already guessed what was going on. He just wanted me to confirm it.

And he wasn’t going to let it go.

Like I said, he was stubborn as hell when he wanted to be.

“It’s necessary when I find you crying in a ditch after driving out on a bad road at night when you were supposed to be sleeping at your boyfriend’s.”

He wasn’t being aggressive, exactly. That wasn’t him.

He was firm. He said things calmly and laid them out fairly, in a way that made his point without needing to raise his voice. He was convincing. I couldn’t tell if that was because it was Beau, or simply because he was right.

Probably both.

I turned my head to stare at the window streaked with rain. It hadn’t let up outside — if anything it was worse, I thought I’d heard thunder while I was in Emily’s room.

I wanted to answer but couldn’t find anything to say.

I didn’t want to waste my breath.

“Did he hurt you?”

I spun around.

“No, no. Not at all. Ben’s a good guy.”

“Is he?”

He was studying me with a doubt shot through with confusion. He was trying so hard to understand that he was misreading it, imagining all kinds of things.

I looked at him hard.

“He is. I promise you. He’s not an idiot.” I paused before turning back to the window and adding, more to myself, “I am.”

I regretted it instantly.

A comment that offhand couldn’t help but grab his attention and make him ask even more questions. Which was the last thing I wanted. Because the more questions he asked, the more I replayed tonight, the more I replayed everything, and the more I noticed his damn scent stuck to every inch of my skin.

“What happened? I just want to understand why you put yourself in danger like tha—”

“I broke up with Ben.”

Silence filled the dimly lit room. Beau hadn’t turned on the overhead light, just a big lamp by the couch a little ways off. There was also the light over the counter against the wall. It wasn’t harsh. Not like the white light that had been standing between us.

I expected some joke dressed up as an “I told you so” about Ben being an idiot, but I must have looked desperate enough that he held back.

“I just couldn’t… I couldn’t stay after breaking up with him like that. I felt guilty, so I got in the car.”

Bringing all that back up woke the lump in my throat again, and this time coffee wasn’t going to be enough to choke it down. It was there. As present as the feeling low in my stomach.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?” I let out something close to a laugh, but it was too hollow to really count as one. “You were right. I didn’t love him. Like I don’t love any of them, and like I’ll never love anyone. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

I sounded harsh, cutting, even though none of this was his fault. Not on purpose, anyway.

It was because of him, sure, but not really his fault. He hadn’t done anything. I was doing this to myself, I was feeling this messed-up thing for him and that was a problem. My problem. But he had nothing to do with it.

“You’re saying that ‘cause you’re shaken up over the breakup, but you’ll see tomorrow tha—”

“No. I’m not shaken up. I’m completely screwed. And I tried. I really, really tried.”

I was talking too much. None of it was making sense. I couldn’t stop making comments circling the real reason, but I couldn’t bring myself to actually name the problem.

“Tried what?”

It was unbearable. His voice kept bouncing around in my skull, and the more he tried to understand, the more I lost my grip.

“Nothing.”

“That’s not nothing.”

“Yes it is!”

I faced him head-on, stupidly. The counter still separated us, for all the good it did. He was still right there. I was losing my mind. Just him watching me was suffocating. Because his eyes took up more space than the scent of that damn shower gel. That’s all I could smell.

Him.

His scent.

His stare.

He was watching me with real restraint. He wanted to push, wanted to know more, but he was holding back. There was almost a sadness in his features, probably because of how I was acting. He wanted to understand me, but all I could think about was how beautiful he looked right now, and that was awful.

I wanted to be blind.

“You know you can talk to me. I just want to understand you, kid. It’s killing me seeing you like this and not being able to help.”

Now I wanted to be deaf.

His words were perfect, full of good intentions and this heartbreaking kindness.

He almost made me want to tell him everything, because it felt like he meant it, like I really could tell him and he’d understand. I told myself maybe he’d find a way to fix it, because Beau always found a way to fix things — like tonight, he’d helped me, he’d come and found me and figured out a damn solution.

But I knew that was true for everything except this.

He could never understand this.

He couldn’t help me with this.

I couldn’t tell him.

It would change everything.

It was killing him to see me like this?

Well, it would kill him a lot more to know the truth.

“But you can’t help me with this, Beau.”

He leaned against the counter, hesitating, before coming around to stand with nothing between us.

Maybe that was better for him. For me, it was worse.

“I’m sorry if this is about what I said at the mall.”

I shook my head.

“It’s not about you. I’m the problem.”

“You don’t have a problem.”

He said it with a certainty that left no room for argument. He was sure of himself, sure of what he was saying.

If he knew, he wouldn’t be so sure.

But that didn’t change the pull low in my stomach at what he’d just said. I knew it wasn’t right, I knew how insane it was, but I felt it anyway. It spread through my whole body like some kind of sickness.

“Of course I do. I can’t stay with anyone.”

“That’s not a bad thing. You’re waiting for the right person.”

“But what if there’s no right person for me? Because they were all good. Ben was good. He took care of me, he listened to me, he was interesting, and it still wasn’t enough.”

His face softened with a compassion so gentle it made me tense up. The more understanding and kind he acted, the worse it got. He looked at me with the kind of care you give something about to break. Like he wanted to fix me, or pull me into his arms.

I was starving for it.

But I knew that would be worse.

“It’ll come with time. You’ll meet someone else.”

Frustration answered for me.

“Someone else? What for? So you can criticize him too and call him an idiot?”

This time he was the one who tensed. He ran a hand over his forehead like it helped him think.

I felt stupid.

“If he’s an idiot, I’m not gonna hold back from saying so.”

I couldn’t help the bite in my voice.

“According to you, they’re all idiots.”

He didn’t back down. He stayed exactly on message. No half-hearted excuses.

“Yeah. You deserve better than what you keep settling for.”

Better. I didn’t have any concept of better left, because for me, better was him. He was better. He was the best. And I couldn’t have him. So I couldn’t have better.

“But I don’t have a choice except to settle.”

He stepped closer, dangerously close, and the air in my lungs started running out.

“Course you do. If you waited a little you could find better—”

“But I can’t have better!”

He went quiet.

I could catch a flicker of curiosity behind his mild frustration at being cut off.

“Why?”

I took a deep breath.

“Because I’m never going to love any of those guys. They’ll never be…” I tried not to spill over. My mouth was a damn match threatening to set the whole house on fire. “They’ll never be what I want.”

The more I tried to justify myself so he’d stop looking at me like that, the more he did it. The more he silently begged me to say more, when I’d already said too much.

“What do you want?”

I pressed my lips together. With every pulse of blood in my veins I threatened myself with actually having the nerve to say it out loud, for real. I was ready to strike the match and watch everything else burn down with it. Reckless thoughts like he’ll find out eventually or you only get one life kept running through my head, and that was a bad sign.

I couldn’t do something like that.

“What do you want?”

He’d repeated it softer. The rain hammered harder than his voice.

“I want the one who came and got me in the middle of a storm after my car accident.”

I watched him flinch, and my tongue was already burning. I should’ve bitten it seven times over before saying something that stupid.

I’d just made a huge mistake.

“I’m sure plenty of guys would do that for you.”

I pressed my lips together, fighting the urge to correct him, since he clearly hadn’t understood — or didn’t want to. It itched at me. It would be so much simpler to just say I wanted him.

I.

Want.

You.

“You didn’t get it — I don’t want someone who could help me, I want the one who did.”

Shit.

I’d said it.

In the most pathetic, desperate tone that could possibly exist.

I was terrified of getting caught, and yet I’d just pushed further, dug myself in deeper. Me, who’d felt like everything was too loud, too much, needed some noise, some sound of something.

But he just stared at me, unreadable.

No smile.

No sarcasm.

No warmth.

Nothing. He stood there in front of me, a little too close for comfort, and didn’t move.

“No, you don’t.”

Denial.

Or maybe he was trying to convince himself.

Either way, it was too late.

My eyes were on him. I didn’t need to speak. I watched the exact moment he understood, or accepted, the precise meaning of every word and the fact that I clearly wasn’t joking.

I waited for a reaction. A furrowed brow. Something in his eyes. A movement. A response. Something that would send me running back to Em’s room and staying there until tomorrow. And I preferred not to think about tomorrow. There wasn’t much to think about anyway. I’d shut my mouth, never speak to him again, and pretend like nothing happened every time I saw him.

I could do that.

I would do that.

“You can’t.”

I wanted some sign, and that was the only one I got. He was trying to make the sentence sound absolute, but even he doubted what he was saying.

He stood there rigid, still, frozen, with just that hint of doubt cracking, ever so slightly, through his certainty.

“I can’t?”

The sarcasm in my voice, along with my forced smile, sounded fake and strangled.

If only I couldn’t.

It would’ve saved me a whole lot of trouble.

Like this endless moment. He watched me like I was crazy. Like I was the problem. I guessed his unreadable expression meant exactly that. It made sense. Because I was the problem. That’s what I’d been trying to make him understand.

He was stoic, unmoving, like a marble statue, and I couldn’t even blame him for it. It was so different from the Beau who’d tried to understand me a minute ago, so sure he could help, and I felt bad for handing him a truth that ugly. Of course he didn’t say anything, of course he just stood there — what was he supposed to say? What do you say to your best friend’s daughter, screwed up as she is, claiming she can’t hold down a relationship because she wants you?

I hated myself for putting that on him.

This time, the silence was louder, heavier than any rain hitting his kitchen windows. Maybe the storm outside had actually let up; still, I figured it was just the situation itself getting harder to ignore.

“I’m sorry, I’m tired, I shouldn’t have said something like that.”

I was running.

Taking off, doing exactly what I should’ve done from the start.

I turned my back on him.

I needed to. If I couldn’t see him, it made this feel less real, his silence less unbearable, this whole conversation less painful. I should’ve left earlier — it would’ve spared me from ruining things this badly. Because what was I going to do if he told my dad? And what if he didn’t, and just pretended nothing happened? I told myself that would be simplest, but would it really be? Of course not. Pretending it didn’t exist when he knew damn well it did would hurt like hell.

Suddenly his fingers closed around my wrist. He turned me around without much effort, and just as I was about to say something I hadn’t really thought through, his lips crashed into mine.

I didn’t react right away. I needed a second to process it. It was already hard enough to wrap my head around the fact that I’d admitted to Beau Arlen that I had feelings for him, but that was nothing compared to the fact that he was kissing me in the middle of his kitchen.

And there was nothing careful about it. It was hungry, desperate, like he’d been holding back for years. He kissed me like someone finally eating after days without food. It didn’t feel real. I couldn’t get enough. I could smell his scent, but it wasn’t me anymore — it was coming off him, he was here, he was kissing me. I could taste his mouth, and God, I’d never tasted anything that good. I could’ve done this forever.

The heat of his mouth was nothing like anyone else’s I’d ever known. It felt the way I’d always known it should feel. I knew it. This was exactly it.

Exactly what had always been missing with everyone else.

It hit so hard I lost all sense of space or time — I only knew my back had hit the counter, which was surprising, considering a few minutes ago I’d been walking out of this kitchen.

Now I was nowhere close to leaving. He held me pinned against the counter, one hand tangled in my hair, the other on my waist. His hands were big, wide. I wanted to feel them holding me like that for the rest of my life.

I was even more sure of it when he lifted me up onto the counter.

He was tall, his build could’ve swallowed me whole without even trying.

And I would’ve let him.

Just like I let him kiss the breath out of me. I had no air left, and if he hadn’t stopped, I would’ve let him take every last bit of oxygen out of my lungs.

I didn’t need air. I needed him.

“This is really… very… very… wrong.”

He was out of breath too, and the sound of his ragged breathing was quickly becoming my favorite thing, with his voice a close second.

Even while he was pointing out how wrong this was.

I couldn’t tell if he was saying it to me, or just repeating it to himself on a loop.

“I know… I know…”

I wanted to beg him to ignore how much this shouldn’t be happening. I wanted to tell him I didn’t care, and my lips were already chasing his again. It felt like tasting a drug for the first time, and I already needed another hit.

Even knowing I shouldn’t.

“Your dad is gonna kill me.”

My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him back for another kiss as I whispered:

“He wouldn’t.”

He let himself get pulled back in, but instead of kissing me, he looked me straight in the eyes. I could see it — he was almost scared. Guilty.

I could feel it, because it was exactly how I felt.

He looked at me like he was about to break something sacred. Like he was crossing a line and dragging me down with him. Like he was the one corrupting me, when really I’d crossed that line a long time ago.

I leaned in until my lips brushed his.

“He doesn’t have to know everything.”

Saying it out loud, I realized I was echoing my own words from earlier, at the mall. The worst part was, if it meant hiding this forever, I would.

Especially if it meant he’d keep looking at me like this until the end.

His eyes weren’t holding onto the gentleness he’d tried to build up earlier. The gold in them burned against my skin like sunlight, and I felt like I was melting. What I did know for sure was that I was probably as red as if I’d gotten sunburned. I could feel the flush creeping up my cheeks from the obvious want in his stare.

His smile came back, but his eyes didn’t match the softness of it — they were demanding.

“As much as I’d love to be your dirty little secret, I don’t think I could stand it for long, baby.”

The nickname pulled an involuntary sound out of me that made his grip tighten hard around my waist.

“Okay… then we’ll… we’ll wait for the right time.”

I nodded like that solved the whole problem.

“You think there’s gonna be a right time?”

“I’ll make sure there is.”

He kept holding my gaze, studying my face like he was dreaming.

He nodded, like he was confirming it to himself, reassuring himself that this was real and that he was in — for something like this. Looking at him, it seemed like the easiest thing in the world.

Then he tilted his head. When the heat and the wet of his mouth found the curve of my neck, I had to bite down to keep from making an embarrassing sound.

“And does… waiting for the right time… mean… waiting for me to kiss you like this again, kiddo?”

The kiddo landed differently this time. Not like some affectionate name you’d give a kid.

It sent heat straight to my stomach. Even stronger than usual, like I was burning from the inside and enjoying every second of it.

“No… please… no…”

I felt him smile against my skin.

His hands slid under my shirt, and I could feel the heat of his palms branding my skin. The higher they climbed, the more I felt like I belonged to him.

And God, I wanted to belong to him completely.

I think I always had, in some way.

“Fuck… don’t ever stop…”

His smile widened, his palms climbed higher, my pulse spiked, I didn’t know where to focus anymore.

His thumb brushed over my nipple and I arched hard off the counter.

“You’re so damn sensitive.”

A moan slipped out of me before I could stop it, which only encouraged him to keep touching me like that. His name fell from my lips like some kind of desperate prayer. Even though there was nothing holy about what we were doing.

Even though I was dying for him to worship me like I was some kind of goddess.

“Fuck… do you know how damn painful it was, imagining all those guys getting to touch you like this?”

He pulled back slightly before dropping to his knees in front of the counter, making me swallow hard. His hands moved down to my thighs, and he settled himself between them in a way that was obscene — the way he looked at me was obscene.

I could tell he wasn’t waiting for an answer, but there was something almost accusatory in the way he asked.

“I used to imagine all the things they could do, and I hated myself just for thinking it.”

He kissed the inside of my thigh. I let out a loud breath, my hands bracing desperately against the wood of the counter. My knuckles were going white from bracing for the feeling of his mouth exactly where I was aching for it.

“I spent so many nights so damn hard just thinking about tasting you, like you were the only edible thing on this whole damn planet.”

His lips brushed my skin again, leaving a wet trail even higher up. My fingers dug into the surface, it was starting to hurt.

“You think your dad would be proud seeing you like this?”

There was mockery in his tone that shamefully turned me on. It was almost condescending, and God, that tone suited Beau a little too well.

It really shouldn’t have.

“I don’t care about my dad. I want to make you proud.”

His jaw tightened and his smile faltered for a second. His hands pulled off my shorts, taking my underwear with them, and where he’d been slower and patient before, he seemed a lot less interested in staying that way.

“You want to make me proud?”

I nodded, barely able to. My stomach clenched in a deliciously intense cramp.

“Then come on my tongue, sweetheart.”

At those words he closed whatever distance was left between us. My head fell back and I found myself wishing for a wall to lean against. I didn’t feel like I could hold myself up anymore.

He wasn’t gentle or careful anymore, he was starving, and I could feel it. The pace was almost impossible to keep up with. His tongue landed in relentless, burning strokes that made my whole body shake with every hit. My hands found their way into his hair, searching desperately for something to hold onto. I needed something, anything, to grab onto.

I was soaked, and what he was doing was making an almost filthy sound.

He was good. God, he was unreal. I couldn’t breathe anymore. Couldn’t get a coherent word out. Couldn’t think straight. I was just there, breathless, at his mercy, unable to do anything else.

“I could have you for every meal of the day, baby.”

My legs started shaking. I couldn’t hold anything back anymore. I had no control left.

It was only a matter of time before I came, breaking into a pathetic little moan. My whole body was trembling, and he kept going, like the fact that I’d just come wasn’t the end for him.

Then he finally pulled back to stand. His lips were shining indecently, his eyes were dark with want, and the more I stared, the more I wanted. I wanted him looking at me like I was something he wanted. I wanted him to want me the way I’d always dreamed he would, in my wildest imagination.

I was too far gone.

“Beau… take me here… now…”

I felt empty, it was a damn need, I wanted him so badly it almost hurt.

“I’m not taking you here.”

His hands were still gripping my thighs — it didn’t hurt, but there was so much conviction in it he might as well have left a mark.

I let my hand drift slowly down toward his belt. My fingers moved deliberately slow, and I got a kick out of watching him tense every time I got closer. When I flicked open his belt buckle, his hand caught my wrist.

“You deserve better than-”

“I want it.” My fingers grazed the obvious bulge in his jeans. His cock had to be aching, and just from the light touch I felt him twitch. “I know you want it too.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t look like he fully accepted it, but he didn’t seem able to refuse it either.

He leaned forward a little, and I felt his head drop onto my shoulder, like he was taking a second to breathe. His breath hit my skin in a way that felt delicious.

I moved close to his ear and, with some impulse I couldn’t explain, murmured, “You taught me how to drive a car, Beau. You can teach me how to get taken on the counter, too.”

I felt his breath catch. He pulled back to kiss me again, and I took it as him giving in. I could almost still taste myself on his lips, and it gave me some ridiculous satisfaction. He was even hungrier now. His tongue deepening the kiss with every breath.

I kept the motion of my fingers going and pulled his jeans and boxers down, finally freeing him — hard and aching against his clothes.

My fingers touched him gently, wrapping slowly around him. He was already leaking a little, he was so hard. I couldn’t hold back a plea.

“Fuck, you’re so big.”

I meant it.

Even though I started to doubt it would actually fit, that didn’t change how badly I wanted to feel all of him.

“We can stop if-”

“I don’t want to stop.”

His fingers caught my chin, tilting it up, forcing me to look at him. His eyes were full of want, but he was fighting to hold something back.

“I’m serious, kid. If we do this, it’s gonna be too late.”

“It’s already too late for me.”

He searched my face for any trace of hesitation.

Finding none, he kissed me and lined himself up right at my entrance, which pulled a moan out of me that he caught with his mouth.

“Then be a good girl, and hold on.”

And then he pushed in.

He went slow. He let me adjust, because I’d been right — he was big. Fucking long and thick. My hands gripped his back like I was holding on for my life. I had to press my forehead against his shoulder while he took his time. It was so slow it was almost unbearable, I could feel every inch. I started to cry out even though he wasn’t even that deep yet. He guided my hips himself, and when he hit all the way in, I felt my eyes roll back, and it had nothing to do with his sarcastic comments.

He picked up the pace. His thrusts got faster, more frantic, but still careful. It was like he was trying to pull every possible sound out of me. And when he found one he liked, he’d do it again, exactly the same way, like he was trying to memorize it.

I couldn’t even hear the rain outside anymore, or the storm. All I could hear was the shameless pounding of my own heart in my chest, and the damn friction of our bodies, matched by his ragged breathing. I could barely keep my eyes open. I felt myself rolling my hips to push into his rhythm, I needed more, but it wasn’t even want anymore, it was some kind of primal need.

I wasn’t controlling it. I was just doing it.

“Fuck… you take me so damn well… it’s not fair…”

His hand found my clit, and it sent a feverish heat through me. I could feel it building in my stomach. Threatening to explode.

“Beau… I can’t… I—”

“Course you can, baby… damn… you’re doing so good… so good…”

He hit a spot that made me dig my fingers into his back a little too hard. He felt it and picked up an even more brutal rhythm. I was caught in an unbearable frenzy.

I was shaking again, unable to really feel any part of my own body.

All I could feel was the pressure building low in my stomach, growing and growing until it broke, sending a wave of pleasure through my whole body. His name left my lips in a broken, strangled sound while he kept chasing his own release. A few seconds later, I felt him let go completely, until we were just two exhausted, spent bodies trying to catch our breath.

We stayed like that for a moment. I was still tucked into the curve of his shoulder, his chin resting on top of my head while he braced himself against the counter, trying to steady his breathing.

I had to close my eyes just to hold on to every second of it.

It was impossible to believe.

I never would’ve believed it if someone had told me this morning. And yet, here it was. He was here. I’d thrown everything at him, and instead of it ruining everything, he’d taken me on the counter like it was something he’d always wanted. Maybe it was. I was starting to think it was.

I could’ve stayed there forever.

He pressed a kiss to my forehead before lifting me up like I weighed nothing.

“I can walk.”

I mumbled it without much conviction.

“I highly doubt that.”

It pulled a smile out of me, and I wrapped my arms around his neck.

“Where exactly are you taking me?”

I felt him push open a door and decided to finally open my eyes out of curiosity. It was too dark to make out much, but I would’ve bet it was his room.

“To my bed. I’m not even close to done with you.”

He set me down on the mattress carefully, like he hadn’t just given me the least gentle thrusts on the planet a few minutes earlier.

He hurried to join me, and in no time my back was pressed to his chest, his arm holding me firmly against him.

“But I’ll give you a break.”

He paused before pressing a kiss to the back of my neck.

“Either way, I plan on this lasting forever.”

I stayed quiet, but my face couldn’t shake the smile that had taken over my lips. My hand found his and laced our fingers together as my answer.

I knew with absolute certainty that everything I’d been looking for in every other boyfriend I’d ever had was right here, in his arms.

And now that I finally had it, I wasn’t planning on letting it go.

Dad’s best friend or not.

[candytoothed]

"ahchoo!"

"mmph.." dean groans, his head dug in your neck, bare arms wrapped around your torso. "y'sneezed on me." he grunts like it wasnt his choice to be all cuddled up on you while you were actively sick.

you sniffle grossly, a little pout on your lips. "s not my fault."

he mumbles to himself, eyes still shut and slides down so his head rests on your chest. you sniffle again and he huffs, glancing up at you. god, he is so cute! you grin at his messy hair and scrunched up face, marks on the side of it from sleep.

"being loud." he tuts all sassy, nudging your chin with his like a puppy would, blinking softly.

"ill go get a tissue." you sniff, tapping his warm shoulder to get him off.

"no, fuck off." he snaps immediately, squeezing you tighter. "...was just playin."

"de!" you whine, sniffling aggressively, eyebrows pinching.

"just snot all over me, i don care."

"no!"

"yes, baby. even lick it up if ya want."

"you're stupid." you frown with a little bleh!, sticking your tongue out. he hums with a sleepy smile, dropping his head back down on your plush tits, nuzzling into the warmth.

one of your hands goes to twirl a piece of his hair, exhaling softly. "gimme a kiss." you murmur, sock covered foot kicking his calf.

"im comfy." dean groans, nipping at your skin with his lips. "and m not tryin to get infected."

you grunt, kicking him again. "but im sick and y'said you'd take care of-"

he rolls his eyes, picking his head up and pressing his mouth to yours. "nasty." he mumbles, going in for another, tongue swiping your lip. "eew." he adds, a silly grin on his face when you giggle.

you sniffle, eyes all droopy n tired. he hums gently, closing his eyes to rub his nose against your wet one, hands caressing your warm sides mindlessly. "yucky girl." he coos, pecking your lips once more.

[vendoe]

nsfw tw 𝜗ৎ — How would Ben act if he was your dad’s best friend but lowkey had a huge special interest in you? / English isn’t my first language, I use grammar checkers to translate. Some stuff might sound weird, sorry!

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ Ben struggles to avoid falling into perverted thoughts. You’re his best friend’s daughter; he’s known you since high school, when you were just an invisible little girl not worth paying attention to. However, now that you’re all grown up and have become a woman, he knows perfectly well that you flirt with him constantly. You don’t hide it at all.

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ It’s not as if Ben made the slightest effort to stay away from you. He loves grabbing you by the hips in a “casual” way and pretends not to notice the shiver that runs through you from head to toe. You’re an adult, but you’re still inexperienced. He’s fascinated by seeing the reactions something so simple as the brush of his leg against yours awakens in you when you sit together at the table for dinner. He can make you tremble with such a minimal gesture.

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ He’s the one who offers to take care of you when your father isn’t home. You always scold him with that gesture he finds adorable: “I’m over twenty years old, I can take care of myself.” And he always replies in that deep, gravelly voice: “Long as I’m running shit, we do whatever the fuck I want, doll. We clear on that?” He leans in so close that you feel his warm breath brushing your lips, painting your cheeks a deep red. You don’t know if it’s anger or the effect he has on you, but he gives you a light smack on the lower back and sends you back to your room “like a good girl.”

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ Ben always mocks and complains about the guys you date, for a reason you can never quite understand. He describes them with no filter, jumping straight from “idiot” to “I bet he’s a fucking faggot” without any in-between. When you call him out on it, he always answers with that half-arrogant smirk: “Don’t get mad. You just deserve better than those idiots.”

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ He has an unhealthy obsession with seeing you in skirts. If he had to pick one single thing he loves about young women, it would undoubtedly be skirts. Not in a perverted way… well, maybe a little. Every time he’s with your father and sees you about to head out, he has to hold back his impulses to keep from losing his mind and fucking you right there on the spot. He knows you do it on purpose, because later, when they’re alone, you ask for his opinion and all he can think about is lifting you onto the table and fucking you with the skirt still on.

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ When you get extremely restless and annoyed, he silences you with a single movement: he grabs you by the hips and pulls you onto his lap. He feels how you start getting wet the second you notice the way he squeezes and caresses your thighs with his large hands, while your legs tremble under his touch. “Have you calmed the fuck down yet, you little brat?” he grumbles, before delivering a sharp smack to the inside of your thigh, forcing your legs apart. “Yeah, that’s what I like to see. After teasing me all damn day, flashing that ass under your skirt like a little slut… now you’re all quiet and calm? You just needed someone to put you in your fucking place, didn’t you?”

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ His hands slide under the damp fabric of your underwear until his palm fully covers your pussy, and two fingers threaten to sink into you. It’s not gentle at all. You’re not used to that intrusion, so it hurts at first. Still, he mocks you with a cruel smile and whispers: “C’mon babe, take it like a big girl. Quit being such a fucking crybaby bitch.” Then he pushes them all the way in and curves them with precision. It doesn’t take him long to turn the pain into pleasure. Maybe he has more patience just because it’s you, because, let’s say, he’s not exactly the most patient man in the world.

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ What excites him the most is knowing they could get caught at any moment. He loves sneaking into your room at night just as much as devouring your pussy and having you ride his face while your father sleeps just two rooms away. He demands that you stay quiet, and when you fail, he has the perfect way to shut you up: a sharp slap on your cunt that leaves you breathless. “Shut the fuck up already. You really want Daddy finding out his precious little princess is just a dirty fucking slut? Whimper like that one more time and watch what I do. Don’t fucking test me, doll.”

꒰ঌ ໒꒱ His favorite position? Obviously on all fours, with your face buried in the pillows while he fucks you from behind. The sound of his hips slamming against your ass, his balls smacking your clit, is surely the sound they’d welcome him with in heaven. The mix of pain and pleasure intertwines in your body from the brutal force with which he thrusts into you, but you don’t want him to stop. “Fucking slut,” he growls, before grabbing a handful of your hair and arching your back until it presses against his chest. “You don’t know how to fucking behave, huh? Look what you made me do… Now I gotta wreck that desperate little pussy of yours and fuck you so hard you’ll be dripping my cum for days.”

⠀ ⠀⠀© vendoe ⠀ minors dni ⠀ don’t copy or steal my fanfics

[girl-blogging-angel-xoxo]

I relate to Dean Winchester so much that it makes me wanna throw up

[honeybeechestnut]

i love fanfics i love fake scenarios i love getting lost in them

[mintalucious]

♡︎Vanilla Ice-cream♡︎

————————————————————————

Your father just bought a new grill, and of course he was going to try it out tonight. He sent out a message to the neighborhood group chat that a barbeque party was going to be hosted in his backyard and within 2 hours people were already filling up tables with sides and treats and all the food you could imagine. Your father was always prepared to light up the grill and barbecue for hours on end. The backyard was always packed with friends and family every time he wanted a barbeque party, kids running around with sprinklers and the adults talking about life and getting caught up. You on the other hand… you weren’t having a fun day, your boyfriend had just dumped you for another girl just a few days back, so you sat on the porch around some adults, sulking about the break-up. 

Your father was looking around the grill, the charcoal, he had forgotten the charcoal in the garage. “Hey, Honey!” He called out to you, waving his tongs in the air to get your attention. You looked up, putting on a face of ‘I'm so happy and glad to be here!’ just to please your father and the guests around you. You walked over to him and asked what he needed help with and he asked for you to grab the coal in the garage. “Let me know if you need help finding it!” he called out as you walked inside and through the house to the garage. 

As you looked through the sound of a roaring engine grew closer until it felt like it was right next to your ear. You looked up and your eyes widened. “Beau!” You called out, excited to see the man who practically raised you your whole life. Beau was your father’s best friend since middle school and ever since you were born he was there every second, attending your little graduations along the years and your choir performances. He was basically a second dad to you. “Hey, Baby girl.. look at you!” He said, stepping out of his truck and walking over to you but you met him halfway with a hug. You hadn’t seen him for a year ever since you moved to the country.

 “I’ve missed you a lot, sweetheart. You've grown a lot since the last time I saw you.” He said, eyes racking your figure. “How old are you now?” He teases, already knowing your age. “I’m 19, Beau.” You reply with a sarcastic tone. “19? thought you were 15.” He continues to joke. He always loved joking with you. You got distracted with time and your father stormed in, “Hun! What’s takin you so- Beau!?” He stops in his tracks before a big smile grows on his face at the sight of his best friend in his garage. He walks over to Beau and gives him a big handshake and a side hug. They begin talking for a while and I decide to complete the task I was ordered to do. I try to grab the charcoal but big hands take over. “Let me take that, Darlin’.” Beau takes the charcoal and throws it over his shoulder with ease. “Don’t want them pretty hands all dirty.” He clicks his tongue and winks and lets you lead the way to the backyard. 

Everyone is practically all over him, asking where he’s been and how he’s been. He was the sheriff of the town so he knew a lot of people. You sat on a step of the porch and watched as the kids played with water guns and water balloons, the thought of your boyfriend dumping you flooding your mind and you go back to sulking when you know you shouldn’t. Heavy footsteps shake the porch and a wave of heat settles next to you. “What’s wrong, Baby girl?” Beau asks, rubbing your shoulder. He noticed something was wrong just by the way you sat, slumped over, head resting on your hands. You would do that all the time when you were young when you didn’t get your way with things and Beau caught on. “Relationship problems..” You say with a sigh. He lets out a sigh too but it sounds irritating. “Baby… what did I tell you about boys? they ain’t nothin,”He grins and rolls his eyes at the thought of a boy breaking his baby girl's heart. 

“What happened?” He continues. You look away for a second, holding in tears, your heart is still aching for that boy but there’s people around and you don’t want to ruin today for everyone because you’re crying over a boy. “He dumped me..” You reply, your voice soft and sad. “Dumped you?” His voice is a little more rough now. His fingers curl up into a tight fist at the thought of it. “Poor thing.. You don’t deserve that, not from a dick who’d dump a pretty little thing like you for a girl who isn’t even as good as you.” He brushes a strand of hair from your face, he notices your lips are quivering and his thumb brushes against your cheek. “Tell you what.. wanna go for a ride? clear your mind. You used to love doing that when you were little.” He says, unhooking his keys from his belt loop. You look over with a soft smile and nod. He helps you up and the both of you walk away, catching no one’s attention. He helps you into the truck and he jogs around the truck to the driver's seat and grunts his way in. “It’s rough being in your late 30’s” He chuckles as he turns the key and the truck roars. 

The drive is long, the windows down, your hair flowing in the wind. you remembered every time you went on a ride with him, you’d always end up with a vanilla ice cream in your hand, it’s the flavor you’d always get. “Want your vanilla ice cream, baby girl?” He glances over at you and watches a small smile grow on you. He smiles and pulls into an ice cream shop and the both of you hop out and head inside. He stood behind you as you grabbed a cone and pulled the lever, watching the ice cream loop over the cone nicely. He pays for the ice cream and the both of you continue your long drive. Your tongue licks the ice cream, leaving trails along the ice cream. “You enjoying it, Sweetheart?” He asks, watching as your tongue licks your lips and back to licking the ice cream. You nod quickly, mouth too busy to respond. “Baby girl.” his voice cuts through the silence, his eyes on the road as he speaks. “Don’t ever let a boy break your heart like that.. you deserve better, you deserve a man who’ll walk through fire for you, a man that notices every little detail and worships you. Not a lazy bum who not only treats you like shit but dumps you.” His hand that isn’t on the steering wheel moving through the air in quick motions as he speaks. “I know.. it’s just.. men like that don’t exist nowadays.” You respond, still licking your ice cream. “Oh they do, Baby.. you’re just not looking hard enough.” His free hand taps your thigh and gives it a little squeeze. You have a feeling you know what he’s talking about but instead you nod, not trying to get your hopes up. “They do?” You ask, not wanting to leave him in silence but always wanting to hear him talk more. “Yep, a man will respect you and love you and cherish you. Like me, I love and cherish the hell out of you, because you’re my angel baby. I notice every little thing about ya.” his hand raises and he moves a few strands of hair from your face. He watches as you lick the ice cream, your eyes on him as you do.

Fireflies filled a field, small flashes of yellow sparkling the dark skies were so pretty to you. “You wanna watch them?” He asks slowing the truck down. “Yeah.. Yes please.” You nod and he pulls onto a dirt road. He reverses his truck on an empty field and climbs out. you follow and watch as he lowers the tail gate and pats the metal, inviting you to sit next to him. “You know.. I could treat you better.” He speaks out of nowhere. you nearly choke on the ice cream. “What?” You tilt your head, your heart racing at the words. His eyes move from the fireflies to you. “I could treat you better.” He repeats. “Beau..” Your voice comes out softer than you implied. “Don’t worry about that stuff.” He knows what you were thinking off but that’s a different conversation, he just wants to prove that there’s better men out there. He leans a bit close and you lean in close as well. 

“The things you do to me, Baby.” His voice was hoarse. “Like what?” You tease as you bring the ice cream to your tongue, your tongue dragging along the cold cream. “Don’t tease me like that.” His grin is a dark grin, his eyes darken and he cups your chin. “Baby doll.. mind if I kiss ya?” His lips mere inches from yours. you slowly nod and without hesitation, his lips crush into yours. a soft whimper leaves your throat. the taste of vanilla swirling around both of your tongues. His other hand drags along your waist and scooping you up, his forearm covering your lower back as he gently lays you on the bed of the truck. “You taste so good, Baby..” he whispers as his knee pushes your thighs apart. his knee presses against your core making you let out a soft moan. you clench his shoulders as the both of you continue to kiss. the sound of the highway in the distance. His lips trail down your jawline and to your neck as his hand grabs your hip. “Let me get a real taste of you..” With the tap of his fingers, you lift your hips up. “Atta girl.” He smirks and pulls your shorts down your legs, the denim material brushing your thighs. Once they’re off he throws them aside. His hand dips between your legs, his calloused fingers dragging along your folds. Your body shivers at the touch, a feeling of pleasure rushing up your spine. “Just relax, Doll.” He says, his voice velvet and thick with a southern accent. His fingers begin to work around your clit, small slow circles that make your body ache for more. “I barely even started and you’re drenched.” He teases with a thick, deep laugh. “Beau…” You moan out, your body twitching and arching at the touch. “What is it, Baby. Tell me.” His fingers are adding pressure. Your breath hitches and you let out a soft whine. “I need this..” You whine. “I know, Sweetheart, I know.” His soothing voice makes it even harder to concentrate on your surroundings, the sound of nature almost faint to your ears. Your brain fills with a fog of pleasure. 

His fingers move quicker, the pressure adding on. Your legs beg to close around his hand but he snickers and uses his other hand to cup your knee and spread your legs wider. “Keep em open for me.” you whimper out as your legs begin to shake, “Beau.. I can’t.. I can’t take much more..” your breath shakes and he leans forward, his beard brushing against your soft skin. “You can cum, ain’t nobody holdin you back, Darlin.” He purrs and slows down with the motion of circles against your clit. A hot feeling in your stomach knots up and then a wave of relief dashes through you. You hadn’t realized you’ve been holding your breath in until you cum on his fingers. “Good girl.” He praises. He looks from his glistening fingers to your face, your mouth partly open as you catch your breath and the way your flushed cheeks make you look like a red tomato. “Goodness you look so pretty, my pretty girl.” A deep chuckle escapes his throat. 

He looks back at his fingers, his tongue swirls around them, licking your juices off of them before he pulls his fingers away and taps your lips with them, “Open your mouth, Baby Doll.” His mouth opens like he's showing you what to do. Your lips part wider and he slides his fingers inside. “Taste how delicious you are.” 

And just like that…you were head over heels for that man just like he is with you.

—————————————

this is my first time posting on tumblr… i’ll get better i promise lol !!

Ao3 : mintalucious

tiktok : mintalucious

[godmadeaterribleerror]

delicate

✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦

✦summary: you ask dean to sleep with you, he turns you down, and you believe him. you tell him you don't care, and he believes you. eventually, one of you is going to have to tell the truth, won't they. ✦

✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), virgin!reader, angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, shameless smut (loss of virginity, praise kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, pussy slapping, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦

✦wc: 8.6k✦

✦author's note: i love writing idiots in love it's my favorite kind of idiot it's for love✦

“Have sex with me.”

Dean spits his coffee out. You sigh, bracing your hands on your hips, and wait for him to collect himself. You’re patient. He’s scrambling and slamming a fist on his chest, and you pass him a napkin with a sweet smile. You don’t think it’s going to win you a spot in his bed, but it might help.

“Better?” You ask, when he no longer sputtering and choking. He grunts, holding a hand up for a few more seconds. You roll your eyes—it wasn’t that crazy a thing to say—but bounce on your toes and wait.

Dean clears his throat, ears red, and looks up at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“What?”

“Have sex with me-“

“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“

“It’s eight fifteen.”

That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.

“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“

“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“

Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”

“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”

“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”

Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”

“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.

“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”

“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“

“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.

A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.

It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.

Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about. 

You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.

He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.

If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.

You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.

So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on

You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.

So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.

Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.

But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.

“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”

“You were serious?”

He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.

“Sweetheart-“

“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.

You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.

“Wait, just- Hold on-“

You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.

“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.

It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

“Why?”

“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”

“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”

You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”

Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.

Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.

“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”

You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.

“Sweetheart-“

“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”

“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“

“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”

Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.

“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.

Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.

“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.

You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.

Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.

At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.

If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.

You’re learning something about yourself.

You are not good at flirting.

The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.

“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.

“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.

“Why, you forget something?”

“No.”

“Then what-“

Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.

Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.

Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.

You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.

He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.

“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.

“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“

“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”

“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“

“I do now.”

“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“

You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.

Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.

“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.

You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.

You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work. 

But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.

No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.

So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.

“Sam.”

Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.

“Sam.”

“I’m listening, what’s-“

“Have sex with me.”

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.

“Just- Listen-“

“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“

“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“

“It’s already weird-“

“You’d be doing me a favor-“

“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”

 You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”

“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”

“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”

Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”

“Sam Winchester-“

“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“

“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“

“That’s not healthy-“

“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“

“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”

You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”

“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”

You nod, and Sam blinks.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Maybe.”

“You- You’re-“

“Don’t be an asshole-“

“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”

That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”

Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.

“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.

“Does Dean-“

“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

“I think you should-“

“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I- Okay.”

You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”

Sam snorts, and you scowl.

“I’m serious-“

“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”

You stand a little taller. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”

“I do not annoy you-“

“You’re annoying me right now.”

You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”

You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”

“You need to sleep with her.”

Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.

“Sammy, what the fuck-“

Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.

Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.

He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.

Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.

And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.

So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.

He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good.  He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.

Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.

But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.

“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“

“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“

“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“

“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.

Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”

Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“

“To take her virginity.”

He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”

Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”

“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”

“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”

Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.

But you’d asked him.

You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-

Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“How the fuck do you know that.”

Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”

“Sam-“

“She might’ve… Asked me.”

“She what-“

“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”

Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.

“No.”

“Dean, just-“

“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“

 “It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”

“She doesn’t want it-“

Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”

Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.

“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”

Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“

“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.

He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.

“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.

Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.

“Uh- Hey.”

“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.

Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.

“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”

“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“What-“

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”

Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“

“Hey- It’s- Woah-“

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.

You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”

He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.

Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.

Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.

“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.

“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”

Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“

“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”

You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now. 

Dean says your name, and you shake your head.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“

“What if it’s not.”

Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.

“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.

“What if I wanted to. Help you.”

“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“

“You said you didn’t-“

“I lied.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.

“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.

Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.

“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“

He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.

High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.

Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.

You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.

“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine again. “Dean-“

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.

This might be real.

“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.

“Yes.”

“I’m old, sweetheart-“

“I like it.”

Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.

“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“

Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his  you can’t shy away.

“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“

He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.

“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”

You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”

Dean grins back. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”

You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”

Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“

“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”

Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”

You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.

“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”

“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.

“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”

You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.

“You like that, huh.”

“Dean-“

“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”

 You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.

“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"

You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.

“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”

He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.

“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.

It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.

“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt.  “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”

You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.

“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”

Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.

“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“

 Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.

Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.

“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”

You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.

“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

“Dean-“

“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”

“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”

“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”

His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.

“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.

Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.

“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.

“Everything?”

“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-

“Hey,”  Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”

“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes. 

Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.

Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”

“Shut up-“

“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”

Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.

“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.

“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”

He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.

“You want a little more?”

You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.

“Say please-“

“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“

Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.

He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.

When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.

“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"

He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.

Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.

“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”

“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”

Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”

“Mh- Mhm.”

You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.

“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”

“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“

You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.

“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”

His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.

Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.

You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.

He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.

Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.

“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.

“You’re cute.”

“I- I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”

“Deeeean-“

“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.

“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”

You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.

“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.

Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.

“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.

You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.

“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.

“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”

“No, I mean like- It can’t-“

“It can.”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.

“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”

You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.

Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.

“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”

You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.

“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”

You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.  

“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“

His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.

“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“

“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“

Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.

“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“

Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.

“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“

Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.

His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.

You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.

“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.

“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”

You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.

He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.

Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.

He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.

“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.

“I like you too-“

“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“

He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.

“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“

You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”

Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.

“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.

“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.

“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”

✦End note: drooling for him ✦

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[bejeweledinterludes]

you are my absolute favorite spn writer, I love your writing so much <33

could i please request a drabble for dean where reader can't stand seeing him stressed and tense, because of a rough mission, and offers him a massage? it can be fluffy or suggestive, whichever you like better

📨 okay hey fun fact you are actually the sweetest ever, thank you so much for your kind words! i am honored to be your favorite spn writer :’) most of the time it’s hard to make myself believe that people like what i write so. thank you for washing away some insecurities of mine… 🫠 anyway hopefully i did your request justice cause this is SUCH A GREAT SCENARIO <3

. . . 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐓𝐄 𝐁𝐘 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐓𝐄. ♫ ⋆.˚

THE HUNT WENT TERRIBLE, TO SAY THE LEAST. you all were on edge—stressed out beyond belief—especially dean, per usual. always the one to take the blame, to put the most weight on his shoulders, all for the sake of lightening the load for someone else. it’s almost annoying, his false sense of self-righteousness, the need to place all the pressure on himself, since he has so much already—but mostly, you just want him to stop beating himself up.

tonight, however, the monster you all hunted did the beatings for dean before he himself got the chance. there were bruises and cuts littering his entire face, and you knew that the marks would look worse tomorrow as you glanced at dean’s side profile again.

you were sitting in the passenger seat—sam calling the backseat to “lay down”, but you knew it was because he knew dean was a ticking time bomb. the impala was in a stifling silence the entire way back to the bunker, and you could feel the tension radiating off of dean. it broke your heart—because you knew how much he was beating himself up more than the thing you rid the world of tonight ever could.

you don’t lay eyes on dean until about 4 hours after you get back. of course, you tried to build up the courage to say something to him, to try and make him feel better when you originally first got back to the bunker—but chickened out before you ever could. as much as you hated to see dean like this, a part of you was expecting that he’d take his stress out on you.

he’s sitting at the table in the kitchen, looking broody, as he does on nights like this. you weren’t expecting him to be sitting there, but really, where else would he be when a hunt went like it did today? it was a late hour, despite you being awake. you hadn’t really slept, per se—it was more like your brain couldn’t shut off all the way. like your body couldn’t rest, not when dean was close by and suffering in silence.

dean doesn’t look at you when you walk in—because he knows what yours and sam’s strides sound like. he doesn’t greet you, either—in fact, he almost looks shameful about the fact that you’ve now seen him, despite him quirking a corner of his mouth at you in recognition. you almost chicken out again and leave when he looks back down again, but something stops you.

the bottle and glass in front of him aren’t in use. the bottle’s still sealed, and the glass is still clean. and dean’s just staring at the glass, eyes glazed over. like he’s not really there. you’d like to bring him back, just for a little while. just until the sun comes up, maybe. so instead of going for your midnight snack like you originally planned, you find yourself going over to dean.

you know he’s in deep, when it takes him a second to even recognize the fact you’re closer to him now. his hand lets go of the glass he was fidgeting with, instead looking up at you next to him. he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you—not yet, at least.

you take in his features, now that you’re up close—and at least he had the sense to patch and clean himself up a little before staring at a bottle of whiskey for an eternity. you place a hand on his shoulder, and he flinches. just a little. you tilt your head, concerned—but don’t comment on it. you just leave your hand there, testing.

dean, finally, leans into your arm—just enough for you to know that he’s not hating this. your thumb brushes on his shoulder once before you step just a little closer. it seems the less space that remains between you and dean the more you can feel the tension inside him. he’s still looking at you, but he’s not all the way there.

your hand slides down his shoulder, over his arm, until it reaches his own hand. you take it in yours, tug at him gently. dean hesitates, no doubt weighing his options. and yet, he stands up, leaves the unopened whiskey on the table, and lets you lead the way.

you don’t take him to his own room, which shocks dean—but not enough to actually say something about it. he’s tired, he realizes—more tired than he has been in a while. and not all of it is something that can be fixed with a good night’s rest.

both of you stop at the foot of your bed, hands still intertwined. you looked at him again, stepping closer. dean felt his heart jump when you did—and not because he didn’t want you close. quite the opposite, really. he swallows hard when you start taking off his flannel for him.

“don’chya gotta buy me dinner first, or somethin’…?” dean inquires, but it’s barely above a murmur and half-assed. the question almost dies in his throat—and you don’t entertain his habitual attempt at lightening this moment.

“lay down,” you murmur as you nod to your bed, not answering—and if dean was a little less tired and a lot less starved for your attention than he was now, he’d never would laid down—but he was, so he laid face down on your bed, immediately met with the scent of you filling his lungs.

dean’s not sure what he was expecting—but when you get onto your bed after him and start touching his shoulders and back, he realizes.

you’re trying to coax the tenseness out of him. trying to make him less stressed out. a strange feeling blooms in his chest upon this development. he wonders why he’s almost uncomfortable with the fact that you want to comfort him. he doesn’t want to think about it too hard—because he’ll spiral like he’s been doing all night.

maybe it’s because he’s spent his entire life not having any comfort, or maybe the fact that he’s so used to being the one giving out comfort, he doesn’t know what it feels like to receive it—but whatever it is, dean forces the looming thought to be shoved into a box for tonight.

your hands act as if they’re touching something holy. but it’s just him, who’s receiving your attention. your fingers work at the tightness of his shoulders, and it doesn’t hurt like he thought it would. it feels… strangely good. it takes him a second, but he stops holding his breath in, lets out a soft sigh. you take it as a win.

dean is tense, obviously. almost unbelievably so. his shoulders, neck and back seem permanently wound up as you work at them with your hands. you weren’t sure if dean was comfortable having his undershirt off, so you just left it on—but your fingertips sneak just a little under the collar of his t-shirt, grazing his bare skin. dean lets out another sigh, adjusts his head deeper into the pillow.

he feels tired again now that he’s in a bed. if he was more awake, he’d be more jokey, more easygoing, cracking a joke about you trying to get in his pants. but not tonight. tonight, dean’s tired. so unbelievably tired. he’s slowly seeming to melt under your touch, despite his mind’s initial protests.

he feels an overwhelming urge to cry, all of a sudden. over the fact that you’re touching him solely to try and make him feel better, over the fact that you’re doing it for the only purpose of comforting him. the urge almost suffocates dean—but he chokes it down, lets his eyes shut instead.

dean doesn’t moan—but some sort of rumble leaves him when you knead at a specific tender spot on his back. you debate making a comment on it, then decide not to, focusing on your thumbs now working down dean’s spine.

you risk a peek at dean after you hear his breathing slow and even out—after whispering his name, he doesn’t stir, even a little. he fell asleep, knowing only your touch and scent, instead of pain and his own thoughts turning on him. he can’t recall the last time he felt so safe. so loved. it seemed like a good way to fall asleep, surrounded by softness and you.

so for once, dean let himself have this slice of warmth.

@ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @supernotnatural2005 @g0thamgirl @mostlymarvelgirl @kaz-2y5-spn @sophiaesthetic @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @liiiilsss @angelblqde @vmiina @tinas111 @0ccvltism @lunaleah @saintfaux @kimxwinchester @bettystonewell @harlekin705 @megara0224 @ej13928 @defnot-svnshine @fertilise-me @butterphii @halsteadwichester @jollyhunter @whimsyandfear @iknowyouknowimnottellingthetruth @anabellelycan @taecallsmenoona @s0ullesslullab1es @kiarasleeps

[freaknatiion]

POOLSIDE ; dbf!mark meachum

Summer seems to be passing slow, way too slow for your liking. But to your luck, your dad's friend — who got invited over to your pool for a few beers — is more than willing to make it more interesting.

pairing: dbf! mark meachum x fem!reader

warnings/tags: age gap (reader is 18+) .ᐟ dad's best friend .ᐟ older man younger woman .ᐟ smut .ᐟ piv .ᐟ oral (f!rec) .ᐟ riding .ᐟ questionable morals

fandom: countdown (2025)

word count: 4.7k

author’s note: the only way for me to survive the summer is to try and romanticize it with bullshit like this bro i need it to be autumn already, only good thing about summer is that im on break rn... anyways i looove dilf era jensen and felt the urge to write something, enjoy!! xoxo

masterlist. ⋆𐙚 ̊. profile navigation.

Summer, oh summer. Where do I even begin…

Your love-hate relationship with the season summer never ceased to settle. In a way, you liked summer, you got more time to hang out with your friends, shops stayed open longer, and you didn’t have to walk home in complete darkness — which was your biggest drawback during winter, but that was a topic for another day. 

On the other hand, though…

Your friends had other friends, they had families, and not too surprisingly, this led to you being stuck alone while they were on the other side of the world, tanning on the burning sands of a pristine beach. You tried to occupy yourself, watch every single film and show on your watchlist, take walks, windowshop, genuinely anything to escape boredom, with a very low success rate. 

Today was another boring day. No friend or boyfriend to go over to, just the stillness of your own home. Or at least so you thought, until the sound of a car pulling up right to your driveway broke the monotony of your day. You certainly weren’t expecting anybody, so that raised the question of who this could be. Curiosity got the best of you as you pulled the white lace curtains apart, watching through the window as the car’s door flew open, a familiar face stepping out. 

You recognized him immediately, your heart leaping as Mark Meachum, your dad’s work buddy and long-time friend, got out of his car, wearing jeans even in the scorching heat, a simple black shirt straining over his broad shoulders, a sixpack of beer in his hand. 

Your dad spawns right in front of him, the two shaking hands before pulling each other closer and patting the shoulder of the other. You watch as the two converse a little before your dad motions towards the house, the two men striding up to the front door. 

Your first instinct is to run, to hide back into the solace of your room before you publicly drool over a man much older than you, but let’s be real, you’ve never been the fastest in PE. Before you could reach your room, the front door’s handle clicked, rays of sunshine pouring in as Mark and your dad stepped inside.

“Baby, come say hi to Mark!” You hear your dad exclaim, your escape proving to be unsuccessful. Oh, well. 

With no other choice left, you shuffle back to the living room conjoined with the kitchen. Just as expected, the two stood there, your dad idling away with something in the kitchen — fixing up a drink, knowing him —, while Mark stood patiently waiting, his beer-free hand stuffed into the pocket of his jeans. 

Regardless of how noiseless your footsteps were, Mark slowly turns into your direction, a soft smile crawling onto his face at the sight.

“Hi,” he says, in that pleasant, deep tone that always makes you shiver. “I haven't seen you in ages. You’ve really grown up since the last time I was at your place.” 

Somewhat a lie, he’s last seen you on your 20th birthday, and around that time he used to hang out here a lot with your dad before work got way too serious and forced them to sideline anything fun-adjacent.

Just then, your dad turns back from the kitchen counter, two glasses in hand, completely oblivious to the tension vibrating in the air. 

“See, Mark? I told you this kid’s a real gem — just spends all day holed up in their room. I’m glad you finally came out! How about you grab a bottle opener from the drawer for Mark while we head out to the pool?”

“Only if you feel like coming out with us too,” Mark adds quietly, addressing his words directly to you, while your father is already heading toward the back door.

“Mark, I hope you brought your swim trunks, because the pool water is just perfect!” Your dad’s enthusiastic shout comes from far away by now, the man through the door with one foot already.

Mark chuckles softly, his voice resonating deeply through the kitchen. “I always keep a pair in the car, just in case,” he replies, turning after your father with sluggish steps, his gaze lingering on you for a moment. 

“Great!” your dad says, clapping his hands together before turning to you. “Go upstairs, throw on a bikini or whatever you like and come join us. Mark and I will head out to get the beers sorted,don't take too long!” 

With that, your dad steps out onto the terrace, reaching for the crate of beer. Mark follows him, but before stepping out into the sunlight, he glances back over his shoulder. His eyes flash, and he gives you a slow, meaningful smile. Oh, he really was looking forward to seeing you in a swimsuit.

As you step out the patio door in your bikini, the hot summer air instantly hits your skin. As you walk toward the pool, you hear the clinking of bottles and your father’s laughter in the distance. It eases the tension a little — but only until you get closer. 

Mark and your father are already in the water, sipping cold beer while leaning on the edge of the pool. When the sound of your steps gives you away, Mark is among the first to turn his head toward you. His gaze sweeps over your bikini-clad figure, and the appreciative flash in his eyes is far hotter than the afternoon sun. He clears his throat and takes a sip, as if suddenly struck by thirst. 

“Well, finally! I thought you’d fallen asleep inside,” your father teases, splashing a little water your way.

Feeling a bit self-conscious, with your arms crossed in front of you, you step up to the edge of the pool. Although the situation is slightly awkward in the company of two grown men, you try to appear relaxed as you sit on the concrete rim and dangle your legs into the pleasantly cool, shimmering water. 

Mark steps closer to the corner where you’re sitting almost immediately. He rests his arms on the edge, barely a meter away from your knees. His shoulders and chest glisten with water in the sunlight, and his proximity is almost mesmerizing. 

“The water’s great, you should come all the way in,” Mark says in a deep, low voice, his eyes gazing straight into your soul. 

“Leave her be, Mark, she’ll get in if she wants to,” your father calls out from the other side of the pool, reaching for his phone as it rings on the sunbed. “Guys, I have to take this, it’s work calling. I’ll be right back.”

Your father climbs out of the water in one fluid motion, throws on a towel, and heads toward the house.

Mark takes a leisurely sip of his beer, then sets the bottle on the edge of the pool. 

“So…” he begins thoughtfully, resting his elbows on the rim as he looks up at you. “How is your summer going? Your dad mentioned you’ve been home alone a lot lately.”

His voice is low, calm, and discreet, but his eyes tell a different story. As his gaze traces your shoulders and your neckline before meeting yours again, the truth becomes glaringly obvious to both of you, the man just as attracted to you as you are to him. 

“I’m just trying to pass the time,” you reply, gently swirling the water with your legs to hide your nervousness. “Watching movies, reading... But most of my friends have gone away. It’s pretty boring.”

The corner of Mark’s mouth curls into a slight, knowing smile. He leans a little closer and lowers his voice even further, as if sharing a secret with you. 

“Well, if I’d known you were this lonely, I might have dropped by to ‘visit your father’ more often. It would have been a shame to miss a sight like this.”

“Deal. You can come over anytime now, the gate’s always open,” you say casually, a cheeky smile playing on your lips. Mark’s eyes widen a bit at your boldness, and he’s just about to reply when the patio door suddenly flies open. Your dad steps out, now in street clothes, slipping his phone into his pocket with a tense look on his face. 

“Mark, buddy, I’m sorry, but I have to head into the office,” your dad says irritably, twirling his car keys on his finger. “There’s some trouble with the servers, and I need to be there. Since you’ve driven all this way, don’t even think about going home! Just hang out, use the pool, have a beer. Besides, at least the kid will finally have some company.”

Mark switches instantly, the disciplined, friendly mask sliding back over his features. 

“Sure, no problem. I’ll keep an eye on the house... and your daughter,” he adds, shifting the emphasis just enough so your father doesn’t notice, yet your own face instantly flushes hot. 

“Great, thanks! I’ll be back in a few hours!” your father calls out, then disappears into the house with hurried steps. Moments later, his car’s engine roars to life, tires crunch and squeal on the gravel driveway, the gate closes, and a suffocating silence descends upon the house.

Home Alone, starring you and Mark Meachum. Ouh shit.

He slowly steps closer, then right between your legs in the water while you sit on the edge of the pool, his chest nearly brushing against your knees. Even though the situation is almost unbearably hot, Mark attempts some casual conversation. His voice is low as he asks about everyday things — school or your future plans — but neither of you is really paying attention to the words. You find yourself staring at him, his face, hair, broad shoulders, soaked by the pool water, while he keeps his eyes fixed on your mouth and the straps of your bikini. 

“So, tell me…” Mark whispers, his hands drifting to your knees and gently stroking your skin with his thumbs. “Are you always this bold, or is it just today?”

You lean in a little closer, right up to his ear. 

“Only if there’s someone here worth the boldness.” You don’t pull away after the whisper, you stay close, your gaze locked defiantly with his, your breath almost brushing against his skin. 

Mark instantly picks up on the green light. He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away should you change your mind. One of his hands slides from your knee to your waist, while the other, his palm hot and damp, gently cups your chin. The distance between you vanishes. Mark’s lips press against yours softly, yet with hunger.

You instantly wrap your arms around his neck, run your fingers through the thick, slightly damp hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him closer. The kiss deepens in a heartbeat. A low, satisfied growl escapes Mark’s throat as he feels your response. His hand against your waist grows firmer, pulling you tight against him. Mark’s lips are soft yet confident, tasting of beer and summer sunlight. 

When your lips part for a brief moment to catch your breath, Mark doesn’t pull away. He rests his forehead against yours — his breathing heavy and ragged, his eyes dark with desire — while his thumb gently caresses your cheek. 

“God…” he whispers hoarsely, barely an inch from your lips. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

Mark slowly begins to step backward in the pool, pulling you gently but firmly into the depths with his hands gripping your waist tightly. As you slide off the concrete ledge, the cool water instantly envelops your body, yet you barely notice the chill, the heat radiating from Mark’s body overpowers everything. 

Taking advantage of the water’s buoyancy, you instinctively wrap your legs around his muscular waist, pressing yourself close against him in the middle of the pool. A deep, satisfied sigh escapes Mark’s throat at your movement. Wasting not a second, he immediately claims your lips again, resuming the kiss. 

Beneath the water, you feel his broad chest pressing against your bikini top and his hands sliding beneath your ass and thighs to hold you steady. Mark is lost in your touch as his tongue plays a game that is soft yet possessive, and you surrender yourself completely to his lead.

As he backs you toward the pool wall in the heat of the kiss, your back making a gentle landing against the smooth tiles, Mark breaks the kiss for a moment. His wet hair clings to his face, and his gaze is practically burning as he looks you over. 

“Shit,” he whispers hoarsely, his hand gliding over your wet shoulder, careful not to leave any visible marks on your skin. “If your father knew what was going through my mind…”

As the kiss deepens again, his hands slowly move upward beneath the water. They travel from your thighs to your hips, then follow the bottom strap of your bikini to grip your waist, pressing his own body almost flush against yours. 

Then, his mouth breaks away from yours and begins to wander hungrily across your face, along your jawline and down to your neck. As his hot, wet lips and tongue touch the sensitive skin of your neck, a soft gasp escapes your throat. Mark gently bites into your skin, balancing right on the edge of what feels good without risking a bruise your father might notice.

You seize the moment, gently placing your hands on his shoulders and pushing him back slightly so you can look into his eyes. 

“Let's go inside…” you whisper, your voice still trembling with excitement. “Let's go in before someone sees us out here.” 

Mark’s eyes gleam darkly, and he nods in agreement. 

“Right, right,” he replies in a husky voice. He slowly moves with you toward the edge of the pool, then — using the water's buoyancy and his own strength — carefully lifts you up and sets you back onto the concrete rim, right back in the position where it all began. You sit on the edge with your legs still dangling in the water, while he stands before you, waist-deep in the cool water.

Before Mark climbs out to join you, he decides not to let the moment pass. His gaze sweeps over your wet thighs for a moment, and the corner of his mouth curls into a cheeky smile. With a slow, deliberate movement, he steps closer, presses his hot palms against your knees, and gently spreads your legs.

He leans down, and with his wet lips, begins to plant tiny kisses on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. Each kiss travels higher, and his hot breath scorches your skin amidst the cool droplets of water. You instinctively grip the edge of the pool as a shiver runs through your body.

You instinctively lean back, resting on your elbows, yielding to Mark, who immediately senses your body’s surrender. One of his hands settles firmly on your hip, anchoring you against the rim, while his mouth finds the edge of your bikini’s bottoms. Mark takes his time: his hot tongue and lips play gently, with torment around your most sensitive spot, wringing a soft, stifled gasp from your throat. With your free hand, you instinctively run your fingers through his hair, weaving them into the thick, wet strands, sometimes pulling him closer, other times clutching him tight as the tension mounts.

He leans down and plants one last, lingering kiss on the wet fabric of your bikini, right where your body’s throbbing the hardest. His hot breath seeps through the thin material, making you whimper involuntarily and grip the edge of the pool even tighter. Mark gently catches the edge of your bikini bottoms with his fingers and, in a single careful motion, slides them down your wet thighs, laying you completely bare. 

The cool summer breeze suddenly brushes against your naked, sensitive skin, creating a sharp contrast to the stifling heat that had just been there. Mark doesn't let you feel self-conscious about your sudden vulnerability for even a second. He tosses the bottoms onto the pool deck, then firmly grips your thighs with both hands, pulling your hips right to the edge of the pool, drawing you flush against him. 

He leans forward again, his tongue making direct contact with your burning spot. Your back instantly arches against the concrete, your head falls back, and your fingers tangle tightly in Mark’s wet hair, while the pool water laps softly with his rhythmic movements.

The biggest challenge is keeping quiet. You try to stifle every single moan and gasp of pleasure — pressing one hand over your mouth and sinking your teeth into your lip — because you know full well that the neighbors in the open courtyard could hear anything.

Yet your stifled, trembling sounds only inflame Mark further. You can feel his hands practically digging into your flesh with tension, while his tongue grows even bolder, even more demanding.

As his tongue and lips tirelessly work on you, his hands don't remain idle either. One hot palm presses firmly against the inner curve of your thigh, while the fingers of his other hand slowly wander toward your fully aroused, wet entrance. He caresses you slowly, teasingly, before gently sliding a single finger inside. 

You whimper involuntarily at the sudden sensation of fullness, and your hips instinctively lift off the ground, craving more. Mark hears your stifled sound, and the corner of his mouth curls into a satisfied smile against your skin. 

He doesn't rush a thing. Using that single finger, he begins to pleasure you inside with slow, rhythmic movements, precisely gauging the angle and pace. When he feels your inner muscles tightening around his finger and hears your breathing grow ragged, he ups the ante. With a slow, deliberate motion, he slides another finger in beside the first, stretching you and filling you even more deeply.

The synchronized interplay of his mouth and fingers creates a sensation of almost unbearable intensity. Mark knows exactly how to ramp up the pressure: his thumb stimulates your clit in a circular motion from the outside, while his fingers move inside with an increasingly rapid, confident rhythm. 

Your fingers dig into his hair as waves of pleasure build within you.

“Just like that... show me how much you’re enjoying it,” Mark whispers hoarsely between movements, his hot breath washing over your skin.

Just as the tension reaches its limit and your legs tremble involuntarily against his shoulders, Mark pushes you over the edge with one final, all-consuming thrust. Waves of pleasure surge through you, hot and convulsive. A deep, stifled, sob-like sound escapes your throat as your body goes completely limp against the edge of the pool.

Mark continues to plant soft, soothing kisses on your wet skin for a few more moments as you try to stifle your ragged breathing. He slowly lifts his head, that infinitely proud smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He reaches up and uses a wet thumb to gently brush strands of hair from your face, his dark, longing gaze sweeping over your exposed lower body. 

“Well, what did I tell you?” he whispers, his chest still heaving. “And that was just the beginning. Now, before someone actually hears us... let's go inside.”

As the trembling in your body begins to subside, Mark wastes no time. With a decisive movement, he pushes himself out of the pool, reaches for your wet bikini bottoms lying by the pool’s edge, presses them into your hand, and then — sliding his arms beneath your thighs and back — effortlessly lifts you up. 

His wet, toned body instantly presses against your bare skin as he strides firmly from the pool toward the terrace. You can’t help yourself. Held in his arms, you wrap your hands around his neck and surrender completely to the fresh wave of desire rising within you. As he carries you across the hot concrete, you press your lips against his jaw. You cover his face with fleeting kisses, then trail down to his neck, where his skin feels almost scorching from the sun and the tension. 

A deep, stifled growl escapes Mark’s throat in response to your touch. He pauses for a moment, burying your head even tighter against his shoulder as his arms tense beneath your body.

“If you keep this up, we won’t even make it to the living room,” he whispers hoarsely, kicking the heavy glass door open with his foot. The house’s cool, air-conditioned air instantly hits your wet skin, but you hardly notice it. Mark strides confidently toward the stairs with heavy steps, while you keep kissing his neck, feeling his pulse racing wildly beneath your lips.

Mark enters your bedroom and firmly kicks the door shut behind you. Here, there is no need to worry about neighbors or the outside world. He wastes no time, walking straight to the bed and laying you down on the soft mattress with incredible tenderness, yet with confidence. Your wet body seems to sink into the sheets as Mark immediately towers over you. He leaves no time for hesitation or awkwardness as his gaze sweeps over your naked lower body, and the burning desire in his eyes makes his intentions unmistakable.

His chest rises and falls violently, and his abdominal muscles glisten with sweat and pool water in the semi-darkness of the room, curtains closed but the sun still faintly shining through.

He presses his lips against yours in a long, deep kiss as if trying to drink in the heat radiating from you. 

The kiss is cool yet hungry, and his ragged breathing mingles with yours. Yet, instead of letting him take full control and pin you beneath him, a sudden surge of confidence and the adrenaline pulsing through you take charge. As you kiss, you place your hands on his chest. 

Mark is momentarily surprised by your assertive touch, but he doesn't resist—watching curiously to see what you have in mind. With a gentle yet firm movement, you push him away, compelling him to lie back. A knowing smile plays at the corners of Mark’s mouth as he complies: he stretches out on his back on your bed and looks up at you.

You swing your leg over his hips and confidently straddle him. Now with you on top, your bare skin comes in direct contact with his sculpted abs. Mark’s gaze sweeps over your body, and his hands rise to settle firmly on your hips, ready to follow your every move.

You smile slowly, and instead of stripping off his clothes right away, you begin to move against him with deliberate slowness. With rhythmic, circular motions of your hips, you rub yourself against the manhood straining beneath his swimming shorts. A deep, hoarse growl escapes Mark’s throat, and his abdominal muscles — and dick — go rock-hard beneath you as he struggles to maintain control. 

While you torment him with your slow pace, he doesn't hold back either as his hands slide up from your hips to your back. His fingers confidently find the strap of your bikini top and undo the knot with a single, decisive movement. The wet fabric slips loosely off your shoulders, leaving your upper body completely bare. Mark’s gaze fixes hungrily and darkly on your cleavage as his palms grip your waist.

Then, you decide the moment has come for the next step. You lift yourself up slightly and, using your hands, slowly slide his shorts down, inch by inch, freeing him completely from that final barrier. Mark’s throbbing manhood presses directly against your hot, wet entrance. You wait no longer as slowly, deeply, and completely, you sink down onto him. 

A stifled sound escapes you both at the sudden, stretching sensation of fullness. You arch your head back, digging your fingernails deep into his shoulders, while Mark’s hips lift instinctively off the mattress as he takes you fully. 

You sit astride his hips, moving confidently up and down at your own pace, while Mark savors every moment with intent eyes. He never once tears his eyes away from your face and body as your skin presses together in the dim light. Deep, satisfied growls escape his throat again and again as he feels just how tightly and completely you envelop him. Though he has ceded control to you, his hands do not remain idle as his large, hot palms grip your hips firmly. He gently guides and assists your movements with decisive motions.

As the pace grows increasingly urgent and wild, you dig your fingernails deep into his shoulders, throw your head back, and let your loud moans freely fill the room. Grasping your hips, Mark pulls you even closer, fully supporting your movements from below as the tension building between you rushes unstoppably toward the final explosion.

Just as the tension becomes almost unbearable and you feel you are both teetering on the brink, Mark’s self-control finally snaps. He can no longer bear the passive role, his hands, gripping your hips, suddenly tense. With a single decisive motion, he seizes you and turns you over on the bed. 

The next moment, you are lying on your back amidst the rumpled sheets, and he is instantly towering over you. He gives you no time to catch your breath. He spreads your thighs wide and — casting aside any trace of the earlier slowness — sets a whole new, overwhelming rhythm with deep, powerful thrusts. The mattress springs creak softly from the vigorous movement, and the wet sounds of skin meeting skin fill the silence of the bedroom.

You instinctively dig your nails into his back and wrap your legs around his waist to pull him even closer. Muffled, hoarse growls escape Mark’s throat with every thrust, and you lose yourself completely in the overwhelming pace. Waves of pleasure crash over you both in a matter of seconds, and the sudden shift to a wilder rhythm instantly pushes you over the edge. 

Your body tenses and spasms beneath him as Mark buries himself deep inside you with one final thrust, following you to the peak with a loud, hoarse groan. 

For long minutes, the only sound in the room is your heavy, ragged breathing. Mark doesn’t pull away immediately as he rests his full weight upon you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath against your skin, while his heart pounds wildly against your chest.

Slowly, as your heavy breathing begins to subside, Mark lifts his head. Damp strands of hair cling to his forehead, and the wild, dark hunger that had filled his eyes is replaced by a look of utter satisfaction. 

He leans in closer and presses one last, soft kiss to your swollen lips before letting out a low chuckle. 

“Well…” he whispers in that signature deep voice, gently tracing your cheek with his thumb. “I have to say, dropping by your dad’s place today was definitely worth it. This is easily the best summer activity I’ve ever done.” 

His remark snaps you back to reality, reminding you of the most crucial factor: the time. You push lightly against his broad chest and reach for beside the bed to check your phone. You glance anxiously at the screen, worried you might have been found out, but you breathe a sigh of relief as you unlock it.

A text message from your dad actually arrived right during the scene at the pool. 

"The server trouble is worse than I thought. It’ll be at least another 2–3 hours before I finish and get home. I hope Mark isn't too bored, put on a movie for him!" 

You let out an involuntary laugh at the message and show the screen to Mark, who reads the lines while leaning back on one elbow. The corner of his mouth immediately quirks up into that smile that still makes you shiver. He runs his gaze over your naked body, then slides closer, smoothing a hot palm over your hip and gently pulling you against him across the sheets. 

“So, he won't be home for hours…” he murmurs right into your ear as his bearded cheek grazes your neck. “What do you think, instead of watching a movie, would you be up for round two? Because I’m nowhere near finished with you yet.”

© 𝗙𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗞𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗜𝗢𝗡 ; 2026. ⤷ ゛buy me a coffee? ˎˊ˗

[anklbiter]

something about soldier boys hands PLEASE. maybe like reader can’t get over how big, manly and rough his hands are.. i know id bite his hand, lick the veins and suck those fingers tbh.

im falling off chat 💔

soldier boy x reader 631 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆

with ben, there wasn’t a single thing about him that you didn’t love, besides his misogyny and occasional comments that would most definitely get him cancelled if they went public. his hair that you ran your fingers through everyday, tugged on when he had you a panting and moaning mess pinned beneath him. his biceps and strength that could bench atleast 3x your weight, that seemed to pick you up effortlessly and sling your over his shoulder when you had an attitude.

but, with having so much to love, of course, you’d naturally have a favourite thing about him.

that thing was his hands.

you could stare at them for the rest of your life and still manage to entertain yourself. you always found a way to infiltrate them into your daily routine, whether it was a brief moment of contact when you passed by him, holding one of them when you were out in public, having them wrapped around your throat when he was balls deep and ramming into you until you could only babble his name. maybe his fingers shoved down your throat on occasion.

you seriously loved them, an almost unhealthy amount, as one may say.

ben himself had no idea why or how this fetish had come to be, but he had an inkling that it’d always been that way and he was only just now realising. atleast, that’s what he was hoping for in his head. the man loved to boost his ego at any expense, and if that expense was his partner fantasising about his hands? so be it!

if that was the case, you keeping it a secret up until now, it must have gotten much worse since. he realised that when he was sitting on the couch with you cuddled into his side one night, his arm draped across the back with his hand hovering above your shoulder. some shitty program was playing on the tv, most likely a talk show or podcast, since everybody seemed go jump on that bandwagon lately.

you two hadn’t talked for the past few minutes, soaking in the peace and comfort that always settled whenever you were with or around eachother, just letting the silence speak for itself. it was all normal, this wasn’t the first time you two just didn’t speak to one another, but it wasn’t awkward at all.

that was until you shifted. ben brushed it off as you getting comfortable, your legs probably hurting from sitting for so long, so he tightened his arm around you and let it be. he should’ve been more aware of how you shifted: your head now tilted more towards his hand and your lips parting ever so slightly. then, he felt it: your tongue licking the underside of his middle finger before fully taking it into your mouth.

to say ben was weirded out was an exaggeration, he thinks. he honestly didn’t know how he felt in that moment. how does one react when their partner begins to suck on your finger out of nowhere? but, not even a second when by before ben had gotten used to it, and he even slowly thrusted his fingers in your mouth, coating them with your saliva.

the moan that left your lips was downright pathetic, and the only thing that was more pathetic was the way you looked up at him before taking his fingers deeper, like you were seeking something. whether it was approval, praise, or reassurance. either way, he continued letting you suck his fingers and occasionally trace his veins with your tongue.

after it happened the first time, it became apparent ben was a huge fan of your hand kink, as he made sure to give you special attention with his hands on a daily occasion.

[jewellaces]

Dad's best Soldier 𑣲⋆

Summary: After your breakup, the last place you want to be is your dad’s family barbecue, until Soldier Boy shows up - what starts as risky flirting by the truck ends with Ben fucking you in secret.

𑣲 warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, smut, large age gap, dad's best friends, secret sex, slight risk of getting caught, unprotected sex

wc: 2k

Your dad had hosted a family barbecue, which would be fine, but you and your boyfriend had just broken up. You felt horrible. You didn’t wanna see anyone, let alone your family and dad’s friends. Except one. Soldier Boy.

Ben was hot, like really hot, and always touching your shoulder. Since you turned 18, he was always leaving comments about how mature you were and how much you’d grown.

 The way his eyes lingered on your body made it clear exactly what kind of “growth” he was talking about. So today, even though your heart was aching, you made sure to put on your shortest jeans, the ones that rode up high on your thighs and made your ass look incredible, and your most well-fitting tank top, the thin white fabric hugging your curves and showing just enough.

You were sitting on the back porch steps, staring at nothing, when your dad’s voice cut through the noise. “Hey, did you get the cooler from my truck?”

“Huh? Oh, no, I will now.”

He nodded and turned back to the grill, flipping burgers while the rest of the family and friends chatted and laughed. You sighed, pushing yourself up and heading toward the front yard, the gravel crunching under your sneakers.

You sighed as you yanked down the tailgate of your dad’s old pickup truck, the metal groaning in protest. The afternoon sun beat down on the backyard barbecue, laughter and the sizzle of burgers floating through the air like some cruel reminder that life was moving on while you felt stuck in the wreckage of your breakup. 

Maybe it was desperate. But if you had to be miserable, at least you could look good doing it.

“Ya’ need a hand, sweetheart?”

The deep, gravelly voice hit you like a shot of whiskey. You turned, heart skipping, and there he was, Ben. Soldier Boy. 

Your dad’s oldest friend, the walking embodiment of arrogant, old-school masculinity.

He was leaning against the side of the truck, arms crossed over his broad chest, the fabric of his button-up straining against muscles that definitely weren’t from just working out.

You swallowed hard. “Oh, hi Ben. Yeah, please. The cooler’s in the back. It’s heavier than it looks.”

He pushed off the truck, stepping close enough that you caught the scent of his cologne, something woodsy and expensive with a hint of cigar smoke. His hand brushed your lower back as he reached past you into the truck bed, the touch lingering just a second too long.

“Damn, look at you,” he murmured, voice low so only you could hear. His eyes dragged slowly down your body, taking in the tiny shorts and the way your tank top clung to you in the heat. “All grown up.”

Heat rushed to your face. You bit your lip, trying not to smile too obviously. 

Ben grabbed the heavy cooler with one arm like it weighed nothing and set it on the tailgate, but he didn’t step back. Instead, he turned toward you, close enough that you had to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. His fingers grazed your bare shoulder, the same casual touch he’d been doing for years, except now it felt electric.

“Rough week, huh?” His thumb brushed a slow circle against your skin. “Heard you and that little boyfriend finally called it quits. Kid didn’t deserve you anyway, You need a man who knows how to handle a woman like you.”

You leaned back against the truck, arching your back just a little so your chest pushed out. “And what kind of man is that, Ben?”

“C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s not keep Daddy waiting.”

You followed him back, heart racing. When you reached the backyard, your dad spotted him immediately.

“Oh, hey Ben, you finally made it.” Your dad took the cooler from him and set it down with a grateful slap on the back. “Say hi to Ben, honey.”

“Oh, she already did,” Ben said with a knowing smirk, glancing over at you. His eyes lingered on your legs before he looked away.

You blushed hard and quickly turned away, heading over to talk to your cousins. But you could feel his gaze on you the entire time. Every time you moved, his eyes followed.

The afternoon dragged on with food, laughter, and games. Ben stayed close to your dad, cracking jokes and drinking beer, but he never stopped watching you. When you bent over to grab a soda from the cooler, you caught him staring openly at your ass. 

Later, while everyone was distracted by a loud cornhole game, Ben wandered over to where you were standing near the edge of the yard. He stopped beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

“You’ve been avoiding me since we got back,” he said quietly, that deep voice sending warmth pooling low in your stomach. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Scared I might say something your dad shouldn’t hear?”

You glanced up at him, “You keep on making it obvious looking at me like that.”

Ben’s smirk grew. He leaned in slightly, his hand brushing the small of your back again, hidden from everyone else. “Like what? Like I want to pull you behind the shed and see exactly how well these little shorts fit when they’re around your ankles?”

Your breath hitched. He chuckled softly at your reaction.

“Easy, baby girl. Not yet.” His thumb stroked your spine through your tank top. “But keep wearing shit like that and I might forget I’m supposed to be the responsible one here. You keep teasing me with this body and I’m gonna stop being such a good friend to your old man.”

He gave your waist a gentle, possessive squeeze before stepping back just as your dad called his name for another beer.

The rest of the afternoon was pure torture in the best way, stolen glances, “accidental” brushes when he passed by, and low comments whispered when no one was listening.

“Those legs look even better when they’re walking away from me.”

“Careful bending over like that, darlin’. Not sure I can behave all night.”

By the time the sun started to dip, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. You knew it was only a matter of time before Ben made good on every filthy promise.

The last guests finally trickled out, and the backyard grew quiet except for the low hum of crickets and the distant clink of your dad cleaning up the grill. The string lights glowed softly as the clock pushed well past midnight. You were exhausted but buzzing, every whispered word and hidden touch from Ben still burning under your skin.

“I’m heading in,” your dad yawned, wiping his hands on a towel. “Lock up when you’re done, kiddo. Ben, you crashing in the guest room tonight?”

“Yeah, might as well,” Ben replied casually, stretching his arms overhead. His eyes flicked to you for a split second, “Too many beers to drive.”

Your dad nodded and headed upstairs. A few minutes later, Ben muttered something about using the bathroom and slipped inside the house. Your heart pounded. 

You waited just long enough for your dad’s bedroom door to click shut upstairs, then followed Ben inside, telling yourself you were just “going to bed.” The house was dim, only the kitchen light left on. You barely made it past the living room when a strong hand grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the small hallway bathroom.

The door clicked shut behind you. Ben spun you around, pressing your back against the sink counter in one smooth motion. His big body caged you in instantly, hard muscle and heat pinning you there.

“Been waiting all fucking night for this,” he growled. One large hand gripped your jaw, tilting your face up as his mouth crashed down on yours. The kiss was greedy, demanding, all tongue and teeth, like he’d been starving for you. His other hand immediately slid down to grab a handful of your ass, squeezing hard through your tiny shorts.

You moaned into his mouth, hands fisting his shirt. He tasted like beer and sin, and the sheer size of him made your knees weak.

“These fucking shorts,” he muttered against your lips, yanking them down roughly along with your panties in one tug. They pooled at your ankles. “Been teasing me with this ass all day. Turn around.”

He spun you to face the mirror, bending you over the sink. Your hands braced on the counter as he kicked your legs apart. In the reflection you saw him behind you, eyes dark, jaw tight with hunger. He freed himself from his jeans, thick and heavy, already rock-hard.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, one hand stroking down your spine while the other gripped your hip. “All bent over and dripping for your dad’s best friend. Such a naughty girl.”

You whimpered as he rubbed the thick head of his cock along your soaked folds, teasing your entrance. Then he pushed in, slow at first, stretching you open with his size. You gasped sharply at the feeling, so full it almost hurt in the best way.

“Shit, Ben...” you moaned, pushing back against him.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Take it.” He bottomed out with a deep groan, hips flush against your ass. “So fucking tight. Better than I imagined.”

He didn’t give you long to adjust. His grip on your hips tightened and he started thrusting, deep, powerful strokes that rocked your whole body against the sink. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the small bathroom, mixed with your desperate moans and his low, filthy grunts.

“Look in the mirror,” he ordered, one hand tangling in your hair to lift your head. “Watch me fuck you. Watch how pretty you look taking my cock.”

You obeyed, eyes locked on the reflection: your flushed face, mouth open in pleasure, tank top still on but pushed up so your tits bounced with every hard thrust. Ben looked feral behind you, shirt half-open, muscles flexing as he pounded into you.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he growled, reaching around to rub your clit in rough circles. “This pussy was made for me. Been mine since you turned 18 and started prancing around in tight little outfits.”

Your legs shook, pleasure building fast and intense. The risk of your dad being right upstairs only made it hotter. Ben’s pace grew faster, more punishing, the bathroom filling with wet, obscene sounds.

“You gonna cum for me, baby girl?” he rasped, lips against your ear. “Cum on my cock like the dirty little slut you are for me.”

The combination of his filthy words, his thick cock stretching you, and his fingers on your clit sent you over the edge. You cried out, clamping down around him as your orgasm hit hard, vision blurring.

Ben groaned loudly, thrusting through it. “Good girl, fuck...”

A few more brutal strokes and he buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a low, satisfied growl. His hips jerked as he rode it out, filling you up.

For a moment the only sounds were heavy breathing. Ben stayed buried inside you, leaning over your back and pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder.

“Keep it a secret, okay?” he said, eyes locked on yours. “This stays between us. Your dad can never know. Last thing I need is him trying to kill me, even if it’d be funny to watch him try.”

You nodded quickly, still dazed from the intense orgasm. “I won’t tell anyone. Promise.”

“Good girl.” He leaned down and kissed you again.

[infrqred]

soldier boy is a munch

you're already warm under him, sprawled across the bed while he looms over you— the smell of whiskey clinging to his breath, his hair mussed from your fingers. ben's pupils are blown wide, his grin lazy and smug, and you know he’s been drinking enough to get mean about it.

his big hands grip your thighs and shove them apart like you weigh nothing, the sound of your gasp making him chuckle low in his chest.

"c'mere, sweetheart.. lemme check on her."

he doesn't mean you. you've learned that by now. when he's drunk like this, you are just the delivery system for the only part of you he gives a damn about.

he noses down into the soft heat between your legs, dragging his stubble along your skin until you're arching. then his tongue flattens, wide and slow, painting over you in a way that's filthy and reverent all at once. he drags it up again, then again, and you realize— he's actually tracing a sloppy b against your folds.

"that's for her. she's been good for me, huh? all soft n' needy.."

your hips twitch and he pins them hard to the mattress, mean grin cutting across his face.

"don't run from me, doll. not when she’s lookin' at me like that."

the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth on you fill the room. every lap is a little messier, his grip a little tighter, until you're squirming under the pressure of it. he's sloppy, spit mixing with your slick, and every so often he pulls back to look— thumb sliding between your folds, parting them so he can watch the way you clench.

"christ on a cross.. she's workin' overtime. just for me."

it's too much, and he knows it. he pushes you over once, twice, doesn't even let you catch your breath before his mouth is on you again. you're gasping, begging, fingers in his hair, and it only makes him meaner.

"yeah, that's it— give it to me, sweetheart. c'mon, she's not done yet."

when you try to push him away, he laughs, drunk and rough, holding you open wider. his tongue circles in tight, relentless flicks, and he groans into you like he’s the one getting off.

"ohhh, she likes that. look at her twitchin'. pretty little thing's gonna squeeze every drop outta you for me."

your thighs tremble, overstimulation sparking through you, but he's not stopping— not when you're dripping, not when your voice breaks, not when you're practically sobbing into the air. "nah, sweetheart.. i'm still hungry."

and the worst part? he means it.

you don't even get the chance to come down from that last orgasm before his hands are under you, flipping you like you weigh nothing. your cheek hits the pillow, your knees shoved apart, hips pulled back into the air by his grip on your waist.

"yeah.. that's the view. goddamn."

you can hear him breathing hard, voice thick with whiskey and greed. he kneels between your legs, palms spreading you open from behind, thumbs pressing into the soft give of your ass until you feel exposed down to your bones.

then he dives back in. his mouth is hot and wet against you, the angle letting him bury his face deeper, tongue fucking into you in short, hungry thrusts. he moans into you like he’s tasting something he's been craving for weeks, the sound vibrating straight through you.

"mm.. she's even prettier from back here. all swollen n' drippin' for me."

you whimper, trying to hold yourself up, but his hands are gripping so tight you can't move— not away, not closer, nothing but take it. he drags his tongue up, circles your clit, then drops back down to fuck you with it again, over and over until your arms are shaking from holding yourself up.

"c'mon, doll.. gimme 'nother. she's beggin'."

your hips twitch and he growls, sucking your clit hard before letting it go with a wet pop. his fingers replace his tongue for a moment, two thick digits curling inside you while he licks around them like he's cleaning you up for his own use. the stretch is deep, relentless, and you feel yourself clenching helplessly around him.

"that's it.. squeeze my fingers. make her show me what she's got."

the overstimulation's sharp now, teetering on painful, and you gasp out his name, but that only makes him meaner. he pumps his fingers faster, tongue working your clit in messy, desperate laps. he's drunk enough that his rhythm is erratic— sometimes too fast, sometimes unbearably slow— but it keeps you on the edge until you're choking on a cry and falling apart again.

you slump forward, but he yanks you back by the hips, lips still pressed to you, licking through every aftershock like he's wringing you dry.

"oh no, sweetheart.. you don't tap out on me. not 'til i'm done with her."

he means it. you can feel it in the way he keeps going, sloppy and drunk, until you're half-collapsed in his grip, your whole body shivering.

note : this is a repost/revamp from my old account (@wwvvii)

[doll4him]

just me thinking about dbf!dean lol

[godmadeaterribleerror]

hunger

✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist✦

✦summary: ben starts acting rather strange. being quiet. hitting on you less. making sure you eat. you're worried, even though he doesn't want you to be. you never could've guessed the reason why.✦

✦warnings/tags: Soldier Boy x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (he's a hundred), light angst, softer!ben in a way (as soft as he can get lmao), canon divergance, pining, plot to earn the smut (panty stealing/kink, posessiveness, teasing, messy sex, size kink, dry humping, sex pollen, stripping, body worship, dom!Ben, blowjobs, finger sucking, masturbation, fingering, begging, nipple play, manhandling, oral f!reciving, pussy spanking, overstimulation, praise and degredation kink, clit abuse, creampie, monster dick ben, rough sex, this man is a sex god, just so many orgasms, dumbification, dacryphilia, hyperspermia, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦

✦wc: 10.3k✦

✦author's note: request! i dare to ask the question. can this man get hornier✦

Ben is being quiet. It’s incredibly worrying.

You’d been waiting for them to get back from the mission on the couch, and he’d stormed into the room like the world outside was on fire. You’d sat up with wide eyes, and he’d gone perfectly still. His face had been red, his eyes blown out, his attention almost burning through you.

“Ben?” You’d whispered, unsure if you should be running to him, or as far away as you could get. “Are you- Is there something wrong-“

He’d lurched back, blinking wildly. You’d sat up on your knees, ready to reach for him, and he’d taken a staggered step back.

“Ben-“

He’d marched into the meeting room like something was dragging him there. You’d sat on the couch for another minute, staring blankly after him until the rest of the team came up.

You sat next to him for the debrief. You always sat next to him, no matter how you protested. It didn’t matter how many times you asked not to play babysitter, you were the best at it.

It was a low bar. You just had to not egg him on like Butcher, or try to give him a free, unlicensed therapy session like Hughie. You just sat there, and glowered while he grinned, and everyone said you had Soldier Boy on a leash.  

“What’s wrong with you,” you hiss during the meeting, and Ben shoots you a sideways glare.

He still doesn’t say anything. When you poke his arm, he recoils, flinching as if he’d been shot.

That’s what makes you freeze.

Ben doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t wince, and he doesn’t whine or bitch or moan. You’ve seen a rocket launcher slam into his chest, and he’d roared like an animal before throwing the thing back at the shooter. You’ve poked and slapped him almost every day for the past year. He’s only ever looked down at you with raised brows and a smirk, like you were a misbehaving bunny trying to eat his socks.

But this time, his eyes are black, and his brow is knit. There’s a tension in his jaw that makes your breath hitch, and his nostrils flare. The table whines under his grip. You’re rooted to your chair, unable to rip your gaze away. He grunts your name, low and rough, and you’re suddenly all too aware of it. The space between your bodies. Your knees aren’t pressed together under the table. His fingers aren’t grazing your arm every few moments, like they have every single day since Butcher tossed you into his den and told you to keep the old man from blowin’ something up.

There’s a heat radiating from his body that makes your head spin. It’s not the radiation or the bomb. His eyes aren’t empty and there’s no glow coming from his chest.

Ben runs warm. You’re more aware of it than he’s ever going to get to know. Ben’s always made of the kind of heat that pools between your thighs and makes your heart skip, even when you’re shoving his chest and flipping him off.

But this.

This feels like a fever.

Soldier Boy isn’t supposed to be able to get a fucking fever.

You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong again. Ben looks away, and leans back in his chair. His body is angled away from yours. Your feet bump, and he jerks away with a low, almost feral sound. You swallow, a bile rising from the back of your throat. He’s never passed up a chance to touch you.  

Through the entire debrief, there wasn’t one word. He grunted in response to questions.  Not an insult or crude joke, not a brag or boast about how much they’d needed him, not even an attempt to get into your pants. He’d sat, stiff and silent, then left the moment Butcher waved for everyone to fuck off.

You watch him go, your hands clasped under the table, worrying at the cuffs of your sleeves. You’re not worried about him. You don’t get worried about him. He’s an old ass with a pretty face, who spends more time trying to make you spread your legs than listening to plans for missions. But there’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, and it feels like a ship, rocking back and forth in a storm.

“Butcher?” You call, still watching the door Ben vanished through.

Butcher turns back to the table with a groan, glaring at you in your chair. “Fuckin’- I was about to go get Waffle House, love, so if you’ll excuse me-“

“What happened?”

“What-“ Butcher cuts himself off, running a hand down his face. “You mean on that mission Ijust fuckin’ debriefed-“

“No, I mean with Soldier Boy-“

“Ah, your sweet lil Ben-“

“No- I mean- He’s not-“ You shake your head. “Butcher, I’m fucking serious, he’s being- He was quiet.”

Butcher shrugs. “So? Far as I can see, he’s learnin’ how to be a good boy.”

“But he’s not,” you say flatly. “He’s not a good boy, and- You fucking know that.”

“Maybe. But I don’t go ‘round lookin’ for holes in good things, Love-“

“Oh, fuck off, that’s all you do-“

“Well, I’m a changed man.” Butcher gives you a lazy grin. “You got anything else for me? Gonna whine about grandpa actin’ too polite?”

You narrow your eye, holding Butcher’s stare. His tone is indifferent. His posture is bored. “You know I’m right about this,” you say, cold and quiet. “Don’t try and- And fucking dance around this. Ben’s acting weird, and-“

“Ben,” Butcher coos, and you snap your mouth shut. “Ain’t that sweet-“

“Butcher, I swear to fucking God-“

“What? You’re gonna tattle on me to your Ben-“

You shoot to your feet. “I am worried about the safety of our team, you dipshit-“

“Then go talk to your sweet Benny Boo, and maybe he’ll let you tickle his balls for an answer-“

The door slams open, and you and Butcher both freeze.

You’ve never found Ben as scary as you maybe should. He’s all muscle and talk and bite, but the teeth don’t seem sharp when they’ve only ever been bared for you. He tells you he’s a breathing fucking weapon, so you should watch your mouth. You ask him why you should bother, when he’s watching it for you. He laughs in that way that only you ever get to hear, and tosses his arm around you on the couch. Not a danger. A mountain of a man, that you know better than to try and topple with nothing more than moral hands.  

A mountain that you’re used to bowing down to your height. That usually looks at everyone else like he’s measuring the minimum amount of effort he can use to crush their skull, right before offering you a hand to climb. When you take it, his lips twitch. When you tell him you don’t need help, he stares at you like he’s still learning how to look.

You know what the team says about you. What they think about the peace you’ve found with Ben, and the way it lingers around him whenever you’re near. But that’s really all it is. An understanding. Something close to friendship that you’re not brave enough to name. You think about him in the dark. He tries to fuck you, and you turn him down because you know.

It would be easier to fall for him that it should be. Whatever things are broken inside of you, he’s made of a kind of gold that pours into the cracks and makes them shine. But it’s fool’s gold. It would crack under pressure, leaving you more hollow than before. He’s not the kind of man that would want to build something. You only want to build something. And so he gets nothing, and you remain empty in a way that still lets your heart beat.

And you never fear Ben.

Not until he’s looming in the doorway, glaring between you and Butcher with a white-knuckle grip on the door and a glint in his eyes.

Butcher takes a small step back. You can’t move. Ben makes a low, rumbling sound from his chest, and the air suddenly feels hot and wet. No one dares to move.

“Ben,” you breathe, and his gaze snaps to yours. “Wha- Are you okay-“

He vanishes. You feel the floor rumble, as he stomps away, leaving you and Butcher frozen in the room. You turn slowly, glaring at Butcher. He throws you a winning grin, and slips out the door before you can ask if that seemed normal. Your fingers curl on the table.

Something’s going on, and you’re going to figure out what the fuck it is.

In the days after the meeting, Ben seems to almost get better. He speaks again. He walks around and jokes and smokes on the couch like everything is normal. Butcher acts like nothing happened, but you catch MM and Hughie giving him cautious looks. Annie and Kimiko are hanging around you more, and Ben seems angrier about it than usual.

“I think we need a new dryer,” you mutter one morning, sighing when Hughie gives you a curious look. “It’s eating my underwear.”

“Eating your- What?”

“My underwear. Like- How washers eat socks.” You frown at your cereal, poking it with your spoon. “It’s all going missing, I think it’s the dryer-“

“The fuck is wrong with the dryer,” Ben grunts, dropping next to you at the table.

“She thinks it’s eating her underwear,” Hughie mumbles, watching you nervously. “Are you sure you’re not just like- Dropping it in the hall or something?”

“Yes, I- I’ve even gone back and checked, it’s all just- It’s getting eaten, I swear-“

“Well- Um-“ Hughie glances at Ben. “Has your underwear been eaten?”

“Fuck no,” Ben grunts, and you sigh.

“He doesn’t believe in the dryer.”

Hughie blinks. “What- What do you mean, doesn’t believe in it?”

“Too many fucking buttons,” Ben grumbles. “Never trust a fucking robot to do what you can do with your goddamn hands. I wash my shit in the sink.”

“Mhm,” you smile at your coffee. “And then I wash it with the machine.”

Ben glares at you. You smile in return, and his mouth twitches. You expect a smart little comment about whatever gets you touching his boxers. Instead his eyes dart to your cereal, then your mouth.

“What-“

“You’re not eating.”

You blink. “I- I was talking to Hughie-“

“Why.”

“Because- My underwear- And-“ You swallow. The room is getting hot again. Ben’s glare is almost like a laser, driving into your body. “Ben, I’m going to eat-“

He grunts, and pushes the food closer to your body. He doesn’t look satisfied until you’ve cleared the bowl. You glance at Hughie, who seems just as lost as you do.

“Um- The dryer-“

“I’ll look at it,” Ben stands up, his own coffee and bacon completely ignored. You and Hughie exchange another look.

“Ben,” you say gently. “You- You can’t even turn it on-“

“It’s just fucking buttons, I’ll figure it out-“

“But- Ben-“

He’s already walking away. You chase after him, and barely manage to stop him from ripping up the whole laundry room. You’re not sure if this is part of it. You’re not really sure of anything right now, except odd looks behind your back, and your increasingly declining supply of underwear.

You keep an eye on him, closer than you have to. You don’t want him exploding, or going feral, or getting sick. If he gets sick, you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with it.

If he gets sick, you’re going to have to watch him get pale and small, and the thought makes your gut turn into a tight, strangling fist that reaches your throat. You spend the night curled up, staring at the ceiling. You walk to Ben’s room and linger outside the door, then shake yourself and go back to your room. You’re not some foolish, doting nurse. You’re his friend, and he’s a grown man who can take care of himself.

“Are you feeling okay?” You ask him in the morning, because you can’t help it.

Ben laughs, rich and deep. “Feel like a million fucking dollars, doll.”

“Hm,” peer at him on the couch. He’s relaxed. The color on his face is back to normal, and his thigh is pressed against yours easily. Ben catches your gaze, and smirks.

“You got something you wanna say to me?”

“No,” you say quickly, and Ben laughs.

“You gonna take my fucking temperature? Ask about my sleep and my fucking smoking habits?”

Your nose twitches. “No, I’m just- You had a fever yesterday-“

Ben cuts you off with a grunt. “I don’t get fucking fevers.”

“You were sweating, Benjamin-“

“Room was hot,” he grumbles. “Don’t lose your damn head about it.”

You scowl, moving up to your knees. “I’m not- You were acting weird,” you hiss. “You weren’t talking, and you- You didn’t touch me once-“

You cut yourself off, face flooding with heat, and Ben’s smile becomes wolfish.

“Oh,” he drawls, turning in his seat. “You missed me touchin’ you?”

“I- That’s not what I said-“

“Isn’t it?” He leans forward, fingers brushing near the top of your thigh. “You want my touch, sweetheart, all you have to do is say please.”

You narrow your eyes, tipping your chin up like it can defend you. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t you want to,” he teases, and your jaw drops.

“I- You’re fucking- I hate you.”

He laughs. His fingers trace the hem of your shorts. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re a shit fuckin’ liar-“

“You’re a shit fucking liar.” You spit, hoping he buys the false venom in your voice. “You were sick, Benjamin.”

Ben shrugs. “And you’re givin’ me the sex look.”

Goddamn him. Every, massive, cocky inch of him, and how you can’t seem to figure out how to stop him from affecting you. “I- I am not- There’s no- No-“ You look around the room, leaning forward to hiss low enough no one will hear. “There’s no fucking sex look.”

Ben hums, looking you up and down with that dragging gaze. The one that makes your body hum in excitement, that feels like more pressure than any other man’s hands.

“Stop doing that,” you snap, and he laughs.

“You’re real mouthy this morning, aren’t you.”

You scowl, sinking back into the cushions. “I’m hungry.”

Ben goes rigid. His hand fists on his knee, and his eyes lock on yours with that gleam again. You blink, leaning slightly back. Ben’s mouth presses in a thin line, and a low grumble rolls from his chest.

“Wha- What-“

He stands up, and marches away. You don’t move, too confused to remember how. Things hadn’t been back to normal, but they’d been a stilted version of it. Then he’s gone again, leaving you with too many fucking questions and an empty couch.

You’re seconds away from following him, when he stomps back into the room with a scowl.

“Ben, what’s- Shit-“

He tosses an apple straight into your lap. You fumble with it for a second, trying to figure out if a secret code or something, then look up at him with an openly confused expression.

“I- Um-“

“Eat that,” he grunts.

You blink. “What?”

“You said you’re fucking hungry, didn’t you?” He snaps, jerking his head to the apple. “Eat.”

You stare at each other for a long moment. The apple feels heavier than diamond in your hand, but Ben’s gaze is a burning, impossible pressure. It presses down against your core and makes your thighs ache. His eyes have gone almost wholly black. He’s back to that predatory stillness. You look at the apple, then him, and slowly raise it to your mouth.

Ben watches you take a large bite, and hums in satisfaction. You chew, and his eyes gleam. A little juice dribbles down your chin, and your tongue swipes out to catch it on instinct.

He moves back. You sit up, the apple tight in your fist, and Ben stumbles backwards like you’d punched him.

“Ben, what the fuck-“

He marches away again. You’re alone again, this time with an apple instead of Butcher.

At least the apple is less judgmental, while still offering the exact same amount of answers. You stare at it for twenty minutes, before you move. Ben doesn’t come out of his room for hours, and when he does, he won’t even look at you.

And that heat. The air-waving, mouth-watering heat is back, rolling off of him like an approaching storm. No one else seems to notice it. You’d think you were going insane, if you didn’t still have that apple, tight in your fist.

“You didn’t finish it,” Ben grunts from behind you, and you yelp in surprise.

“Jesus fucking- Ben-“

You whirl around, and cut yourself off. He’s right behind you. His legs are pressed to yours, his arms braced at his side, the weight of him almost locking you against the counter. Your hold on the apple goes slack, and it thuds to the floor. Ben’s glare deepens. His brow is beaded with sweat again.

“Hi,” you breathe, and he grunts.

“You were supposed to eat the fucking apple.”

“I- I had eggs,” you say, and Ben’s jaw locks.

He takes a long breath through his nose, leaning further down. This is the kind of thing that should make you want to run. It doesn’t.

“Who the fuck made you eggs,” Ben growls, and you blink.

“Me? I- I mean- I made me eggs- And- Um-“ You scan over his red face, his black eyes, and God, all that heat is so intoxicating you might be getting dizzy. “Be- Ben?”

He grunts your name. His arms brace on either side of your body. You might be about to melt.

“Can I please check your temperature?” You whisper. “I’m getting really worried. About-“ You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and forcing the words out. “About you.”

Ben doesn’t answer. You don’t dare to look. There’s something hard and thick, poking into your upper thigh. You grab Ben’s forearm for balance, and a low, dangerous sound rumbles from his chest.

Then, suddenly, the weight of him is gone. And when you open you’re eyes, it’s almost like he was never there at all.

Hughie coughs from the dining table, and you blink at him. You hadn’t even realized he was there.

“What- What the hell was that?”

You shake your head, staring blankly ahead at the wall. “I- I don’t-“ You cut yourself off, then look back to Hughie. “You were on the mission.”

Hughie swallows. “I- Um-“

“Hughie-“

“What mission?” He says, moving to his feet. “I mean- We go on so many, it’s easy to lose track-“

You block his path out of the kitchen, and he swallows.

“Please don’t-“

“Sit,” you point back to his chair, and he obeys.

“I- I really- I think Annie’s calling me-“

“Talk,” you hiss, and Hughie swallows. “Now.”

Ben got hit with a chemical. Hughie doesn’t know what—none of them do—but you’ve got a theory.

It’s a fragile thing. The way he’s acting, how you could possibly deal with it. You walk into the kitchen in the morning and find that he’s made you eggs. The plate gets shoved towards you with a grunt. Ben doesn’t stop staring until you’ve eaten every last bite, and then he stomps away without another word. You do your laundry and catch him staring at your clothing with twitching hands. You shower that night and open the door to find him standing in the hall, his whole body tense and his mouth hanging open.

“Ben,” you say gently, and he takes another one of those stumbling steps back.

You sigh, as he vanishes down the hallway. He hasn’t had a normal conversation with you in three days. The last time you bothered to try, he’d pinned you down on the couch and stared until you whispered his name, and he ran again.

He spends most days locked in his room. He comes out to make sure you’ve eaten or follow you to the grocery store, pressing behind you in the milk aisle and glaring at anyone who comes too close.

“Do you want anything?” You ask him softly before you go to checkout, and he just stares at you. Some days he’s not even talking anymore. Last night Annie tried to walk past you both on the couch, and he snarled like a dog.

He leans down until his nose is pressed to your hairline. His lips drag over your brow, and you stare up at him, trying not to let your heart burst out of your chest. He inhales deeply, and a low rumble rolls through his chest. His hand finds your waist, massaging and kneading at the skin.

Your gaze drops down, and there it is again. The outline of his cock, tenting in his jeans. You bite the inside of your mouth. Your knees wobble, and your hand flies to Ben’s shoulder. He’s burning up, skin searing even through his shirt.

He yanks back again, eyes black and chest heaving. You sigh, and turn back to the grocery cart. You’re too used to it now. It makes you worry more.

You try to get a straight answer out of Butcher that night. It’s somehow more useless than last time.

“I know Hughie blabbed, ain’t no reason in tryin’ to talk to me-“

“You know what’s wrong with him,” you hiss, and Butcher shrugs.

“Maybe. Gonna make any fuckin’ difference to what you’re doin’?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m fucking asking-“

“Oh, like you ain’t figured it out yourself.”

You glare at him. He smirks back, challenge lining every inch of his expression.

“You gonna go put your money where your mouth is, doll?” Butcher mocks. “Or just keep whinin’ around about it?”

And you don’t have an answer. Because he’s right. You figured it out when Ben snarled at MM for offering you a cup of coffee, a boner pressing through his sweats that everyone pretended to ignore. It would take a true idiot, to not be able to figure it out.

“When did you know,” you mumble, leaning back against the counter. Butcher shrugs, watching you carefully.

“Moment it hit the fucker.”

“Where you there-“

“I was the only cunt in the room.” Butcher shudders. “He started moanin’ and gettin’ hard, it was the most disgustin’ thing I’d ever seen.”

You sigh, giving him an unimpressed look, and Butcher smirks.

“He was cryin’ for you, love. Almost had to put him back under to stop him just sprintin’ back to the house to take you. Like a fuckin’ dog.”

You blink. Your heart does a little flip that you refuse to acknowledge. “He hasn’t touched me-“

“Don’t know why,” Butcher mutters. “I thought I was gonna follow him inside and find him- Well, you know.” He winks, and you narrow your eyes.

“But he hasn’t. Which-“ You swallow, looking up to the ceiling and biting your tongue.

It’s fine. It’s fine if it’s not you he wants to do this with. Probably for the better. It helps you cling to that last shred of dignity. The sliver of an illusion, that you don’t think about him more than you think about yourself,.

“Do we think this- Can it hurt him?” Your voice is smaller than you want it to be. Butcher just shrugs.

“Ain’t gonna kill him. Probably hurts.” His lip curls. “Permanent fuckin’ blue balls. Hell don’t go deep enough.”

You sigh. “Well, what if we hire him like- a hooker-“

“Tried that,” Butcher dismisses. “Almost got punched through a damn wall.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “What? That’s- Ben wouldn’t turn down a hooker-“

“He did,” Butcher gives you a pointed look. “And it ain’t a hooker he’s makin’ eggs for, genius.”

You blink at him. “No, that’s- That isn’t part of it-“

“You willin’ to bet his life on that?”

And you aren’t. You’re not willing to bet anything. Because it hasn’t just been boners and staring. Ben’s been feeding you, following you like all illusion of not being your personal guard doesn’t matter anymore, refusing to let you do anything that might get you hurt.

“But- If it’s just a sex chemical,” you say slowly, and he cuts you off with a raised hand.

“I ain’t holdin’ your hand through this,” he says. “You talk to him yourself, and-“ He looks you up and down, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Bring protection. We don’t need soldier tots runnin’ around the house now, do we.”

“Butcher-“

“Not just a sex chemical,” he shrugs. “And you know it.”

You do. You wish you didn’t but you do.

A sex chemical would be easier. You could climb into bed with Ben, get railed into oblivion, then collect your heart off the floor and move on. But this is more. This is possessive and targeted and that means something. Something you don’t want to know. Something you have to know.

Butcher leaves you in the kitchen to collect yourself. You close your eyes, and try to control your breath, but it’s useless against your pounding heart. He turned down hookers. He moaned your name.

If this means nothing, you’re going to fucking kill him.

If it means something, you’re ready to deal with it. You don’t think you really have any other choice.

“Ben?” You knock on the door once, forcing your voice to steady. “Ben, can you please- We need to talk.”

He doesn’t answer. You weren’t expecting him to. The knock was more of a polite courtesy, then a question. You steel yourself, holding the doorknob with shaking fingers, and push into his room.

You barely make it a step inside, before all the will is knocked out of your body. It’s as if you walked into a wet dream. One of the private, dirtiest ones that make you wake up with the sheets bunched between your legs, that make reality feel like a slap to the face.

The room reeks of sex. Salty and heady, sweat and something rich that just smells like Ben. The sheets have been ripped and tangled on the floor, the pillows tossed off the unimportant corners of the room with piles of boxer and shirt and panties.

Your panties.

Ben sits, silent and dark-eyed on the bed, completely naked. One hand is fisting on of your panties, the other is wrapped tight around his thick, red cock. It’s veiny and so big it makes you sore just to look at. It throbs in his grip, and your cunt pulses in return. White pre-cum leaking from under his thumb, and his balls sit heavy between his thighs.

Your tongue darts out over your lips, and you force your gaze to drag up. Ben’s staring at you with a vein in his brow and that same burning intensity. The heat lingers in the air, humid and electric. Sweat falls from his neck, over his broad, flushed chest. His thighs are locked, his lips parted and eyes narrowed. 

You glance back to the panties in his hand and swallow. You suppose, at the very least, you were right.

“I lost those,” you breathe, and Ben grunts.

“I’ll give ‘em back later.”

You blink, then glance at the pile in the corner of the room. Ben doesn’t look away from you for a second, and a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. It sends a thrill up your spine, and you have to lean back against the door to stay upright.

“You here just to collect your panties, doll?”

You shake your head, looking back to him hopelessly. You’d had a whole speech, about how he needed you to fix this, how you knew it must hurt, how if he asks nicely, you’ll let him take what he wants. It’s misting into thin air, with every thin, fraying thread that had been holding your dignity. Ben doesn’t make it easy. His gaze rakes over your body, a strange, blurred line between worship and hunger etched over his handsome features.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to pretend like this. With all of him at your fingertips, only a few steps away. You’d prepared yourself to be a toy, but you’re a lamb to slaughter. An offering to a god who won’t take anything else, who holds your sanity like a delicate bird in his rough hands. He could destroy you, and you’re going to thank him. He could recreate you, and you’d never know a better blessing.

Ben leans back, something iron lining his words. “You should go.”

You shake your head, and his jaw ticks.

“Go.”

There’s a low, deep command in the word. You almost obey.

“Those are mine,” you breathe, nodding to the panties, and Ben sighs.

“Fuckin’ Christ- Go-“

“Why are they mine?”

The question is soft. You know he hears it, because he goes quiet again. You stare at each other for another long moment, and you take the smallest step forward. A low groan pulls from Ben’s throat. Your knees almost buckle.

“Don’t,” he gives you a look like it’s a command, but there’s something thinner under the word. Something soft.

“I- I know about the chemical,” you whisper, and Ben’s throat bobs. “You could’ve asked-“

“Ask what? For you to suck my cock? Like some limp-dick pussy who can’t handle his booze?”

Your lips twitch. “Your dick isn’t limp.”

Ben gapes at you. His cock jumps in his hand, and you take another step.

“You’re- Fucking unbelievable,” he grunts, and you laugh. “This shit ain’t funny, doll-“

“It’s a little funny,” you murmur, stopping right above him.

No part of you is touching. Every inch feels gravitational. He has to be the one to crash first.

“You turned down hookers for me,” you whisper, and Ben scowls.

“It doesn’t want hookers.”

You glance at his cock, then his tight face. “What does it want?”

He glares. You don’t back down. You never have before, and you’re not about to start now.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease-“

“Don’t be a dick,” you lean down. Ben’s legs part to make room for you. It’s an effort, not to just touch him. “What does it want, Ben.”

What do you want.

He hears the invisible question. His jaw works, and his eyes drop to your lips.

“I’ll fuckin’ break you,” he rasps, and you smile.

“No,” you say. “You like me too much.”

Ben’s gaze rips back up. You raise your brows, daring him to do it. To say it. To put you both out of your misery.

A low growl rips through his chest. “Go. Now.”

You don’t move, and watch as the last line of Ben’s control snaps.

He grabs you by the waist and drags you fully into his lap. You gasp as his lips smash against yours, the kiss rough and demanding. There’s so part of you that isn’t consumed by it, that doesn’t mold into his touch. Your legs spread so you can straddle his lap, and Ben grabs your ass with a grunt, forcing you up so his cock is pressed against your clothed cunt. You moan against his lips, and he presses his tongue into your mouth.

“Be- Ben-“ Your nails scrape at his shoulders, and he squeezes your ass with a grunt. “Fuck- Ben-“

“Already whining,” he mutters, dragging his free hand up to rest on the back of your neck. “Barely fuckin’ touched you are you’re already sayin’ my name like I fucked you.”

Your face burns, and Ben weaves his hand through your hair, gathering it in on fist and pushing it down to deepen the kiss. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself. His touch is hot and possessive, sending shivers through your whole body. His cock rubs against your underwear with every shift, and the pressure makes your legs spread wider. You start to grind down to chase the friction, and Ben moans, deep and low.

“That’s it,” he grunts, massaging your ass with shockingly gentle hands. “That’s a good girl. Show me what you’ve got, doll, prove that you’re gonna take this cock for me.”

You try to drag him closer, but he’s immovable. When you push, his hand moves from your ass to your lower back, pushing down so you can feel every inch of his dick, rubbing between your thighs. You make a strangled noise, and Ben chuckles. It’s an even rougher sound than before. His mouth has started to wander over your cheeks and jaw, pressing open, sloppy, kisses everywhere he can reach.

It’s almost like you’re being seduced into the same, sex-focused daze that’s taken a hold of him. The kisses light undying fires over your skin, spreading and spreading until you think you’ll die if he moves away. Ben’s started to lose focus himself, pawing at your ass like an animal and growling against your skin.

“Bennn,” you moan as his fingers graze on your inner thigh, turning your face to bury in his neck. “Mmmm- Ben- M- More-“

He growls again, and his hips slam up. It knocks the air from your lungs, and he’s not even inside you. Your arms wrap around his neck, trying to hold on as he starts to rut against your core, broken, desperate sounds falling from his lips.

You manage to lean back to look at him, and he’s thoroughly wrecked. He grabs your jaw, still rutting, and you try to smile. His nostrils flare and he kisses you again, the fervor only seeming to build as he chases his own orgasm. You hum against his lips, trying to make yourself pliant and soft, easy for him to use.

“Smell good,” he rasps against your skin, beard tickling against your neck. “Always smell so- So fuckin’ good-“

He cuts himself off with another groan, his cock twitching between your thighs. He shoves you further down, rocking his hips back and forth as he keeps trying to get there against your body.

“Gonna wreck you,” he mutters, mouthing at a pulse point. “Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, fuck you stupid, fuck you mine.”

You moan happily, dragging your hands down his bare, thick back. The muscles ripple under your touch, and Ben moans like that touch is almost enough to set him off. You kiss over his cheekbone and beard, along his jaw, and slowly guide his mouth back to yours. He lets you lead this kiss, mindlessly focused on trying to fuck himself against your body. He’s panting so hard you’d be worried about anyone else. 

He groans against your lips, clawing at your clothing with blunt nails. “Off- Get- Fuck- Get this shit off-“

He whines like a dog when you push on his chest, and you expect him not to let you up, but his grip loosens. You smile down at him, moving back to your feet, and he stares at you with a slack jaw.

“Get back here,” he growls, one hand still splayed on the back of your thigh. “Now.”

“I’m helping you,” you tease, slowly pulling down your shorts. “Say please.”

Ben’s eyes flash, and his jaw locks. You know he won’t beg. You don’t really want him to. This—the undivided, adoring attention, the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing he could ever possibly want in the world, when he’s spent a century of life indulging in sweet things and easier desires—is more than enough.

You sink to your knees, and he lets you. That hand on your thigh drags up to fist back in your hair, and he goes back to that predatory stillness as you rub his thighs with light hands.

“I ain’t beggin’,” he grunts, and you hum, letting your fingers brush against the base of his cock.

Ben’s hips jerk up, a moan ripping from his chest. You giggle, guiding his hand away, and he glares at you under hooded eyes.

“Something fuckin’ funny?”

“Mmm,” you shrug, wrapping your hand around his cock, and god, he’s even bigger than he looks. “I’m just… Learning.”

“Learning,” Ben echoes, the awe pushed through gritted teeth. “Jesus fuckin’- Christ-“

You lick a long, slow stripe up the length of Ben’s cock, and he tosses his head back like he’s praying.

“Holy- Fuckin’ hell-“ He tugs at your hair without actually trying to move it, biceps bulging as he tries not to overtake your mouth. “You’re- warm-“

You giggle again, pumping your fist as you kiss the tip. Ben makes a low, sinful sound, his free hand fisting at the sheets. You’ve never seen him in such control of himself. A living god that could skullfuck you until you sobbed, trying to let you lead your way. You think it’s something in the way he’s holding you like you’re made of lace instead of silicone. It makes an unbearable ache return to your core.

You take Ben in your mouth until he bumps against the back of your throat, and he groans your name so loud it must echo through the city. You work what you can’t fit in your mouth, sucking on his cock like it’s candy.

“Fuckin’- You can suck some fuckin’ cock, doll-“ He chokes out, hips bucking when you squeeze him near the base. “Best mouth I’ve ever felt- Son of a-“

His words turn to moans, and you look up at him under your lashes. He’s leaning back with a glazed eyes and veins pushing at his neck. His shoulders are tense, his abdomen flexing, and you can’t control your own hips as they start to chase relief against the air. Ben catches the movement, watching it as if he’s under a spell. His cock is heavy and pulsing in his mouth, and it just makes your cunt ache more, imagining the weight of him buried inside of you.

“Jesus, you’re a needy thing,” he mutters, his thumb dragging over the soft skin behind your ear. “You fuckin’ like this? Like choking on some proper dick?”

You whine, eyes rolling back as he presses back against your throat. You press your shoulder forward, forcing your tits further up for him to see. Ben jaw clenches, and you feel him try to not move. His pre-cum is getting thicker, and who knows how long he’d been going before you.

“Ben,” you pull off for a split second, dropping your hand to massage his balls as you kiss over the head of his dick. “Please.”

You drop back down, and he understands in a second. He uses you like a toy, pulling your head up before slamming it back down. You make your jaw slack, moaning around him with every single thrust. Your eyes roll back in your head, and the need builds and builds between your thighs.

You drag you’re hips forward shamelessly, grabbing Ben’s leg and angling your clit to rub against whatever it can reach. Ben groans at the sight, and the sound just floods between your legs.

“Shit, I can feel how fuckin’ wet you are,” he growls, and you whimper, watching him under glossy lashes. “Shit- Lookin’ at me like that, gonna make me-“

You moan eagerly, and Ben’s control snaps again.

It’s fun to see the edges of it. How the pit of his restraint is far deeper than you would’ve imagined a week ago. He tries to drag you off his cock as he cums, but you push yourself back down. It comes in thick, sticky ropes, shooting down your throat until you’re gagging and almost unable to breathe. You try to swallow, but there’s so much it falls out of your mouth like drool, dripping down your cheeks and onto your breasts.

“Jesus, thought you were gonna drown in it,” Ben pulls your dazed head off, grinning down at you. “Look at you, baby. Little fuckin’ trooper.”

You blink at him, still trying to lick the remains off your lips. You glance down to his cock, and it’s still hard. How the fuck is it still hard.

“Hasn’t been goin’ down since that shit hit me,” Ben mutters, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Needs it’s pussy.”

“It’s pussy?” You breathe out, and Ben sighs.

“Your pussy,” he mutters. “Needs you, smartass.”

“It needs me?”

You give him your best innocent look. He glares at you, and you just tilt your head, smiling like you’re made of honey. You sort of feel like you are. You’ve never been this gooey, just from sucking a guy off. You’ve never even liked sucking someone off.

But this is Ben. Rough everywhere, but made of tiny divets that go soft when pressed. The kind of man you can crawl into and never have a harsh hand find your body again.

He swallows, his thumb lingering on your lips. You kiss the pad of it, then the knuckle, before slowly wrapping your lips around him and sucking. Ben’s cock twitches, somehow getting harder. You don’t think you’re ever going to walk again.

Worth it.

“I need you,” he rasps, pulling his thumb away. “Feet. Now.”

He taps your nose, and you scramble up. You’ll fight him tooth and dirt when he’s fighting back. When he’s not, you can’t think of a single reason to deny him a thing.

Ben grabs the back of your thigh again, watching you with an expectant glint in his eyes. You swallow and pull your shorts down, trying not to fall over when he stares at your core like you’re showing him a treasure. His fingers dig into soft skin, and his free hand wraps around his cock, pumping slowly as you continue to strip in front of him.

You peel off your shirt, and Ben’s tongue darts over his lips. His grip on your thigh tightens, and he slowly coaxes you forward. You rest your hands on his shoulders, shoving down the bubbling, electric nerves in your chest.

“Ben,” you whisper, and he hums, dragging a massive, rough hand up your side. “E- Easy-“

“Oh, doll,” he coos, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your breast. “This is easy.”

Your legs wobble, your confidence quickly waning. The doubts start to pool like rainwater in a gutter, as Ben takes in your naked body. Maybe you weren’t the dream doll he had in his head. Maybe you pushed it too far with the teasing. Maybe he doesn’t really want you in the same, volcanic kind of way you want him.

He drags two fingers along your inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin as he mouths at your breast. You close your eyes, trying to just breathe, and Ben chuckles.

“And you wanted me to say please,” he drawls. “Look at you, all fuckin’ sweet for me. You gonna beg for me again, baby? Or that mouth only good for sucking my cock?”

You whimper, a gush of heat flooding between your thighs.

“Yeah, you like me talking,” Ben mutters, kissing over your sensitive nipple. “Like knowing you’ve got the only fuckin’ pussy in the world that makes me act like an idiot. Pretty girl, pretty fuckin’ tits,” he  sucks a dark spot on your breast, his thumb slowly dragging between the lips of your cunt. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy, wet like a whore in the summer for me.”

Ben thumbs at your slit, wrapping his lips around your nipple and sucking hard. His thumb drags up in the exact same moment, finding your clit and rubbing tight, unrelenting circles. You vision blurs and you stumble forwards, wrapping your arms tight around his head.

“Be- Fuck- Bennnn-“

He hums around your nipple, grazing his teeth over the perked bud. His mouth is warm and wet, his tongue flicking back and forth until you’re in a sex-addled frenzy. You press your face into his hair, gasping his name as he drags his thumb back and forth across your clit.

He wraps a massive arm around your body, fingers splaying over your back and cradling you close to his body.

“Feel that fuckin’ mess,” he drawls, kissing over your breasts. “No one else gets you this wet, do they?”

You shake your head, and Ben leans back with  narrowed eyes. He slaps your pussy with a harsh little tap, and a broken cry escapes your lips.

“Do they,” he growls, and you shake your head.

“No- No-“ You try to lean down, desperate to just kiss him, to get as close as he’ll allow. “Just you, Ben, just you-“

He smirks, slaps your cunt again, and goes back to making out with your nipples. You moan, slumping over his body as the tension becomes almost painful. You don’t know what he’s getting out of this until you feel his hips rocking beneath you. His cock rubs against his stomach and your thigh, already smeared with pre-cum again. You gasp and Ben moans around your nipple, the sensation vibrating through your whole body. 

“Oh- Oh my god-“ You squirm, the pressure getting unbearable. “I- I’m- Oh my god-“

You’re babbling, but you’re not sure what else there is to do. You cunt his clenching around nothing, the thick scent of Ben clouding your head as he works you like a toy. Ben nips at your nipple and pushes his thumb down hard. Your knees buckle, almost making you fall back to your knees on the carpet.

Ben’s arm around your back tightens, and he rolls you both over, tossing you back onto the mattress without even a grunt. You almost cry out at the sudden cold, the lack of Ben all around you. It only lasts a second before he grabs your ankle and drags you forward.

You’re lain on the bed, staring at Ben with an open expression. His jaw clenches and he rubs your thighs, slowly pushing your knees up to your chest. Your cunt is on full, open display to him, and your breath catches as he drags his thumb between the swollen lips of your pussy.

“Look at that,” he almost purrs. “Mine.”

You whimper when he flicks your clit again, but it quickly falls into a moan as he leans down and presses an open mouth kiss to your pussy. Your eyes roll back in your head, your hips arching to meet his chapped, full lips. Ben groans against your cunt, his grip on your legs tightening.

You’ve had men eat you out before. You’ve had them be good at it, and horrible.

Ben does it like it’s a job, and he’s never hated work a day in his life. You were already on such a thin wire that the first press of his tongue against your clit makes you snap, a cry falling from your lips and your hands flying wildly to catch a hold of something. Ben grabs them and pins them against your stomach, forcing you down into the mattress as his mouth keeps working against your cunt.

He’s open with it, moaning and sucking and pushing his tongue into your fluttering cunt as he rocks his face back and forth, dragging your orgasm out until you’re almost floating. The heat hasn’t stopped building. Every time you think you’re going to come down, Ben kisses your clit, and darts his tongue back and forth like he’s trying to get a high score of most orgasms in an hour.

Maybe two hours. You can hear the bed creaking in a steady rhythm, as Ben’s fucks down into the mattress, but then he drags another orgasm out of you, and the only thing in the world is Ben’s mouth against your cunt. The sounds he makes, the way he’s watching you under hooded, smug eyes, the way his massive back forces your legs further apart whenever you try to close them and exposes you to him further.

You writhe when your third orgasm hits, shoving at his head with weak hands.

Ben draws back, pinning your legs down to the bed and fixing you with a stern glare.

“Stay still,” he grunts, and you swallow.

“Too- Too much-“

“You want cock?” He snaps, and you nod frantically. “Only good girls get cock, baby. You bein’ a good girl when you whine?”

Your lip wobbles. Your face burns. Ben raises his brows, daring you to be a brat, and any other day you would. You’d stick your tongue out and mock him, you’d test his buttons, you’d see just what you could say, to get bent over his lap or tossed around the bed.

But there are tears streaming down your cheeks, and you’ve never been so totally aware of how empty you are. You really think the chemicals might be contagious. You really don’t fucking care.

“No,” you whisper, shame burning at your cheek and between your thighs. “I’m not.”

Ben hums, spits on your clit, and starts to rub it with a fast thumb. “You gonna be a good girl?”

You nod, and Ben smirks.

“Yeah. I know.”

He dives back down, and stars burst behind your eyes as another orgasm overtakes your body. You’re trembling and gasping for air, pulling at his hair and only earning another moan that makes your back arch. Ben laps at you through the orgasm, hips still slamming against the bed.

Then, one second, his beard his grazing over your inner thigh and his lips are pressed against the over sensitive, pulsing bundle of nerves. The next you’re face down with a thick arm around your stomach, dragging you back against Ben’s chest like a ragdoll. 

“Need to get in that pussy,” he growls, dragging his cock between the lips of your cunt. “Give you this cock real good, show you who the fuck you belong to, right now.”

Ben bites and sucks on your neck, the head of his dick bumping against your clit, but he still doesn’t push inside. Your nails dig into your forearm, the wet sound of him sliding against you filling the room, and you almost don’t know what the fuck he’s waiting for.

“Please,” you breathe out, dropping your head against his shoulder and giving him your best, sweetest eyes. “Please, Ben- Fuck me.”

Another one of those feral sounds rips from Ben’s chest, and his hand drags down to press two thick fingers against your clit as he slowly pushes himself inside. The breath is knocked from your lungs at the first inch, a broken sound escaping your lips.

Ben’s free arm wraps around your neck, the bulging bicep forcing your head back further so he can kiss over your open, drooling mouth.

“That’s it,” he coos, rubbing your clit back and forth as he presses deep into your cunt. “That’s a good little slut, takin’ just what I give you, come on-“

You whimper, and Ben deepens the kiss, pressing his tongue down your throat as he pushes another inch. You clench down around him and he groans, kissing you brutally as he bullies the last few inches inside of you.

He’s so big it makes sparks dance on the edge of your vision. You’ve never been this full, every single nerve in your body all too aware of the delicious split of Ben’s cock. Between the head lock and his mouth against yours, the tears can’t stop streaming down your face. Ben growls your name, kissing a stray one near your lips, his tone a warning you can barely hear.

“Christ- You’re fuckin’ tight- Gotta- Relax-“

You can’t. You’re overstimulated and so needy you can’t think, can’t move, can’t do anything but feel the smeared arousal between your thighs, the drag of Ben’s cock against your g-spot, the muscle and heat of his body wrapped all around you.

You clench down again, and the very last bit of Ben’s resolve snaps.

He cums inside of you suddenly, moaning down your throat as he ruts up in short, rough thrusts. The cum spills into your until you’re warm and stuffed, then runs down your ass and over your thighs. It’s so wet you think he’d slip right out of you, if it wasn’t for the headlock. You’re so full you don’t even remember how to breathe, until Ben squeezes just under your breast and groans your name.

“Don’t go out on me, doll, c’mon-“ He groans and kisses you again, his hand dropping back down to spread against your tummy. “Fuck- You feel so fuckin’ good- Better than coke, baby, Christ-“

You make another broken sound, your voice hoarse and small from the arm around your throat.

Then Ben starts to fuck you, and you think you might ascend.

He rolls his hips in long, deep thrusts, dragging in and out of your cunt like a machine. The sound of your cum mixing—sliding between your bodies with every single shift—is obscene. You’re being used like the most tended to, adored fuckdoll in the world. Ben cradles you like he thinks you’ll break, and fucking you like he’s trying to take you apart.

You feel him everywhere, with every single slam of his cock against your g-spot. Your vision swims, the tears falling freely, and Ben kisses every single one away with another, brutal thrust.

“Fuckin’ crying for me, babydoll?” He nips at your lower lip, and you whine a sound like his name. “Pretty girl can’t fuckin’ take it after begging? So sensitive you need to fuckin’ whine?”

You turn your cheek, giving him your best, pleading doe eyes. You can’t tell if his gaze sharpens or focuses. His thrusts become deeper, and his thumb finds your swollen, pulsing clit again. You sob, and he kisses the sound away with a hum.

“Bein’ such a good fuckin’ slut,” he mutters, pinching your clit and rolling it between his fingers. “Takin’ this cock like a pro, baby, like you were fucking made for me.

You babble his name again, and Ben smirks. This kiss is slower. Almost loving, and in a stark contrast with how he’s drilling into your gaping cunt.

The orgasm washes over you like a wave, and Ben moans your name as you squeeze down around him. Your vision goes white and you thrash, your body being wracked with so much pleasure you can only scream. Ben’s cock slams home against your g-spot, and rush of something wet and hot flood out of your pussy, and you think you might pass out.

At the least, you’re floating out of your body. Ben cums with rough, spat out praise, then slowly lowers you back down to the mattress. Weight shifts around. He rubs your back as you gasp for air, then slowly rolls you over and pushes your legs back open.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, the words far away, but his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Didn’t know you could get this fuckin’ dumb and quiet. Should’ve been fucking you every day.”

He laughs to himself, and your hand flies up, unsure what it’s looking for.

Ben catches it, twines your fingers together, kisses your knuckles, and presses it back into the mattress.

“Need more, doll,” he rasps, and you whimper. “I’ll go easy. Not tryin’ to break my-“

He cuts himself off. You don’t have the words to push him. You don’t have the energy to do anything. Ben kisses your stomach, then lower, then lower. You gasp softly, when you feel his tongue lapping at your pussy. It’s gentler than before. Slower, almost careful. He works you open, mixing your releases together and tasting it almost for the sake of tasting it.

Your eyes cross, as the soft, tickling sensations. They’re strangely relaxing, even if they make your pussy flutter hopelessly.

“Easy,” Ben murmurs, kissing over your clit. “Nice and fuckin’ easy.”

It is. You go limp again, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of his tongue. He’s not trying to make you cum, or get you ready. God knows you could probably take a fist in there right now, with how he’s left you soaked and open. You can hear his fist working against his cock again, and find the energy to look up again.

He’s almost art, above you. Hair mussed and tangles, dominating your vision, whole face wet and eyes blown out. You squeeze his hand in yours and smile. He blinks, and his jaw sets as he understands. 

This time, he doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He must understand by now, that you might be more depraved than even he can dream up. You’d sit on his cock for the rest of your life, if he let you. And there are worse ways to be worshipped, than with everything a man—a broken, titan of a man who’s made of more than he can understand—has to give.

You let yourself lose track of it all. Ben moves you into positions you didn’t know you could make, hauling you back into his lap, flipping you over and dragging your ass in the air, sitting you on top of him and guiding your hips back and forth until you’re mewling his name and shaking around his cock. The whole room might have to be burned, when this is over. There isn’t an inch of your body he hasn’t cum on, kissed, spanked, or grabbed.

He ends up on top of you again, holding your knees back against your chest with a single arm, fucking you slow enough to drag long, loud moans from your lips every time.

“That’s my girl,” he mutters, watching his thick, swollen cock slide in and out of your cunt, smearing and spreading hours of cum between your thighs. “My pretty fuckin’ doll.”

You moan, reaching up with shaking hands to cup the back of his neck. His gaze drags back to yours, and you smile. You don’t know where the delicate, flowering thing inside of you is coming from. You think it’s always been there, and Ben’s stripped you so bare there’s nowhere to hide it, no way to make it wither. With his hands so gentle on your hips and thighs, his gaze so clouded with adoration you think that—to anyone else—he wouldn’t look like the same man, there’s nothing left to do but let this bloom.

“I love you,” you breathe out, the first words you’ve said in hours. “I love you, Ben.”

His eyes go impossibly darker. His fingers dig into you, and he crashes forward with a groan.

Ben cums one last time, and you pass out at his kisses all over your face, murmuring words you feel more than hear.

He doesn’t say it back. You didn’t think he would. Ben coddles you like a child after, wrapping you in a shirt that somehow survived the damage and carrying out back to your room. You get a warm bath and glass of water. Your stomach rumbles, and suddenly there’s food in your hand. Ben rises you both off in the shower, his breathing heavy and his face pressed into the crook of your neck.

You can feel it with every single touch. That he’s trying to find a way to tell you. That it’s carving through his chest that he doesn’t know how.

And you’ll wait. Telling him he doesn’t have to will do nothing but make him more frustrated, and you’re happy to have whatever he can offer after… this.

He figures it out faster than you thought, though. He lays in bed with you, glaring at the ceiling and rubbing your side. You watch him, your head propped on his chest, and smile. You lean up and press a kiss to his jaw, and he grunts in surprise, his gaze dropping to yours.

You smile again. His throat bobs. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks back to the ceiling and lets out a slow, deep breath.

“Marry me.”

You blink at him. If you had an ounce of strength left in your body, you’d sit up. “What?”

“You heard me,” he grunts, glancing back down at you. “You mean what you said?”

“Of- Of course I meant it-“

“You sure?”

“Fuck you,” you shove his chest, and his mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure, asshole. But-“ You point a stern finger. “I’m not marrying you.”

That makes him really, deeply frown. “Why not.”

“Because I’m not crazy.”

“That ain’t crazy, doll, you love something, you fucking marry it-“

“Marry it?” You snort. “What, are you gonna marry the fucking TV?”

“No, you brat, I’m marrying you.”

Your mouth falls open. Ben glowers at you, his fingers digging on your hips again, like he’s worried you’re going to run. “Me?” You whisper, and Ben grunts.

“Don’t see me fuckin’ proposing to anyone else, do you.”

You laugh weakly. “But this is- Ben, this is a bad proposal-“

“It is not bad-“

“It’s horrible-“

“You’re going to say yes,” he snaps, and you sigh, tracing over the line of his pecs.

There’s something raw under that demand. Something you don’t want to mock or poke at. That you want to nurture, to get him to show without barbing it in a defensive wire.

But you’re also not marrying him after one sex marathon.

“I want dinner,” you say, and he frowns.

“I’ll get you a fucking ring-“

“No.” You lean down until your noses bump. “Dinner.”

Ben glares at you. You glare back, rubbing his chest, and he slowly relaxes under your touch.

“Dinner,” he mutters, and you beam, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

He grabs the back of your neck, holding you above him. “You’d say yes, though,” he rasps, and god help you, you would.

You just kiss him instead. Long and slow and deep, telling him in a language you know he prefers to speak. And you can feel it, under every single touch. How much he really, truly means it.

Five dinners, you tell yourself, but if Ben keeps holding you like this, you know. You’ll only last until he asks you again, and then—just like before—you’ll all too happily give in.

✦End note: theory answered: yes he can ✦

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