𝑗es𝑠

you said you'd come. no promises, no heart emojis or flirty texts like usual. just an 'i’ll be there'. and he’s been replaying it in his head ever since.

you don't fucking know it’s him. and maybe it makes him the worst kind of man— but god, he hopes you still want him anyway. not cowboy_rangler85, not the man who’s spoiled you from behind a screen. him. with the wrinkles around his eyes, rough knuckles and the southern voice that tells you 'thanks' every morning at the bakery counter.

he’s halfway through a spiraling thought when the knock comes at the door.

you knock once, unsure, then check the number again. room 269 stamped just outside the door, the same one 'cowboy_wrangler85' told you he'd be at.

the door opens before you can second-guess it— cracks just enough for warm light to spill into the hallway, and there he was.

a taller, broad man. much older than you were expecting.

you blink and your brows crease together. “oh—” your voice comes out too fast “sorry, i think i have the wrong—”

“no,” he says swallowing sharply, brows lifting like he’s just been shot in the chest. “no, you're— you're in the right place.”

you hesitate, eyes flicking down the hallway like maybe you should double check. but that’s the number you were given. and he’s standing right there, hair slightly damp like he’s just showered. wearing a plain henley and jeans, nothing flashy. just a real hunk of masculine man.

a man you know of.

“wait,” you murmur, peering up at him again, softer this time. “beau?”

he rubs the back of his neck, almost embarrased. “yea sweetheart, it's me’.”

your stomach twists, the god damn sheriff. the one who buys coffee some mornings. the one who looks at you with that crooked smile, that soft gravel drawl. he was polite, harmless, and almost too normal to be the guy on the other side of the door.

“i— uh” his voice continues, and he clears his throat. “i wasn’t sure if you were really gonna show. you said you would, but i mean, i wasn’t expectin—’” his voice trails off but you’re still standing there like a deer in headlights.

beau shifts his weight, thumb hooking through a belt loop. “i booked it for the whole night, so— y'know no pressure. you can sit, or not. you don’t gotta stay, if it doesn’t feel right or anythin’.”

the words keep tumbling out of him, gentle but hesitant, trying not to scare you. trying so fucking hard to stay the gentleman he is. and somehow, that’s the part that makes your heart thump harder. so, he steps back slightly, giving you space to decide.

you walk in slow with a bag on your arm. silk dress swishing at your thighs, and perch lightly on the edge of the bed, legs crossed.

“wasn’t expecting it to be you,” you say, half a smile tugging at your lips. your tone’s light but there’s something tight behind it, your brain was a whirlwind.

his brows lift again, somewhat apologetic. “yeah, s’not exactly how i wanted to— i just wanted to meet you proper.”

your fingers find the necklace at your throat, tracing the cowboy charm. he sent it. the gifts, the money, the lingerie, the necklace, all those messages.

your eyes lift to his, and he’s already looking at you. “it’s been you,” you whisper. it wasn't a question, but more of a realization.

beau doesn’t deny it. instead, he steps forward just a bit. his hand lifts, the back of his fingers brush your jaw, angling your chin up.

his touch is barely there, more a suggestion than a command, but your breath still catches. he feels the way your jaw tightens faintly beneath his knuckles, the way your body goes a little tense.

“it's been you this whole time?” you murmur, like you’re trying to line it all up in your head. the countless private streams, those custom requests, the way he always knew just what to say. your heart's thudding against your ribs.

his gaze flicks to your mouth. “yeah,” he says quietly. “s'been me.”

his thumb shifts, dragging along the corner of your mouth— so damn reverent, like you’re something precious, something breakable.

“i couldn’t help it,” he adds. “you were— christ, you were right there. the bakery every mornin’, smilin’ at me with that sweet voice. then i saw you on my screen and it—” he stops himself, jaw ticking. “fuck, i know it ain’t right.” the air between you crackles. it wasn't anger, not even judgment. but the weight of it all .

“you watched, you paid, sent me things.” your voice stays calm, but your legs uncross slowly on the bed, thighs parting ever so slightly beneath that little slip of silk. “and even after everything, you still wanted to see me?”

his adam's apple bobs. “yeah.” he says it like a confession. a sin laid bare in a hotel room, after months of being guilt ridden.

your fingers curl against the mattress, watching the way he’s trying to stay still, trying not to lunge. his hands are clenched into fists at his sides now, his chest rising like it hurts to breathe.

you tilt your head. “tell me why? why me?”

his answer comes quick, as if he'd been practicing for it all week. “'cause i needed to see you, not the screen. you.” he steps in between your parted thighs. “i wanted you to know who it was, sweetheart. wanted to know if you'd still look at me the same way.”

your eyes drop. not all the way down— no, they stop at his thick leather strap with a dull brass buckle, probably worn from years of use. he’s so close now all you can smell is his cologne and see the faint bulge beneath his belt.

“listen,” he says, low enough it tickles the shell of your ear. “if you don’t want this— if any of it feels wrong now that you know it's me— i’ll walk right out that door. you can have the room to yourself for the night.”

you don’t answer at first. your bag slips from your shoulder to the bed, quiet against the duvet. then your fingers find the zipper, a slow hiss of metal teeth. “i brought my camera with me,” you murmur after a second of silence. “ i figured— you might want to make it real, y'know, as a keep sake.”

a beat passes. then his hands unclench. he exhales like he’s been holding his lungs hostage for days. “sweetheart,” he says, strained and so fucking full of want. his jaw tics. chest rising with the kind of breath you take when your patience is about to snap.

your knees brush the inside of his thighs now. his hand lifts— no hesitation this time, and he traces your glossed bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.

“you ever been with an older man before?” he asks.

your eyes flick up to meet his. beau's face is close now, the scent of clean cotton and aftershave sitting heavy between you. you don’t answer— only shake your head 'no'.

his thumb presses a little firmer and your lips part under the pressure. when your tongue flicks out— just the tip, enough to taste the salt of his skin— he watches it happen, cock visibly swelling under the restraint of his pants.

“so that's a no” he hums, almost to himself, and your lips close around the pad of his thumb. not shyly, you suck, tongue curling underneath cause you know what it's doing to him.

“jesus,” he mutters, more to himself than you. hollowing your cheeks, you pull a little tighter. his hips twitch forward, swearing under his breath.

beau's hand reach as if he’s about to stop you— but he doesn’t. not until you slip your tongue out again and lick around the joint of his knuckle.

his thumb slips free with a wet pop— and then his mouth the replacement. crashing down on yours like he needs to know if you taste the same as he imagined.

you do.

it's exactly how he pictured— lipgloss and sugar, something a little artificial, something he’s dreamt about for months with his cock in his fist and you moaning on his laptop.

your hands fly up, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. he groans when you pull him in deeper, when you angle your mouth open for more. it’s not slow anymore. it’s greedy, desperate, gasping between each kiss like you both can’t get enough air.

his hand finds the hem of your babydoll dress and works it up just enough to feel the smooth expanse of your thighs. the other slides up, knuckles brushing your ribs, finding the delicate strap on your shoulder and slipping it down.

“fuck me,” he groans. “you wore it. the one i sent.”

you nod against his shoulder, a little dazed. “i wanted you to see me in it,” you whisper.

his hand cups the underside of your breast, silk and lace dragging against his palm. “you look so fuckin’ pretty, baby,” he growls, voice breaking at the edges. “been picturin' this for so long.”

beau kisses you again, rougher this time, while he starts peeling the dress off your frame, unwrapping something fragile— he still can’t believe you’re here.

you tilt your head slightly, lashes batting up at him as you breathe, “you seem a little distracted, cowboy.” his whole body stills for a second processing it— then his hand splays wide across your stomach.

“you wanna talk about distracted?” he stammers. “i can’t form a fucking straight sentence watchin' you for months, actin' like it was nothin' when i seen you every mornin'.” then he dips his chin, breath catching yours in a half-kiss that doesn’t quite land, ghosting over your lips.

“and then you go and wear my necklace, and now i can’t think about anything but being buried inside you.”

every inch of your skin is buzzing, chest rising up to meet the weight of his words before he’s even touched you properly. but then— just before his mouth seals over yours again —your hand finds his chest.

“wait,” you whisper. “the camera.”

his expression was not from surprise— but from the fact that he’s waited for this exact moment. every night he’s ever watched you from his dark living room, palm wrapped around his shaft, this is what he imagined.

you, here, in front of him, not just performing for a faceless screen—but for him, all because of him.

you cross to the nightstand with bare feet, silk brushing your thighs. the babydoll rides high when you crouch to adjust the angle. you’ve done this a hundred times, but never like this— never with shaky hands, and never with a man’s gaze so heavy on your back that it pins you in place.

you can feel beau behind you, watching. the quiet shift of fabric, soft thump of his boots hitting the floor. when you glance over your shoulder, he’s already down to just his boxers— broad and golden in the lamplight, sprawled back against the pillows.

“you really wanna remember this, hm?” you ask, teasing as you press record.

he doesn’t answer, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip and nods.

you turn slowly, making a show of it. the silk straps fall off your shoulders. the little dress pools at your feet. you’re wearing his lingerie, the set he paid for, soft sheer cups and tiny bows he picked out with one hand in his lap and the other hovering over the checkout button.

when you climb onto the bed, you waist no time to straddle his crotch. taking your place like you’ve been waiting just as long, sinking into his lap with a satisfied sigh. his cock is thick beneath the cotton, straining toward the seam, and his hands are already on you— pawing your thighs, gripping the swell of your hips.

you lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice honey sweet. “should i look at the camera and say thank you to the sheriff?” you pause, just to feel the way his chest tightens beneath yours. “or should i say it to cowboy wrangler85?”

you bite your lip, watching the way he burns under you now, twitching under the lace he paid for.“ you're cute,” you murmur. “real old school of you. made me think you were some grumpy ranch hand, with a beer gut. didn’t think you’d be—” you trail off, letting your eyes do the speaking.

“didn’t think i’d be what?” he rasps.

“this desperate,” you whisper, shifting just enough to feel the throb of him beneath your cunt.

his hands grips your jaw, tilting your head just enough to glance over at the camera— red light blinking. his grip bruises at your waist now, the only thing keeping you from rocking forward and taking what you both came here for.

“go on, look into the camera and say it.” his eyes flick toward yours with something wild behind them, until they meet where the lens sits pointed at you both. “tell them what cowboy wrangler85 wants,” you breathe, watching the way he flushes all down his chest. “say it for me, for your good girl.”

his head falls back to the pillow, throat bobbing hard— he's panting, torn between shame and bordering on predatory. “fuck,” he groans, hand flying to your ass, squeezing hard. “you got no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

you hum, lean in to kiss his jaw, tongue just barely tasting sweat and beard and heat. your fingers hook the band of his boxers, dragging them down slow—not even watching at first, just letting the elastic slide over the swell of his thighs, his hips, until they catch around his knees. only when he shifts do you glance down.

an exaggerated blink, then a gasp, awestruck— as his cock springs free, flushed and already smearing slick against his stomach.

“oh my god,” you whisper, one hand trailing up the inside of his thigh but not touching where he needs it, not yet. “is all this just from me settin’ up the camera?”

he laughs once as you run a nail lightly along the groove of his v-line.

“tell me how you do it,” you breathe. “when you’re watchin’ me on your computer. show me.”

beau's hand wraps around himself with a pump that’s instinctive. he strokes once, gentle at first. “like this,” he mumbles. “always just— fuck— tryin’ to match your pace.”

you watch him for a beat, then smile wickedly. your hand slides over his, coaxing his grip to stay, wrapping yours on top of his so you’re stroking together now. the creamy wet noise of you pumping his shaft as dribbles of pre cum leak from the tip.

he lowers the thick head between your pussy lips, dragging it through your slick with a strained grunt, his chest heaving.

“you’re gonna fucking kill me tonight,” he grumbles, voice thick with it, nearly trembling as he tries to line himself up.

but he pauses— pulls back just enough to look down at you. his cock bobs against your belly, flushed and twitching. that's when he sees the scale of it to your body.

beau's picturing exactly where he’ll fit, how far you’ll stretch around him. mapping out precisely how deep he’ll settle inside of you. dreaming of this moment for too long to fuck it up now.

you blink up at him, a little breathless, lips parting as you drag your nails along his forearm. “how do you want me, beau?”

it wrecks him. you don’t even realize how fast he moves until you’re on your stomach, the mattress dipping beneath you as he shifts into place.

as soon as your upper body goes down, your ass perched perfectly in the air, he’s there. looming behind you, hand reeled back, bottom lip pulled between his teeth.

his palm finds the curve of your ass, spreading you with his thumb until your swollen pussy’s on full display— dripping slick onto the sheets, begging to be filled. you can  feel how empty and needy you are. by far the wettest you’ve ever been, even compared to all the toys in your drawer.

beau knew no toy you’ve ever used on camera, no silicone stand-in—nothing would compare to him. and he fucking loves it.

he spits once, lets it drip down your cunt before dragging his cockhead right through the mess, hissing low when your hips twitch back against him.

"you're too sweet for this” he mutters, more to himself than you, watching the way your pussy tries to suck him in. “gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

he fists the base of his cock, chest heaving behind you. one hand goes fumbling for the foil packet on the bed— torn open quick, shaky between his fingers. trying to do the right thing even with his brain short-circuiting at the sight of your soaked, trembling cunt.

“just— wanna be safe, sweetheart,” he mutters under his breath. rolling the condom down his shaft, stuffing it behind what felt like the only barrier between you both.

but then you’re backing up into him— rolling your hips, grinding the fat of your ass against his pelvis. and when he finally notches the head inside, a teasing press of pressure, your hand slips back between you.

the first few pumps are slow, shallow. he’s trying to stay calm, to pace himself, to deserve this somehow.

but you're soaking wet, clenching around him, begging for more. you drop your upper half even lower into the sheets, arching your back to give him a better angle, and you hear it— that low broken groan rippling up from his chest.

“beau—”

he grunts in response, eyes locked where his cock’s half-buried inside you, latex-wrapped and tight.

“take it off, please." you’re already reaching back before he can answer— fingers finding the rolled edge of the condom, dragging it up slow. and when he realizes what you’re doing, his voice breaks.

“you sure?” he whispers. “fuck— i just— i don’t wanna do nothin’ that—”

when you decide to start pushing backwards, fucking yourself onto his cock while he grabs your hips and tries not to cum. cursing under his breath about how much he's been wanting this, want you.

the sticky sound of his hips meeting your ass echo in the hotel room. and that’s when you see the camera— still running. red light blinking in the corner like it’s watching the whole thing unfold. and fuck, something changes in him.

“look at it,” he rasps, slowing his thrusts just enough to make you feel every drag of him inside you. “look right at the camera, baby. tell it who this pussy belongs to now.”

your lips part, breath trembling, brain fuzzy from the stretch. you don’t speak at first, just moan again when he hits deeper. he slapped your ass hard, burning his palm print into your flesh. 

“say it.”

and when you don’t immediately— because your body’s fucking limp, your limbs barely holding you up— he folds his back over you, rasping right into your ear.

“please, baby,” he says, almost a whisper. “i’ll give you anything you want. anything. just tell me it’s mine.”

“it’s yours, beau— please don't stop.” the words fall from your lips with drool trailing from your mouth down to the duvet as your body takes him.

your thighs tremble, mouth hangs open, and the camera watches everything. how hard your nipples strain against the lace he never bothered to peel off. how your face twists up like you’re crying— so full, so fucked out.

and god, he lives for it.

beau fucks you like it’s the only proof he needs. hearing you say it cracked him wide open and now he’s got something to prove— grinding into you with ragged, punishing thrusts while he mutters filth into your skin.

and then it blurs.

after that moment, minutes blur into hours that you can’t count. a variety of camera angles and cries echoing off the walls. he had you in every position he could dream up, every one of them shot for him— his perfect, private collection.

on your back, tits bouncing, that dazed look in your eye as he held your thighs apart and told you to take it. on the floor, bent over the bed, your face pressed to the sheets while he made you say his name again and again. straddling his lap, while his hands guiding your hips.

by the time he finally let up—let you collapse against his chest, marked up and fully fucked out— you’d filmed enough for a whole fucking series. and he’d worshipped every second of it.

the camera’s long since stopped recording, but his eyes haven’t left you once. beau brushes your hair off your face, kisses the corner of your mouth. so fucking gentle, you almost forget how rough he'd gotten just an hour ago.

"you alright, sweetheart’?" he murmurs, voice heavy with exhaustion. he huffs a gruff laugh, but it’s more of a release than anything. “been waitin’ so long to touch you, i think i forgot how to slow down.”

you smile, eyes fluttering closed for a second. and then, softly ask “this isn’t just for the camera, was it?”

beau stiffens a little, but only for a moment. then he’s cupping your jaw, thumb grazing your cheek, “no, baby. god no. you think i could just walk away now?”

your fingers curl into the sheets. his thumb runs over your bottom lip. "we’re ain't done,” he whispers.

beau had spent months watching you through a screen— jerking off in the dark, whispering your name, thinking maybe that was all he’d ever get.

but now he knows better. he knows how you sound when you fall apart just for him. knows how you taste, how your thighs shake, how you beg when you're not being watched by anyone but him. and maybe it started with the money, or lust, or that fucking necklace you wore cluelessly.

but it's is his problem now.

you're his problem now.

tags: @tinas111 @fancyhideoutpeach @kimxwinchester @soldiersgirl @lanasgirlfr @unfortunate-brat @bruisedfig @angelically-yours @winchestersbgirl @spnaquakindgdom @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @pieandflannel @bejeweledinterludes @deanstubble @sunnyteume @clitsout4clark @sunnyfuffly @deansbeer @claymoresofinfamy23 @beforeroachfalls @capkatie @sbwifey @thesevnthseal @lunaleah @prettywhenipanic @defnot-svnshine @coventina2001 @adoredawn @averagedenjienjoyer0290 @scrmqwn @littlejoels @lori19 @tinysunshine @luvriablack @hueswithblues @lupinslibraries @a-lil-pr1ncess @lovtaesunu @beausling @lacysretribution @eternalstaar @maleficdean @ladykitana90 @n0t-vzin1s @deansposessive @quinnsdesk @okyouknowwhat @castielsonlyangel @maanlikemoon @viluren

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it had only taken one drunken dial for dean's impala to appear at your friends' house, parking in front of their yard and honking his horn to get your girl-best friend's attention so she would bring you there. and gosh, you were wasted out.

practically having to drag you out from the house, across the damp grass, with your knees completely refusing to cooperate. when the driver's door finally opened—your best friend just let you out of her hands, almost falling down again if it wasn't for the pair of hands that held you with so much care and fear. dean’s calloused hands, caressing your body softly and slow.

"i got her, don't worry," he muttered, effortlessly taking and lifting your weight from your friend. his large hands gripped your waist with a firm, grounding heat. "that's it, sweetpea."

you tipped your head back to look at him, a crooked, helpless grin spread across your face; eyes all glossy and lips barely opening.

"'ya look like a mess," he leaned next to your shoulder, almost caging you in as he reached across your body to grab the seatbelt. he was so close, so-fucking-close you felt how his chest rubbed upon your right shoulder.

you froze, your eyes were glued to him like a magnet. green eyes eating you from the side and his beard—slightly stubbled and barely grown out— stroking the side of your cheek.

"hands on the seat, keep 'ya head near the window if 'ya want to throw up," dean muttered.

the drive was a bit slow, some blur of his favourite mixtape blasting on your ears trying to erase the fact that the sudden blush on your face was getting worse per minute, but it was useless. every time you managed to pry your eyes open, you caught him glancing at you, his grip on the steering wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles completely white.

for a while you thought you were going straight home, already expecting your parents' scolding when you got back and feeling incredibly embarrassed having dean by your side while getting scolded out…but no.

 i mean, you didn't know that instead of turning onto the street that led to your house, he was going to take a turn and head towards his own apartment.

you, alone, in the apartment, with dean.

again: you. alone. in. dean's. apartment.

when you both arrived, his place felt somehow familiar yet there was something off about it. a sudden arch on your chest was killing you, because what do you mean you're staying at your dad friend's house and you feel the need to have him closer to you? feeling his hands on your body again, feel his liquor-scented breath near your neck and his stubble brushing against your neck while he's kissin— you had to gently tap your head to get those thoughts out of your mind once for all.

however, you failed to notice that amidst all that constant battle with your thoughts, dean couldn't take his eyes off you. god, he felt absolutely terrible for staring at you so much. he knew he shouldn’t be looking at you in that way, like he wanted to press you against the nearest wall and strip you down to your knees and show you how a real man treats a woman like you.

he was starving, gasping and lowering his insults just for you to not hear him losing his goddamn mind. 

you swayed your feet dumblily, knees buckling again. 

just when you felt your body giving out once again, dean came to the rescue. his arms caught you quickly, carrying you to the guest room in his house. the journey there had been so difficult that dean was surprised his breath hadn't caught when he saw you resting so peacefully. 

your features looked softer than usual, your cheeks a gentle flush, and your lips barely parted, emitting small sounds and babbling that he found incredibly endearing. he lowered you onto the mattress with surprising gentleness, but before he could pull away— your hands weakly fisted into the front of his shirt, holding him there leaning over you. 

“stay here,” you whined and slurred, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. 

dean swallowed hard, his gaze tracing the messy flush on your cheeks. he gently pried your fingers from his shirt, his thumb lingering just a second too long against your skin. 

“it’s better for ‘ya to sleep it off,” he whispered, voice incredibly low with an inch of sweetness on it. “‘yer dad s’gonna kill me if i don’t take good care of his daughter.”

“i don’t care, no one has to know that you’re here..” you mewled against his touch, pausing your word for a few seconds before pulling him closer, snatching his collarneck with your trembling fingers. “‘m not that dumb, dean..”

your voice was softer, making you look reckless and bolder. you let go of his collarneck to push yourself up from the bed, sitting on it while playing with the strap of your dress, eyes locked on his. dean completely froze on the spot, his hand grabbing the mattress so hard his knuckles popped and became white. 

his green eyes were completely darkened, fighting the urge to screw everything and just fuck you senseless in that bed. he took one slow, deliberate step back into the end of the bed. “‘ya are drunk, sweetheart.. and i ain’t one of those dumb boys you date.”

“sure? ‘cause you look like the part.” you challenged him.

that took him by surprise.

he didn’t expect for you to talk back at him, neither trying to push his buttons. you’ve always talked to him in such a delicate and sweet way that seeing you like this, made his head feel fuzzy all of the sudden. 

and fuck, he didn’t want to see you like this. he cursed himself up and down because his eyes couldn’t stop wandering, tracing invisible scenarios of what it would feel like to touch you, to make you his own. 

it was so wrong. awfully so. dean couldn’t imagine such things with his friend’s daughter. your father had—if nothing else—more than enough strength to ensure dean would never see the light of the next day if he found out. 

yet he just couldn't detach himself from you 

from your sweet scent, the heavy weight from your gloomy and lost gaze on him, the way your legs slowly shifted—opening them for him to see that wet stamp on you panties, how your body rested softly on the mattresses, laying your back on the sheets and pulling sighs from your lips. how despite every drunken tangle of it, you still looked so good.

and that pissed him so bad.

“‘yer gonna regret this tomorrow,” dean rasped, leaning closer so his lips hovered just a fraction of an inch from yours, looking down on them before speaking again. “tell me to back the fuck off right now, because if i kiss ‘ya.. there’s no going back.”

you didn’t even hesitate, tangling your fingers into the lapels of his jacket and closed that tiny fraction of distance with a long strip from your tongue against his liquor-scented lips. “don’t”

dean panted, his mouth crashed down yours, looking so desperate and devouring your lips like he had been starving and craving since he saw you looking at him on the passenger seat. 

his rough palm burying into your hair, deepening the kiss even more while his other hand gripped your hips, that possessiveness showing more than before, brushing it as your tongue opened the kiss. 

your hands moved frantically, brushing his hair with your fingers. you needed him closer. “take that off,” you plead. “the jacket.”

“that’s not how ‘ya ask for it,” dean smirked mid-kiss. “how is it again, sweetheart?”

you licked your lips, pouting as his hand slowly moved its weight to one of your thighs. dean’s eyes were still on you. “take the jacket off, please.”

“please what, angel?”

“please sir.”

dean shrugged the jacket off in one motion, tossing it blindly over his shoulder. his body was again over you but his mouth didn’t come back for another messy make out but instead guide its way onto your neck, burying his face in the crook, pressing his lips in a trace of hot and open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone—his beard scratching the side of your shoulder.

“‘ya smell so good, princess,” he groaned against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. 

his hand slid from your thigh to work its way again to the hem of the top of your dress. he placed a chaste kiss on your shoulder before slowly lowering the strip of your dress, so slowly it felt like torture waiting for it to finish sliding down your skin. but he wanted to capture everything with attention: your moles, the marks on your skin from falls or bumps, the way your skin prickled with goosebumps at his close proximity.

you let out a soft moan as you felt his lips again, leaving a trail of kisses from your shoulder until he finally placed them on the gem of your chest, leaving you with no choice but to hold your breath and watch him from above.

“dean..” you mew.

“tell me to stop,” he drawl a desperate plea to whatever shred of morality had left on his body. with his free hand under the other strap of your dress, he watched you from below, his eyes completely darkened. 

dean had your breasts at an inappropriate distance, and it drove him wild, it drove him, god, it drove him so wild. he started to ask himself what would your breasts look like in his mouth? ‘cause they didn't look small, they looked prominent. the areola of your nipple was barely visible above the lace of your bra, erect and begging him to have it between his lips.

“tell me to stop right now or i swear to fucking god,” dean paused to let go a shaky breath, a hand slid higher up your ribs, his thumb brushing dangerously close to the lace of your bra. “‘m not goin’ to let ‘ya  go.”

it only took one look, watching your eyes narrow and speak volumes with a single glance. that was enough for your bra to fall to the side of the bed and for dean to pounce on your breasts.

he began with wet kisses around them, his tongue tracing and licking your areolas. his mouth then moved to entwine his lips around your nipples, slowly sucking them with muffled gasps, watching you from below—your breath coming in ragged gasps and legs pressed together as tightly as they could against the feeling. 

“dean, fuck” you gasped. “y—your beard..”

but he didn’t even listen to your plea, slowly lowering his kisses and licks to your stomach. “lift up a bit, sweetpea, ‘cause i can’t do too much if this dress is on the way”

you obeyed blindly, flustered by the sudden command. raising your body just the right amount for your dress to be finally slipped out, lying now on the floor while dean just looked at you—barely naked on his fucking guest bed. 

“fuck kiddo,” he muttered hoarsely, bracing his hands on either side of your body, pulling you closer to him. now your bare chest is rubbing itself against his shirt, causing you to moan quietly. “i got ‘ya kiddo, tell me.”

both hands lingered on the edges of your body, thumbs pressing shamelessly against your waist. the older man's gaze remained fixed on you, waiting, pleading for a response.

"i need you to eat me out, dean," you blurted out. 

god, you could already feel your cheeks growing hotter and hotter.

dean let out a smug laugh when he heard you so proudly make that indecent proposal, his smile growing wider with every second he spent with you. but he didn't want to give it to you so easily—as much as he loved to know how you taste, to make you his—he needed to test how willing you were to surrender to him.

he began by guiding two fingers to the hem of your underwear, playing with the elastic, moving it just enough to create friction against your wetness. dean held that for a couple of seconds, licking his lips as he noticed the damp stain in the center of your panties becoming more and more noticeable.

"’yer quite a character, doll," he murmured near your lips, finally brushing his fingertips against the moistened material, letting out a soft groan. "i didn't know ‘ya were so turned on by the idea of ​​me touching ‘ya. didn't those assholes at the party ‘ya went knew how to make ‘ya wet like i do?"

"dean,” you whined out loud, grabbing his shoulders. “oh my god."

his fingers moved with such agility that you felt yourself melting under his touch. i mean he was an experienced man, damn it, he knew what he was doing! but even so, he didn't hesitate to taste you and play with you even more. 

his index and middle fingers traced circular motions over your clit, slowly moving up and down, stimulating it and outlining your slit, pressing it both together until he felt your fluids staining his fingers even more.

“‘yer a big girl,”  he hummed, cocking his brow up. “just look how good this fucking pussy is taking me and i barely did anythin’, bet she tasted better.” 

you nodded eagerly, barely opening your mouth in an agape, only to continue moaning softly. when suddenly, you no longer felt dean's breath near your face, but this time it was in an even more dangerous place: between your legs, face to face with your cunt.

dean was leaving kisses on the inner skin of your thighs, his beard scraping between them, his teeth sinking into different places on your skin, leaving marks only he could see. and that turned him on even more.

dean quickly pulled your panties to the side and while his mouth kept marking your thighs, gasping when your wet core faced him. soaken, puffy pussy folds and needy clit begging for him to put his whole mouth on them. he'd be lying if he said being like that with you wasn't killing him. his cock felt trapped in his pants; it hurt, it hurt too much.

the older man quickly found his way to your core, opening your legs as wide as possible for better access. he started gently, with several wet kisses tracing your slit, saliva mingling with it, murmuring a few "mhm"s between each lick or brush of his lips against your wetness. his nose was pressing itself so perfectly against your clit, sending you to the edge.

“mhm—dean,” your hands went straight to tugging at his hair, moving your pelvis occasionally, craving even more of him as his tongue moved with agility, eliciting muffled moans and constant cries from you. “fuck you’re so-damn-good.”

dean feels how he’s losing his sanity minute by minute.

your pussy feels so good in his mouth, he couldn't even stop to breathe because he felt he might miss a moan, any reaction from you that could bring him to orgasm without even having touched himself. he craved you the most, he couldn’t let you go that easily while feeling his jaw so unhinged just by keep mouthing your pussy out. spitting on her, licking her, devouring every inch of it.

tears pour down your cheeks as his tongue thrust your hole, and you’re close. so fucking close clenching around his wet tongue, practically making you gush. you feel gooey, now his tongue and fingers are working on you. 

“dean—fuck!.. st-stop, i feel like ‘m gonna pee, i—” he cuts you off, removing his mouth from your core and replacing his tongue with two of his fingers, shamelessly thrusting in you, making obscene sounds coming out within each thrust. “deeeeean— f-fuck!”

your body felt numb with the pleasure that surrounded it; your legs closed with each thrust of the older man's fingers. you wanted to come, you needed to come, or you might explode. You were ashamed to see the state that man had you in—you couldn't refute anything because with each additional comment his fingers reminded you who was in charge of you.

and dean had promised to take care of you.

and.. well damn, he does it so well.

when you felt that throbbing in your lower abdomen again, you looked at dean. your eyes couldn't leave him even if you wanted to—his mouth was half open, imitating each of your grimaces of pleasure because yes, he was also about to come in his pants and he hadn't even been able to get his cock inside your pussy and that suffocated him.

you tried to speak, to murmur something more than a babble, but something stopped you.

a noise.

your phone ringing, playing that same sound on repeat on the nightstand. 

it was your father.

shit, shit, shit.

“d—dean…” you barely managed to whisper, tears streaming down your cheeks as you tried to compose yourself.

but dean isn't stupid. besides being your father's friend, he's a man, and if seeing you so flustered was about to make his cock explode in his pants, he had to take advantage of every drop.

without stopping his fingers and hand moving over you, he bent down and cornered himself as close to the nightstand as he could to pick up your phone. "shh, sweetheart—you don't want your daddy to find out how you sound after soaking my damn fingers, be a good girl f’me and be quiet."

he did answer the call, and from what you could gather, your father seemed worried because you hadn't told him where you were or who you were with. dean answered each question with a mischievous smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and it bothered you so much that you couldn't make a sound when his fingers were so deliciously teasing your g-spot.

you covered your mouth, rolling your eyes when the elder made a quick movement with his fingers inside you that almost made you fall—but you didn't give in.

"oh yeah, don't worry, buddy, ‘yer  little princess is in the best hands."

son of a bitch.

"i’ll treat her the way she deserves."

shit, fuck.

"i'll take care of that brat."

you couldn't hold back any longer, and when you managed to see out of the corner of your eye that dean had hung up, you didn't hesitate for a second to ride his fingers with what little strength you had left. your mind went completely blank the instant the older man's name escaped you in a cry of pleasure.

it was the first time you'd had such a powerful orgasm. you felt your whole body fall apart and your legs go numb, staining not only the man's palm but also the bedsheets and the inner part of your thighs.

you knew you'd be trying to recover from that orgasm for a while. but that didn't stop you and neither dean from continuing to show you what a real man is capable of when it comes to your own pleasure.

all night long. just you and him, no one else. until you get used to its—large—size.

Too many options. You weigh them. He'll give anything, you could ask for his mouth or thick fingers or dick. Could push off your back and clamber onto his lap. He's a mess but hiding it well, save for telling pinched brows.

"Wanna see you better."

He sits high on his knees and blinks at you, trying to focus. It's hard, when you're a glowing vision in his backseat and nude besides underwear. An angel. Splayed and running a tender hand along his chest, your thumb coaxes his nipple.

"Fuck," he hisses, dark lashes aflutter.

You smile. Rarely are you the one doing the teasing.

"Sensitive," you coo and pinch quick. "Oh, you like that."

Ribbons of silver moonlight bleed through the windows, strapping across his abdomen. They set the honey-blond hairs above his belt flaming white, flowing down his navel in a band, beckoning to be licked and touched.

You twist his nipple between a delicate thumb and index. He barely swallows a whimper.

"Baby." He scrambles to hitch your thigh up his waist, holding it there while he helplessly grinds the swell of his jeans against you. "Fuck, you're so- so good. A fuckin' angel."

Your hand falls and settles on his bicep. He ruts slow and stuttered, lowering himself to press the point of his nose beside your ear. Powdery fragrance, he breathes in and in again, chest flowering with sticky, sweet love.

"Dean, I... oh."

He raises his head, fingers kneading at the dough of your leg. His rings indent cold and your half-lidded eyes tug his heart achingly. You've such a breathy, faraway voice and he hasn't even fucked you stupid yet.

"Good?" he checks. "Feels good? You like this?"

You nod feverish, catching his chin with a sloppy, pillowed kiss. He's got enough sense to grin lopsided and swallow your mouth whole, tongue needling for yours. This earns him a dreamy, lilting sigh that pits straight to his gut and pools there in welling heat.

"Y'sound like..." he starts, mumbling and blissed, following a connecting string of saliva back towards your lips. Can't ever get his fill, mind a mantra of you, warm, soft, sugary. "Heaven. What does heaven sound like?"

A shaky breath passes from your nose. "Heavenly, I'd guess."

He licks a stripe on your throat. Your arms cross over his shoulder blades, palm scooping through spiked hair, hips lifting to meet his movement. A small, hiccupping sound flies from him traitorously, bordering on plea.

"Jesus- shit," he says. His clothed thrusts become sloppy.

"Here," you offer, reaching for his belt. "Please."

There's nothing else to think about, to feel, except for your fingertips grazing past that musky trail on his low stomach. He slows, missing the friction as it wanes, but adoring your cautious expression. Excitedly nervous. Your pinkie curls around a belt loop. His palm skates the length of your thigh.

"Y'don't have to," he murmurs. "It's okay, baby."

Dean decides you must be magic, when your eyes find his. Glittering jewels amidst the dim light in the car. He can see your smile, a perfect, curling thing, and holds back from kissing you again and again until your brain is mush.

"Want to," you reply. His belt comes undone with a clink.

The button of his jeans pops out lazy under your tentative touch, but he doesn't rush. Rolls his lip beneath a shiny canine as you slide the zipper down and stifles a whiny beg. You're soft and pretty and he wants to bury himself in your skin forever.

You work his jeans to his knees and then pause to watch him quietly, ignoring his straining boxers, your chest pulling with prolonged rises. He wonders where that brief teasing went but loves you just as much, like this. Affected.

"Hey," he whispers. Leans quickly to give a smacking kiss to your hip bone. "You're beautiful."

"Thank you. You're, um. You're beautiful, too."

His body pangs. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Can you fuck me, now? Please."

Yes, yes, yes.

Clumsy in this small space, he manages to kick off his pants without hitting the top of his head and yanks his wallet from the back pocket to grab a condom. Brings it to his teeth and tears it open. His supply is diminishing.

"Yeah, yeah, baby. Yes. C'mere."

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂

“fuck dean—” you gasp, fisting the sheets with clumsy hands. your hips jerk when he sucks your clit into his mouth, nose pressed firm against your slit.

but dean doesn’t stop until you’re sobbing and messy. until your thighs are sticky, shining and scratched up from his stubble. until your clit’s so overstimulated it twitches when he does so much as breathe on it.

only then does he lick each finger clean, looking up at you with those wrecked green eyes and a slick-smiled face, and say “think she’s ready for me now, sweetheart” with a little pat pat to your clit.

before you know it you hear the clink of dean’s belt while you’re still catching your breath, creamy rivulets down your inner thighs.

“c’mon,” he grunts, tugging you by the hips like you weigh nothing. “turn around f’me, baby. lemme see that perfect ass.”

you’re hazy but compliant. letting him flip you like a rag doll. your chest hits the mattress, back arched as invitation. dean rubs your slick onto the flushed tip of his pretty fat cock, spreading it like lube and pushes every inch of himself inside until your breath stutters and every little whine and mewl is muffled into the pillow.

“there we go, baby, just like that, s’my fuckin’ girl” he encourages. looking down to see your cunt stretch around the base of him, how perfect you always mold around his cock, even after a few days away on a hunt.

his hips roll, slow at first. wet, loud, and sloppy. every thrust sounded obscene, the room filled with nothing but slick and choked-off gasps slipping from your mouth.

“got the prettiest pussy” he mutters, leaning over your back, stubble scraping your shoulder as he mouths along your skin. “got ‘er all stretched open n’ full of me, s’how it should be.”

you whine something incoherent, words jumbling into moans. he’s always been— gifted we’ll say, and good at taking care of you, but every time felt like the first.

dean’s hands were so tight on your hips, you knew he'd leave bruises tomorrow. eyes rolling to the back of your head as he fucked you into your orgasm, not even sure which one you were on at this point.

and when he flips you into another position, on your back, thighs pushed into your chest, ankles resting on his wide shoulders. when you ask if he’s ‘done’ or that “it’s too much,” with drool falling from your mouth.

your met with him bracing a palm over your throat, just a reminder that your his. that his next hunt wouldn’t be so long. and a “i know baby. i know” looking into your cock-drunk eyes.

he wants to see every inch of your creamy skin marked by him. whether it’s his cum, bruising from his lips, or the chafe of his stubble, it’s all the same in his eyes.

so that’s why he’s pulling out last second. pumping thick white stripes on your belly, tits, and your soppy ruined cunt. he makes sure you can feel it drip, slow and hot.

it’s pooling against your clit. a line of his seed clings to your slit and seeps down between your cheeks. another trails down your belly until it settles into the dip of your navel, warm and wet.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he whispers, breathless. “look at you. my pretty baby covered in me.” like he’s in awe of what he did.

dean’s got you cleaning his cock off with your mouth, tasting your combined releases. any and— every reminder that you’re his for keeping.

divider creds

lenient was gentle, soothing. that was sam telling you in an oh-so-soft tone, “i understand you're upset, sweetheart, but you need to calm down.” all while caressing your cheek with his thumb. 

on the other hand, harsh was stern and authoritative. that was sam dragging you back to the impala and having his way with you in the backseat . . . 

“sammy, jus' eat it n' make me cum,” you still had some fight in ya, cute. 

he shakes his head as both an answer and a teasing mechanism. he pulls away from your pussy, replacing his tongue with his fingers. the lewd squelching n' sloshing of your pussy fills the air. 

he pistons them juuuust right against the nerves of your cute g-spot. he juts and scrapes against your walls as well before curling them up, up, up until your toes curl and your heels dig into his back. 

his tone is firmer with you, leaving no room for discussion. "i told you earlier to calm down, angel; now stop squirming and take it," he says while adding consistent pressure as your cunt flutters and clenches around his fingers. your eyes cross when he grinds you on his digits. 

“ah–don’t do that,” you cry as the pressure in your tummy tightens. “m'gonna cum, sammy,” you tell him, wishing you could grip those shaggy brown strands of his, but when being punished, sam deprived you of touching him. 

“don't you dare, or else you won't cum at all,” he warns with a wet, punishing slap to your mound. 

sam drives his fingers deeper before sending a few more rounds of slaps against your cunt. and once that choked, sharp moan leaves your throat, your boyfriend moves faster than light itself, slamming your pussy against his face.

“mmn, can't hold it, gonna make a mess,” you meet his gaze with the glossiest eyes and the biggest pout, undoubtedly swaying him. 

“go ahead, sweetheart, cum all over my face,” and you do. your body goes taut as clear liquid ejects from you in pulses. your head falls back against the seat as a symphony of wanton moans echo around the vehicle. 

sam doesn't move, eagerly drinking down the spout of liquid. you can hear his gulps as your body shakes and his mouth widens, not missing a single drop. he then grinds your heat against his face as more weak spurts flow into his mouth. 

sam pulls away once the aftershocks of your orgasm subside, and instantly goes back to the caring boyfriend you had thirty minutes ago. 

wiping his mouth with his forearm, he asks, “all better now, sweetheart?” 

LAWDDDD i #needdat 

xo, blissedbunni