Your Favorite FanFic Reviewer

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Most of Ben’s dirty secrets aren’t exactly… secret. He’s tried to fuck you in front of the team multiple times, he always tells you to moan his name loud enough that they’ll hear, and if he can get away with it he’ll make you walk around with his cum dripping out of your cunt. He proudly declared that you gave him your panties to keep, and tell you like it’s romantic that he only jerks off to the thought of you now. If anything, the deepest secret he holds is that he does find it romantic. That he’s capable of that now, with you, and he wants nothing more than to just… be near you. Without sex. To love and touch you like some boring, normal pussy. Maybe a little sex. He’ll probably be able to talk you into it.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Body count rivaling Genghis Khan. He got around in his day, and it’s taught him to know every body almost like he knows his own. You have to give him a rule, that he’s not allowed to say that he did this position with Princess Diana, because you don’t really want to hear it. You just want to see him do the position. He rolls his eyes and calls you a brat, and you smile and say he loves it, and damn him, he does. He loves that he got all that experience, too. Real easy for you to benefit, from all that hard work.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Ben can brag about his past and throw around your panties all he wants, you always get to know the truth. That at the end of it, he’s just a romantic old man who wants to do missionary. He likes being fully wrapped around you, likes how easy it is to manhandle you, like how your eyes roll back and your nails dig into his bicep as you get the air fucked straight out of you. He likes that he can kiss you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and that he can push your knees to your chest and turn it into a mating press, giving him easy access to your swollen, sensitive clit. You only tease him about it a little. The sex is too good to do anything else.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He’s more serious with you, than he ever was with anyone else. Especially at the start, when this was something that mattered, and he’d never had that, and for the first time in a hundred years there was a fist in his gut that was trying to hold onto something. That clenched hard enough to make him sick, that made him paranoid and tense, because what if he lost you. He fucked you like it was a job. Like that would prove his dedication to this, to you, without him having to say it. Over time, he relaxed. Jokes get cracked, and the teasing gets insatiable, and you can’t go a day without something suggestive that makes you laugh, then moan as his hand presses between your thighs.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Ben didn’t bother grooming until you. His actions and face and body spoke for themselves. Whatever was going on down there was what you got, and you’d better be fucking happy with it. And you were. You are. But he saw you taking care of your bush and got curious what the fuck you were doing, and you explained that it was still hair, it needed to be washed, and now he does that for you, then makes you clean him. He gets cocky, his hand in your hair as you lean down, and doesn’t bother to stop himself from getting hard while you touch him. It usually ends with you pressed against shower tiles. You never complain about that either.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He’ll deny it to the ends of the earth and over God’s ballsack, but he’s more romantic than you would’ve ever guessed. Once he learns what that strange, warm feeling he got when he looked at you was, he’s committed to it. It’s annoying, but nice, and he really fucking loves nice things. Just like he loves you. And there’s nothing better than whispering that against your skin, or fucking you nice and slow and loving until you’re sobbing, then making you admit that you love him back.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

If it was a sport, he’d take gold. And silver, and bronze. If someone were to take a blacklight to his bedroom it would look like a crime scene, especially before you got together. He doesn’t deny himself, ever, and that meant stomping away at seemingly random points during the day, just to jerk himself off and moan your name to the walls. Once he did it in a Chili’s bathroom, just because you smiled at him. Not his best moment, but real far from his fucking worst. And you deserve to be worshipped like that, enough that he can’t even control himself. He counts it as romantic, and you never admit it, but you kind of think it is too.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Ben walks a fine line between an exhibitionist and overly possessive. He marks your neck up with hickies and parades you around like his most prized thing, but gets narrow eyed and rigid when people watch for too long. He wants you to scream his name loud enough for everyone to hear, but clenches his jaw at the idea of fucking where someone might actually walk in and see you naked. He records a video of you and puts it in a safe. Fucks you in a bathroom with the door locked, puts you in his shirt and nothing else, but barks at anyone who’s gaze lingers on your legs. You’re his to worship and adore, not some other nosy fucking pussy’s.

He’s only a fucking man. A man who wants things he won’t talk about, like kids and a simple fucking life. If he could he’d knock you up for the rest of your fucking lives, keep your tits swollen and belly round with his kid. Making them is the fun part, breeding you like you’re begging for it—and you are—and then a few times after to make sure it sticks. Then you get all glowy and gorgeous, beaming and fucking Ben’s. Everyone knows it, from that swell of your stomach, and you get so horny you give him a run for his damn money. Perfect.

Pet names are cute, but detached before you. Doll for most women, sweetheart if he’s trying to piss them off, and not much else. But you, you get kid and darling and babydoll and pretty girl falling from his lips without thought. And then there’s the shit you call him. Benjamin when he’s in trouble—which is fucking hot—and Benny when you’re extra fucking needy. If you’re desperate enough he gets sir, and if he fucks you just right, he can pull a daddy from your swollen lips. You flush and get embarrassed and deny it later, but he knows what he fucking heard. And he’s going to get you to say it again.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

As much as Ben loves the bed, or the shower, or the table or the counter or the floor or the dresser, there’s something about the wall and the couch that make him feral. If he’s got you against the wall, he can pin you with your hands over your head and his arm cradling you against him, and he gets to make your whole body bounce with every thrust. Maybe he can even drag you off the wall, and just fuck you standing in the center of the room, his arms the only thing keeping you up right. On the other side of that is the couch. Bending you over it and smacking your ass, pushing you down until you’re limp and dangling forward, stupid moans falling from your lips as he fucks you dumb and pretty. Completely at his mercy, and happy about it.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

It would be quicker to list the things that don’t get him going. Sometimes it’s the way you said a word, a look you gaze him, the way you squeezed his hands or glared at him all hot, and now he needs to be inside of you or he’s going to go fucking insane. Once you screamed about a spider, he killed it, and suddenly you were being fucked into the sofa. More times than you can count he just wants to. No foreplay or real motivation besides seeing you, and deciding you really needed a good fuck.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He makes the list clear, when you get together. He’s tried damn near everything, and he won’t be pissing, shitting, or getting cucked. You can get on top, but he’s in control. You can try and tie him up, but he’s just going to break out of it and fuck you like you deserve. Giving up control isn’t really something he knows how to do, let alone tolerate after Russia. He spent too long in a box, and he’s not fucking letting anyone get one over on him again. You tell him that’s shell-shock. He rolls his eyes and tells you to hire a shrink about it. You do, because you’re the only one who can get away with it. You might be able to get away with anything, around him. He likes finding out.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Of course he prefers fucking receiving, he told you once. Getting a girl with nice lips and a warm mouth around him, fucking her face until she’s choking and still begging for more, nothing fucking better. Of course, your mouth is another story. Almost brings him to his fucking knees, when you get going. He’s broken the kitchen counter three times, to the point that you just leave it wrecked and tell him to grab there. And then he gets between your legs, and works out how all those men he thought were pussies could get off on just this. Tastes like fucking Heaven, gets you gushing and screaming and squirming for him, opens you up like nothing fucking else. You get caught in his beard and he refuses to wash it out. You cum on his face and he rolls on his back, pinning you down until your body gives out and you fold over him like a toy, trembling with the pleasure he’s devoured out of you.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

There aren’t many ways Ben doesn’t like it, but slow and rough is always going to take the cake. Pulling almost all the way out of you before slamming back in, watching your eyes roll back and hearing that perfect little whine. You milk his cock whenever he drives against your g-spot and beg him to go faster, but he holds the pace. Not like there’s much you can do about it, limp and mindless under him. Eventually he’ll take mercy and start to fuck you like you’ve earned, the brutal pace turning into micro thrusts when he falls over the edge with a groan.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

You have to limit him. There are too many times where he’s pulled you into a closet or dragged you off to bed with guests over, just to pull one more out of your greedy little pussy. And you know you’re always going to let him, even when he shouldn’t. Three a day, you tell him, but that quickly becomes four, then five, then six, and then you give up all together. It’s as if he gets energy fucking you. It’s almost scientifically amazing, and it feels like fucking heaven, so there are worse quirks for a boyfriend to have.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

There isn’t something Ben hasn’t done. If risks are being taken, it’s you, trusting him when he says he’s got some shit you’ll like. You believe him—he’s good at knowing about that, and it would scare you how good he was if it wasn’t deeply helpful—and trust him, because he’s your Ben. He’d never hurt you. One time, you do try to suggest something he might not have done, and he laughs in your face and calls you cute. He’s been slinging cock like a gun before your grandparents were alive. You tell him he’s never allowed to say slinging cock again.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Once, you made a bet with him that you could take it until he was out. It was one of the best and worst choices of your life. He came about thirty times, you came so much you stopped counting—and can’t even remember what number made you give up—and it only ended because Ben started to get worried that you would go into sex hibernation. You told him that wasn’t a thing, and tried to tease him that he was just out. He’d been rock hard when he stopped. You have a feeling that he could’ve done that all over again ten times and still be ready for round one thousand, but he let you have the win. It’s the only kind you have, in the sheets.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

At first, he’s offended by the idea that a fucking robot could get you off better than he could. He still is a little offended. If you use your vibrator, he also gets a shot at it, to remind you which is better at knowing you and your body. But then you show him remote control vibrators, and he turns into a monster. He shoves it into your hand and orders you to put it in, and when you laugh you end up pinned to the mattress and kissed everywhere while he slides it in himself. Ben becomes obsessed with it. Making you glare at him while your thighs shake, smelling your arousal, knowing that you’re probably going to climb him like a fucking tree the second you’re alone. Maybe before, if he does this shit right.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Ben has a talent. A gift, even, and it’s going to ruin your fucking life. He thinks of working you up like a sport, trying to you right up to the edge of screaming before he pulls you into his lap and makes you fall apart with a single, light touch. It’s even more fun then, because you’re sensitive after you cum. And that’s just how Ben fucking likes you. Wet and needy and sensitive, all his to ruin however he likes. You thank him after, and he feels about a million feet fucking tall.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He doesn’t see any point in trying to keep quiet. Sex is meant to be loud and raw. Skin slapping on skin, hands grabbing and moans being forced out of your throat for him to swallow. He dirty talks you loud enough for it to be heard through the walls, and groans you name loud enough to be heard from space. He’s proud of it. The way you get all turned on by his moaning, then adorably embarrassed when the team tells you they could hear .

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Ben really fucking loves cock warming. Sitting you on his lap for no reason at all, burying himself in your hot little cunt, and just keeping you there until he’s had his fill. You get so fucking whiny and gorgeous, calling him names when he won’t move and then pleading and sweet talking him when that shit doesn’t work. He gets drunk on it, how you flutter and pulse around his rock hard cock, looking at him with those glossy eyes and whimpering his name. Sometimes he shoves a book into your hands and makes you read it, because you’re always trying to get him to fucking read. When you’re gasping for air and leaking down his thighs, he’ll give in and fuck you. Then, the next week, he’ll do it all fucking over again.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Horsecock. World ending. Tree trunk thick and uncut. Next question.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Of Ben’s many experiments on your body, one of your favorite quickly grows to be somnophilia, simply because he’s a fucking dog. You know he has self control, and he’ll never make you do anything you don’t want to, but he gets twitchy when he’s been pent up too long. And for Ben, too long is about twelve hours. You could give him a whole night before you went on a work trip, and he’d spam call you until you landed and picked up, demanding that you come back now. He’d spend the rest of his life fucking you, if he was allowed. Sometimes he tries to talk you into that, and you flush, because you’d be more “up for it” than you want to admit.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Ben doesn’t sleep much, after Russia. Been asleep too fucking long, he grunts, and you don’t push. But you notice—like you always do—that the rule doesn’t really apply to you. You wake up in the middle of the night, still where you passed out. Held against his chest like a child’s blanket, cradled like a baby bird, both of you bare as the day you were born and completely at peace. His lips brushing your brow and breathing steady. It’s beautiful to see. Almost sacred. You brush the hair from his eyes and kiss his nose. His eyes flutter sometimes, and you just stare at each other in the dark. You press your chin to his chest, and his mouth twitches into something like a smile. You both fall back asleep, and don’t speak of it in the morning. But—just like always—it will happen again.

✦Soldier Boy Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on aO3✦

✦Author's Note: i need him in a way that's concerning to feminism✦

You know they'll keep that. They'll make sure to keep anything he says. Those are always the parts that get the most replays- hell they're the parts you replay. When you're up late, watching his videos, hand between your thighs.

"-I didn't tell you to fucking move."

You don't know how it still works for you. You know it's not him, he even ran through ideas of lines he was gonna use before you started. He was very sweet about it, almost shy when you were alone- he's anything but shy now.

His grip on you tightens as he moves back to your clit, his tongue working against you rapidly. You're gripping the sheets, trying to keep yourself steady, your whole body convulsing as another orgasm starts to rise quickly.

"Fuck- please-"

He's already told you to beg, a couple times actually. You know he will again. It gets you hot just thinking about it, the stern tone in his voice. You bite your lip hard, trying to stop your hips from rising again. Your gaze falls to the camera, a reminder that you're supposed to be performing, you batter your eyelashes, let out another loud moan.

He pulls back suddenly, his sticky hand wrapping around your thigh, his other hand moving up to wipe his mouth. He looks like a mess, hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead, chin glistening with your arousal. He glances around to the set, speaking louder, "Sorry guys- I've gotta- I've gotta take a break."

The room picks up in a flash, people moving around, cameras resetting. People come running over with robes, one gets draped over your shoulders, a plastic cup of water pushes into your hands. You take a big swig of it, suddenly realizing how dry your mouth is.

People move around you, you see a few people checking the monitors, gearing up for the next shot. You glance at Dean, he's pulling in a shaky breath, pushing his hair out of his face with his long fingers.

You try to go over everything that just happened- why he wanted to stop. Maybe it's the way your bare heel had dug into his back the last time you came, maybe it's the way you tugged his hair a few minutes ago. Maybe he's just getting sick of being the only one actually doing any work.

He moves closer to you on the mattress, settling close enough that he could reach out if he wanted to. He looks up, gaze falling over you, then turns away fast, back to his own cup.

You speak quickly, nervously, "I'm sorry- did I-"

He cuts you off, leaning his head down slightly so he can speak in a hushed voice, "I'm gonna cum, sweetheart."

It catches you off guard, "What?"

He takes a swig of water, then speaks slowly, "If we keep going, I'm gonna cum."

You're still not sure you've understood him, "What do you-"

"I'm not kidding here, I feel like I'm gonna fuckin' explode- if they catch that on film my whole tough guy act is fucked-"

"We haven't even- I haven't touched you-" you manage to get out.

"I'll never live it down if I blow my load just from tongue fuckin' you- jesus-" he shifts awkwardly, you realize he's trying to hide his boner- it's not easy when his cock is larger than any you've seen before.

"You're gonna cum just from going down on me?"

"You're moaning like you've never had a guy touch you before- it's not exactly helping."

You raise an eyebrow, "I can stop?"

He grins at you, "Don't you dare."

Your heart skips a beat, thighs clench together. Forget any video- this is what you're gonna be thinking about tonight.

They weren’t here to tell him to clean up now. MM was somewhere off in the rubble, talking to Mallory about where they’d be stashing Soldier Boy’s sorry, knocked out ass. Hughie was off with Starlight, being nice and gooey and useless. Frenchie and Kimiko had fucked off too. Everyone had something to do—someone to talk to, something to claw about—but Butcher.

Ryan had walked away from him. He’d taken Homelander, and just… walked. And Butcher had promised Becca that he’d look out for the boy, but he’d let it happen. The hell else was he supposed to do. He was out of temp V, Starlight wasn’t much use with the whole power grid burnt out, and Maeve had jumped out the bleeding window. Promises weren’t much use, if Butcher tackled Homelander and got lasered in half. Being a body on the floor didn’t scare him. Seeing the world go dark was going to be a blessing.

He just wasn’t clocking out of the earth, until he got Homelander a one-way ticket down as well.

There were cameras, on the streets. News Crews and people filming with their cell phones, trying to figure out what the hell had happened. Their attention was turned to that red-headed lass at the news podium, with the nervous ticks and plastered smile. Butcher always thought there was something crazy in her eyes, but that didn’t make her anything special. You had to have that kind of crazy, to get this high on the food chain. He had it. Homelander had it. Maeve had it. Was the same thing that made Butcher fall in bed with her. Same thing that got her killed.

Something in Butcher knows he should feel worse about that. Fine breed of woman, turned against Homelander when it mattered, did what she could to help them. But she was a supe, and there wasn’t much talk they’d done outside of hissed sneers. Foreplay. He’d miss her the same way you miss a good vibrator, or a co-worker who wasn’t an incompetent twat. Not much. A little less than a stranger, because at least the stranger could’ve been a good person. Maeve wasn’t. That’s how she’d fallen into bed with him.

Death was something that was going to hit them all eventually. No use crying over it. Wasted hands, to brush away the tears, when you could just be throttling everything else that was trying to kill you first.

Butcher waded through the crowd, none of them paying him much mind. The public had a short memory. He’d been a terrorist with a poster a year ago, but that wasn’t much to remember. He didn’t sparkle enough to hold their attention. Not like Starlight and the rest of the Vought circus, dancing and playing monkey. Hoping those flashing lights would only catch off of them, instead of spreading like a sickness to all they hyenas around them. Butcher half expected to see Starlight, up on that podium herself. Hughie said she was done with Vought. With playing the game the right way, coloring in the lines, then whining like a brat when the enemy got dirty and won. Butcher would believe it when he saw it. He’d bet everything he had—an empty dog bowl, a burnt Hawaiian shirt, and an empty syringe—that Starlight had clean hands. That’s why they kept losing. Over and over and over again.

He was getting sick of losing. Only so many times a man could take it before he snapped, and Butcher had never been one of those level-headed arses, who reasoned their way out of calling it a loss. This wasn’t a goal, or a home run, or any kind of victory. They had done all that shit—entertained Soldier Boy, tickled his balls and bought him beer and tracked down Payback—just to end with less than what they’d had. Hughie would say they’d gained Annie. Butcher would laugh in his face, and say he’d trade blondie back in three seconds, if it meant they handed him Ryan in return.

The crowd was thinning. Butcher was getting closer to the edge, where the sky got clearer and his blackened hands and bloodied face seemed more like that of a madman than a fighter. He kept pressed to the storefronts and under the tented entrances. Homelander wasn’t out and about yet, but Butcher wasn’t looking for a rematch right now. Not until he got his hands on some more Temp V, or—better—a real nice gun, that would blast the cunt’s smile right off his face.

“Butcher.”

He was hearing things. Might be a side effect of the Temp V. MM was right about that shit being dangerous—always annoying, he’d get too smug about it—and Butcher was going to have to keep an eye on that, unless he wanted to end up crazier than he started-

“William Butcher, fucking- Turn around-“

He wasn’t going to be listening to those voices. That was how you ended up wandering off a balcony with champagne in your hand and your dick swinging between your legs-

“Oh, for-“

A hand wrapped around Butcher’s arm and yanked him back. He stumbled into a narrow alleyway, reaching for his gun before he got his footing, and swung with his free hand straight at his assulter’s face.

Maeve knocked his fist aside, then hissed in pain, cringing and doubling over. She looked like she belonged out there with the ruined bricks and pavement. One eye had been turned to a bleeding socket, her arm was at a funny angle, and gashed and bruises were beaten into her face. She had one hand up, silently asking Butcher not to shoot as she caught her breath. He didn’t, but not as a favor. He didn’t have many of those left in his gut.

“You ain’t dead,” he spat.

Maeve scoffed, eyes flicking up in flat amusement. “Obviously.”

“Hm.” Butcher looked down to her shoes. Scuffed. More tattered cloth than support. “Soldier Boy?”

“Knocked out.” Maeve drew back up, cringing slightly as her ribs crunched. “But you knew that.”

“Can’t say I did, love-“

“If you didn’t, you’d still be in the rubble looking for him,” Maeve said, raising her brows. “I saw MM. Talking to that- Angry bitch from the government. You trust her?”

Butcher’s fingers curled on his gun. “More than you.”

Maeve crossed her arms over her chest. Her gaze darted to Butcher’s hand, and she leaned a little away. “I fought with you. I paid my dues-“

“You’re a supe,” Butcher sneered. “You got too many dues to pay, long as your pretty fuckin’ paycheck and styled hair-“

“You think I’ve still got a paycheck? If Homelander sees that I’m not dead, he locks me back up in that cage-“

“Oh, boo hoo, you’re bein’ tucked away and coddled like his favorite little bunny-“

“His breeding cow,” Maeve spat. “That’s what he wanted from me, asshole. And when he realizes he won’t get it, not anymore, he’ll kill me. Just like- Like everyone else.”

Butcher’s jaw ticked. He looked Maeve over. The blood. The bones. The wincing and the weary looks at his gun.

“You ain’t a supe anymore,” he muttered, and she sighed.

“Soldier Boy. Asshole’s got a punch.”

Butcher grunted. Not a supe was an improvement, but she’d spent her whole life in that twisted, ugly machine. Queen of the beast’s intestines, crushing what Homelander told her to, making her own messes. Playing clean until she wanted to be dirty.

“I’m not here for goodbye,” Maeve said, slow and weary. “I don’t think we had that kind of relationship.”

A faint laugh pulled from Butcher’s chest. “Yeah, well, I ain’t givin’ you one more for the road.”

“That’s- You’re all so disgusting, you know that? No wonder no one wants to work with you-“

“You kissed me first, love-“

“I was loney, and drunk, and-“

Maeve cut herself off, looking off to the side and closing her eyes. Butcher let her collect herself. Wasn’t really a place for him to be.

“Not why I’m here,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “Look, before I go-“

“Go?” Butcher snapped, standing a little taller. “You think you can just walk away from this fuckin’ mess, tuck your lil’ tail and scamper off like a whiny puppy-“

“Do you want my help or not?”

“You ain’t offerin’ help, you’re offerin’ condolences-“

“I’m offering a plan,” Maeve hissed, taking a step forward. “And unless you’ve somehow found a way to handle Homelander in the past two hours, you might want to shut the fuck up for once in your life, and listen.”

Butcher scowled. A vein in his brow pulsed, but his grip loosened on the gun. Maeve wasn’t a threat like this. He had split knuckles, but them could still pummel the bitch into the ground. “Talk,” he grunted. “Before I shoot.”

Maeve shifted on her feet and tipped her chin up. Her voice was steady. Like she already knew he was so desperate, he’d take anything at all.

“There are rumors. Whispers. Not even through the grapevine, under it. The kind of shit you only hear people whispering about, and- I didn’t think it was real. Not for the longest time but-“ She sighed. “I don’t doubt it. Not anymore.”

Butcher didn’t respond. Maeve pressed her lips in a thin line, looking down the alley then back to Butcher. Like she was only telling him against her better will.

“There’s a supe-“

“Another bleedin’ supe-“

“Don’t be a dick, this isn’t like Soldier Boy-“

“How in fuckin’ hell isn’t there’s a supe like Soldier Boy-“

“Because I didn’t know,” Meave snapped. “I sent you to Russia thinking you’d find- I don’t know, some kind of gun. If I’d gotten even a breath you’d be coming back with Glory Grandpa, I never would’ve even mentioned it.”

Butcher narrowed his eyes. “But you’re tellin’ me this.”

“I am. Because it’s not the same.” Maeve took a long breath. “This supe- She hates Homelander. Maybe more than you.”

Butcher snorted. “That ain’t possible-“

“I promise you.” Maeve’s voice was cold. “It is.”

 Butcher glared at her. She glared back, and didn’t step down.

“She’s called the Anomaly. She’s powerful-“

“More powerful than Homelander?”

Maeve shrugged. “Sounds like it.”

“Hm,” Butcher scanned over her features. Bored like steel. Dull and immovable. “Sounds like it ain’t enough, I need somethin’ that’ll finish Homelander, blast ‘im down to hell, no way back up-“

“Then go find that yourself,” Maeve said. “This is what I’ve got, I don’t give a shit if you forget about it or chase it. I did my part.”

Butcher’s lip curled. “And what, you just walk away now? Go live on a pretty fuckin’ farm and pretend this all never happened? That you don’t know what’s really goin’ on, in your old house.”

Maeve sighed, and gave Butcher a look he didn’t like. It was too close to pity. It made his stomach curl.

“Yeah,” she took a step back, that same, ugly pity curling into a tired smile. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. We don’t all want to die, Butcher. Not when we could live, and- It wouldn’t hurt anymore.”

“It always hurts-“

“I know. But then-“ Maeve shook her head. “It doesn’t.”

“You ain’t just walkin’ away-“

“I am.”

She took another step, and Butcher reached for his gun. For a second, they both froze. Maeve titled her head, silently daring him. Take the shot. Be dirtier. Come out on top.

His finger wouldn’t twitch. Not out of love, or attachment, or moral obligation to Maeve. Maybe his hands were too tired. Maybe he wasn’t sure he still had bullets. Maybe because she’d fought for Ryan, and this was his one favor. Her chance to walk away, before Butcher’s head got clear enough to count her sins.  Didn’t matter. He didn’t shoot, and Maeve’s shoulders slumped.

“The Anomaly,” she repeated, cradling her stomach as she backed away. “I don’t know where she is, but- She’s out there. Find her. Don’t let him win, and-“ Her throat bobbed. “Be careful.”

Butcher’s lips twitched, as he lowered the gun. “Don’t worry about that bit, love. I’m gonna do whatever it takes.”

✦End note: big plans. small start but big plans. i hope you enjoy the series! ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

soldier boy doesn’t come out of his room.

that’s the shape the day takes. his closed door. the file still open on frenchie’s laptop. firecracker’s broadcast playing muted on the tv until mm finally snaps and shuts it off, leaving your face burned into the back of your eyes anyway. your name beneath a red headline. your town. your age. your body caught in a grainy still while soldier boy’s hand closed around your wrist and dragged you out of a hallway where the deep had cornered you. a story built around half truths that vought decided to take and use.

you should be more frightened by that. you are frightened by it. but the fear has to share space with everything else, and everything else is louder.

homelander is his son.

the words keep arranging themselves wrong in your head no matter how many times you think them. samples collected. stored. transferred. paternal genetic source. ugly clinical phrases for the kind of violation that makes the whole body feel less like a body and more like evidence. 

they didn’t ask soldier boy for a child. they didn’t give him one either. they took something from him and built homelander out of it, then buried the truth under files and dead men and decades of vought polish.

and then he called him.

no one else knows that part. no one else heard the filtered voice, the static, homelander’s voice so small it had made your skin go cold. no one else heard soldier boy’s answer.

the situation’s changed.

you don’t tell anyone despite knowing that secrets aren’t a pretty thing to keep. especially now. despite soldier boy deserving your protection. you keep it because it isn’t yours. because mm had looked at you in the kitchen and told you to give him space, and for once, you listened.

night comes slowly. the safehouse settles by degrees, each room giving up its noise one at a time.  you go to bed because there’s nowhere else to put yourself. still, sleep doesn’t come.

your new room is too unfamiliar to lie to you properly like the old safehouse did. the walls answer differently. the floor complains in sharper spots. the window rattles when the wind hits it, and the radiator makes a thin metallic tick every few minutes that keeps tricking your body into bracing for movement. you lie under the blanket with your hoodie still on and listen anyway.

maybe that is why you hear him.

not at first. at first there’s only the house doing what houses do when people try to rest inside them. soft, barely there, noises. then, beneath that, a door opens down the hall. slowly. carefully. too careful for butcher. too steady for hughie. not light enough for annie. not quick enough for kimiko. your body knows before your brain earns the certainty. you sit up.

another sound follows. leather. a faint metallic adjustment. the low, unmistakable scrape of something heavy being lifted from where it had been resting against a wall. the shield. your throat tightens so fast it hurts.

you’re out of bed before you decide what you’re doing, bare feet finding the cold floor, fingers dragging the hoodie sleeves down over your hands as if that’ll make you less obvious, less afraid, less late. 

the hallway’s dark when you open your door. only a weak strip of light from the living room cuts across the far wall. for a second, all you can see is the shape of him near the front door. 

fully dressed—not an old shirt and sweats; not the half-human version of him that haunted the kitchen this morning. soldier boy stands in the narrow entryway in the suit, chest armor catching the low light, gloves on, boots planted, shield strapped to one arm. 

his jaw is rough, hair pushed back badly, and from behind he looks built out of every version of himself vought ever sold: weapon, legend, monster, flag.

his hand is on the door. for one sick second, you understand that he’s not sneaking out for air. he’s leaving. not the room. not the house for an hour. all of it. all of you.

“wait,” the word comes out before anything else can. not loud. not strong. nothing like an order. it almost breaks in the middle and has to crawl the rest of the way from your throat.

his hand stills on the lock.

you step into the hallway. “please, don’t go.”

he doesn’t turn right away. 

you watch the line of his shoulders, the slight lift of his breathing beneath the armor, the shield angled against his side. he could leave before you reach him. he could open the door, step out, disappear into the dark, and no one in this house could stop him without turning the hallway into another battlefield. even then.

when he finally looks back, his face is hard enough to make you wish he’d kept facing the door. “saying please now?” 

the hit lands with less force than it could have. maybe because you expected worse. maybe because the word is still sitting open between you, embarrassing and naked.

“yeah,” you say. “i am.”

his eyes move over your face once. not gently. not without anger. thoroughly, like he’s checking whether this is another trick your body has taught itself to survive him. “you want something.”

“i want you to stay.”

his mouth shifts into something cruel by habit and too tired to enjoy itself. “that’s what we’re calling it?”

you swallow. “i’m asking.”

that makes his stare sharpen.

for a moment, neither of you says anything. the house behind you remains too still, doors closed, everyone sleeping or pretending well enough not to matter. your pulse beats sickeningly in your throat. the front door waits under his hand.

“go back to bed,” he finally grunts.

“come with me.”

his mouth twists. “that didn’t end well last time.”

your face burns. you let it. there’s no version of this conversation where you get to pretend last night isn’t under the floorboards with the rest of the damage. “different motives this time.” 

he looks away, jaw tight.

you take half a step closer, then stop yourself. leave space. let him keep the door. let him know it’s still there. the discipline of that nearly splits you open.

“ben…”

his eyes come back to you. here, in the hall, with the house dark and his shield on his arm, the name feels less like comfort and more like a hand reaching toward a fuse.

“don’t call me that,” he says.

you nod once, even though you keep looking at him. “okay.”

that seems to throw him more than arguing would have.

you breathe in carefully. “i heard the call.”

everything in him goes still. aimed. “you spying on me now?”

“no.” the answer comes quickly, then you force yourself to slow down because panic’s never been a friend. “i heard enough from the hall. i should’ve walked away sooner.”

his eyes narrow. “but you didn’t.”

“no,” the honesty sits there, ugly and plain.

he studies you for a long second, and you can’t tell if he wants to punish you for it or if some part of him is too exhausted to spend anger on one more thing. “did you tell anyone?”

“no.”

“why not?”

“because it wasn’t mine.”

something shifts in his face. not softness. not forgiveness. only a small disruption in the armor, a place where the expected answer fails to arrive and leaves him with nothing ready to throw back.

you hold your sleeves tight inside your fists. “i’m not going to tell them. if you want them to know, you can tell them.”

a humorless breath leaves him. “that supposed to make you sound trustworthy?”

“probably not.”

“smart.”

“i’m trying something new.”

his grip tightens on the helmet. you see the leather of his glove crease around it. “you don’t know what you heard.”

“i heard him ask if it was really you,” you wish you hadn’t said it. you wish you’d said it better. you wish there were a way to touch the truth without making it bleed again. 

soldier boy’s jaw works once, and the expression on his face makes something behind your ribs hurt badly enough that you have to press your nails into your own palms. he’s not crying. he’d probably walk into traffic before letting that happen where someone could see. but his eyes are wet in the dark, furious with it, shining just enough to make him look betrayed by his own body. 

“guy picks up the phone like that,” he says. “like he’s been waiting.”

you think of homelander’s voice. is this really you? almost boyish and young. almost hopeful. a monster with a child’s hunger trapped underneath the cape and the cameras and the bodies.

“maybe he has,” you say quietly.

soldier boy’s face hardens, but the hurt doesn’t disappear fast enough. “yeah, well… now he found me.”

“you don’t owe him anything.”

he laughs once with disbelief sharp enough to cut. “you giving advice on parenthood now?”

you close your eyes for half a second. when you open them, he’s still there. “no,” you say. “i’m not.”

his stare stays on you.

“i know what i did,” you continue, and your voice threatens to shake, but you don’t let it become an excuse. “i know saying i’m sorry doesn’t fix it. i know wanting you to stay doesn’t give me the right to keep you here. if you walk out that door, i won’t stop you. i won’t follow you. i won’t wake them up and turn it into a team vote.” you swallow, throat tight around the next words. “i’m asking you not to go because i think you’re about to make a choice while you’re bleeding from something nobody can see.”

he looks at you like he hates that sentence. maybe he does. maybe he hates that you aren’t wrong.

“you don’t know shit about it,” he says.

“i know they used you.” your voice comes out low. careful. not gentle enough to be pity. “i know they took pieces of you and put them somewhere you never agreed to. i know they made him in a lab, raised him in one, sold him to the world, and then left you to find out from a file. that’s not fatherhood. that’s theft.”

his mouth opens slightly, then closes. the shield shifts in his hand. 

you see the words hit him one by one. not healing. nothing that clean. only reaching the place under the anger where the truth’s been pacing all day without a name.

“he’s mine,” he says. it sounds like hatred. or grief. 

you shake your head. “he’s your blood. that’s not the same thing.”

his eyes flash. “blood means something.”

“yeah, it does,” you take a breath, then keep going before fear can make the words smaller. “it means homelander is tied to you in a way none of us get to pretend doesn’t matter. but it doesn’t mean he’s you. it doesn’t mean what he’s done belongs to you. it doesn’t mean whatever rotten thing vought built into him was sitting in you first.”

soldier boy looks away. the shield lowers by an inch. you notice because you notice everything about him. it’s one of the more humiliating things about being alive.

“you don’t know that,” his throat moves.

“ben…” you say, softer, and he doesn’t tell you not to this time. “he doesn’t represent you.”

the hallway holds still around the words.

for a moment, he looks young in a way that has nothing to do with age. not innocent. never that. but stripped down to something before the suit, before the shield, before vought taught him how to become a headline and a warning at the same time. confused. angry. scared enough to hate anyone who noticed. his eyes are still wet, and he turns his face a fraction away like the dark might hide it better.

you want to touch him so badly your hand actually moves.

you stop it at your side.

his gaze drops to the aborted motion. neither of you says anything about it.

then, because your mouth has never known when to leave a wound alone and because the alternative is standing there until one of you breaks worse, you say, “besides, if he were really you, he’d have better hair.”

the silence after that is enormous.

soldier boy looks back at you very slowly. “that your idea of comfort?”

“i said if.”

“his hair’s fine.”

you blink. “wow. that’s the part you’re defending?”

his mouth doesn’t pull into a smile. not really. but something in his face breaks by one degree. the smallest fracture. enough to let air through. enough to hurt. you take that for what it is and don’t ask it to become more.

“come to bed,” you repeat.

his eyes darken immediately. “watch it.”

“to sleep.” your face warms, but you keep your voice steady. “literally sleep. unconsciousness. eyes closed. no stupid decisions.”

“you made most of those.”

“and i’m taking accountability by offering a mattress instead.”

that earns you a look. a real one. flat. exhausted. insulted despite everything.

you lift one shoulder. “you can decide if this new mattress is just as shit as the other one.”

“that supposed to sell me?”

“i’m working with what i have.”

“what you have is a shitty mattress.”

“then come complain about it,” the words settle softer than you mean them to.

he looks at the door and you think that that’s it. that you got close enough to almost matter, and almost wasn’t enough. maybe he’ll leave anyway. maybe he needs to. maybe staying inside this house with files and pity and butcher’s mouth and your sorry eyes is worse than whatever waits outside. 

you promised you wouldn’t stop him, so you step aside. you give him the path.

his eyes flick to the open space you leave, and something in his face tightens as if the choice itself is crueler than a locked room would have been.

“if you go, i won’t follow.” his jaw flexes. “but please don’t go.”

the second please is worse than the first. quieter. stripped of panic now. only want, which is harder to survive.

soldier boy looks at you for so long you feel every bruise you have left, every place he’s touched and hurt and wanted and held back. then his hand drops from the lock. 

he doesn’t say yes. he doesn’t have to. you turn before your face can do anything embarrassing. 

the house remains asleep around you, though part of you knows mm probably wakes at every shift in the air and may already be listening from behind his door. no one comes out. no one asks. you open your bedroom door and step inside first, because letting him follow matters more than you expected.

the room looks exactly as you left it and somehow too intimate with him in the doorway. your bed is narrow enough to make the offer ridiculous and wide enough to make refusing to touch each other possible if both of you are very disciplined, which neither of you has been ever.

soldier boy stands just inside the room, fully armored and wrong for the space.

you look him over once. shield, suit, gloves, boots. “are you sleeping in all that?”

“might.”

“seems comfortable.”

“you got a problem?”

“with metal in my bed? weirdly, yes.”

he gives you a look that would have worked better if his eyes weren’t still red around the edges.

you sit on the mattress, giving him something else to look at while he decides what parts of soldier boy he can take off without feeling stripped. 

he sets the shield down first with a quiet, heavy shift that makes the room feel different the second it’s no longer attached to him. his gloves come next. then his boots. each removal is practical, irritated, almost aggressive, but you understand the trust inside it anyway.

he pauses at the armor.

“i’m not putting moves on you,” you say.

his eyes lift. you immediately wish you’d phrased that any other way. “good,” he says. “you’re bad at it.”

“i got you on the couch.”

his mouth twitches before he can stop it. “you got yourself on the couch.”

“details.”

“big details.”

“take the armor off, ben.”

the name lands between you. he doesn’t correct it again. after a second, he reaches for the fastenings with short, annoyed movements, unstrapping enough of the suit to be able to lie down without turning your mattress into a weapons rack. 

when he’s done, he’s still dressed, still guarded, still too large for the room, but less like a monument and more like a man who’s run out of places to stand.

you crawl under the blanket first. you leave space beside you. more than instinct wants. the mattress dips when he finally sits, and for a second he only stays there on the edge with his back to you, elbows resting on his knees, hands loose between them. the curve of his spine beneath the dark shirt makes your chest hurt in a way that has nowhere useful to go.

“i should hate you,” he says.

you stare at his back. the words aren’t what surprises you. it’s the fact that he says them here. “yeah,” you answer, because lying would be worse.

his head turns slightly. “that all you got?”

“i’m not going to argue you out of it.”

a rough breath leaves him. “first time for everything.”

your mouth almost smiles. it doesn’t make it. “i’m trying something new, remember?”

he stays sitting there. then, quieter, “i actually don’t,” he sounds angry about it. like the failure to hate you is another thing his body has done without permission. “but i’m still mad.”

“you should be.”

“don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“agree with me like that.”

your fingers curl lightly against the blanket. “i don’t know what else to do.”

he looks over his shoulder then. there are things in his face you aren’t allowed to touch yet. maybe not ever. 

the motel room is still there. so is last night. so is the door he almost walked through and the son vought made from him and the call no one else knows about. but there’s something else too, something tired and raw and almost insulted by its own need.

“don’t do anything.”

you nod.

he lies down beside you like it costs him. the mattress dips badly toward his side, and under any other circumstances you would make a joke about him being dense in more than one way. you lie on your back, staring at the dark ceiling while he settles stiffly beside you, close enough that the air changes between your bodies, far enough that neither of you has to admit you came here for comfort.

the silence isn’t easy. but it’s shared.

after a minute, he says, “mattress is shit.”

your laugh comes out so quietly it almost disappears into the pillow. “i knew you’d have notes.”

“springs are fucked.”

“i’ll file a complaint with the safehouse committee.”

“tell them to get beer that doesn’t taste like piss too.”

“anything else?”

he’s quiet for a second. then, “no.”

you turn your head slightly. he’s staring at the ceiling too, jaw tight, eyes open. in the dark, without the shield, without the suit, without anyone watching from the kitchen, he looks less impossible. not smaller. never smaller. only closer to something breakable, which is almost harder to look at.

“i won’t tell them about the call,” you say.

his eyes shift toward you. “i know.”

you blink. “you know?”

“you would’ve done it already.”

that shouldn’t feel like trust. it does anyway. you look back at the ceiling before your face can betray you. “okay.”

the room settles around you. pipes in the wall. a low rattle from the window. the strange new house making strange new sounds you still don’t know how to read. beside you, soldier boy breathes like a man trying to keep himself awake because sleep is one more place he can’t control.

you don’t touch him. but, god, you want to. 

the first touch comes from him. not his arm around you. not his hand pulling you close. nothing big enough to become a promise. 

after a long time, when the silence’s thinned, his fingers find the hem of your hoodie in the dark. barely there. catching the fabric near your hip with the lightest grip he’s ever put on you. not pulling. not asking with words. only holding on to proof that you’re still beside him.

your throat tightens until breathing becomes something you have to remember how to do. you keep your eyes on the ceiling. you keep your body still, because moving too quickly might scare the moment back into hiding.

the new mattress is terrible. the house doesn’t know either of you well enough yet. homelander’s alive somewhere with soldier boy’s blood in his body, and vought has your face, and noir’s still a shadow waiting at the edge of every plan. none of that disappears. but in the dark, with two fingers hooked carefully in the fabric of your hoodie, soldier boy lets himself stay.

“got me under some kind of spell, don’t you?”

your stomach twists at the memory of his face changing after he said it. your body going cold while everything else stayed hot. the way you scrambled off his lap so fast your knee nearly made you slip. the way he caught your elbow and let go the second you told him not to touch you. 

that had made it worse. a part of you wished he hadn’t. that he’d kiss the shock out of both of you. that he’d handled you rough but cleanly. like he used to before. 

you lie on your back and stare at the ceiling until your eyes start to burn. stupid, stupid, stupid—

someone passes your door in the hall. your body reacts before you decide to—shoulders tense, breath held. for one pathetic second, you think it’s him. you’re still getting used to the new safehouse. to the way the pipes complain differently in the night. to the way the floor creaks differently depending on who’s crossing to the living room, but you haven’t had the chance to give it a pattern. 

the floor whines again, lighter this time, and then knuckles tap softly against your door. not him. 

“hey,” annie says from the other side, voice soft and quiet. “you awake?”

you close eyes. “yeah.” 

she pauses, head probably leaning against the chipped wood. considering if she should say the next thing or let you in the safety of those four walls. then, heavier, “you should come see this.” 

nothing good has ever followed that sentence. 

you sit up anyway. the shirt you slept in is twisted around your waist. your shorts sit crooked on your hips, and you fix them with more force than necessary before dragging a hoodie over your head. you don’t check your reflection. whatever’s happening out there doesn’t need a prettier version of you.

annie is waiting in the hallway when you open the door. she looks like she slept about as well as you did, hair tied back messily, face too pale beneath the early light. 

“what is it?” you ask.

she hesitates. that’s answer enough.

the television is on in the living room. everyone’s already there. mm stands near the arm of the couch with his arms crossed and his face set into something hard. hughie sits forward on the edge of a chair, one hand pressed to his mouth. kimiko’s beside frenchie at the table, where his laptop is open and connected to two drives by a mess of cords. he’s the only one not staring at the screen. butcher leans in the kitchen doorway, mug in hand, expression sharp in a way that means he’s enjoying himself and is furious at the same time.

soldier boy stands by the counter, half-turned toward the television. he doesn’t look at you when you enter. you don’t look at him either. your body notices him anyway.

firecracker’s face fills the screen, bright and smug under studio lights, hair arranged into the kind of patriotic waves that look flammable. a banner crawls beneath her in violent red letters: vought event attacked by starlight radicals. beneath that, smaller: suspected terrorist associate identified.

then your face appears beside hers. 

you stop walking.

it’s not a good photo. that’s your first thought, which is ridiculous enough that you almost laugh before the rest of it arrives. it’s a still from the civic center, grainy and overlit, your catering shirt bright beneath the fluorescent hallway glow. your head is turned halfway, mouth slightly open, eyes caught between focus and movement.

then the graphic changes. your full name. your age. the town where you grew up.

something cold slides beneath your ribs.

firecracker smiles. “now, folks, this is what they don’t want you to see. a seemingly ordinary young woman radicalized by starlight’s extremist network, infiltrating a patriotic vought event under false credentials and fleeing the scene with none other than soldier boy.”

your mouth parts as the graphic shifts again, a new still flashing onto the screen—grainy but unmistakable. soldier boy’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, pulling you down the hallway, your body half-turned toward him as he drags you toward the exit. your skin instantly heats up at the memory now eternalized thanks to firecracker’s hillbilly show. 

“holy shit,” hughie says softly.

firecracker leans toward the camera. “and i don’t know about you, but when a girl that pretty from a nice place like that ends up running around with america’s number one traitor and starlight’s little terrorist club, i start asking questions.”

a sound leaves you. not fully a laugh. not sane enough for that. startled, ugly, almost delighted despite the fact that your life has just been turned into a headline. you point at the screen. “did she just call me pretty?”

mm turns to you immediately. “don’t look so fuckin’ proud.”

the laugh dies in your throat.

he nods toward the tv. “that’s your name. your face. where you’re from. everybody who knew you before this is about to have reporters, vought freaks, or worse knocking on their doors.”

the room settles heavily around the truth.

firecracker keeps talking behind him, voice bright and poisonous. “citizens are urged not to approach. if you see this woman, contact vought security or local authorities immediately. do not engage. these people are dangerous, unstable, and working directly against the safety of the american people.”

you stare at the screen until your own face blurs. dangerous. unstable. you want to laugh again but you fear you might be sick first.

butcher takes a drink from his mug. “well. congratulations, love. you made telly.”

“shut up,” annie snaps.

“what? she did.”

you look away from the screen because looking at yourself like that feels too much like standing outside your own body. “i need coffee.”

the coffee machine is behind soldier boy. naturally, the universe has developed comic timing and decided to use it against you. you don’t let that stop you.

you walk into the kitchen and stop beside him. “move.”

he glances down at the very narrow space between his body and the counter. “there’s room.”

“you’re blocking the coffee.”

“reach.”

you stare at his profile. “i’m not reaching around you.”

his mouth shifts by almost nothing. “‘s that a new rule?”

heat snaps up your neck so fast you nearly forget there’re other people alive in the room. “you need to actually shut the fuck up,” you mutter, wishing your voice had actually been low enough to not carry through the room.

his eyes flick toward you then. not your face first. your mouth. quick enough to show he’s thinking about it too. “quiet morning voice. cute.”

you grab the empty mug nearest to him. “keep talking and i’ll pour it down your lap.”

“where would you sit then?”

the words tumble from his lips so smugly that your brain actually malfunctions. your eyes widen, cheeks flush, mouth left parted and empty where a pretty insult should stand. instead, you’re speechless. 

mm makes a sound from the living room. “both of you, not today.”

soldier boy actually shifts half a step. like that does anything.

you pour coffee with a hand that wouldn’t be steady enough to fire a gun. the mug fills too close to the brim. you lift it carefully and burn your fingers anyway, which feels appropriate.

from the table, frenchie mutters, “mon dieu...”

eyes flick toward him. he’s not gawking at the sbow you and soldier boy just put on. he’s not shocked from listening to the nonsense  in firecracker’s segment. frenchie’s eyes are glued to the screen of his laptop, face serious. the room changes.

butcher’s eyes sharpen. “what is it?”

frenchie turns the laptop so the rest of the room can see. “the civic center servers were connected to vought medical archives. not public files. internal research. trial reports.”

“for what?” annie asks.

frenchie hesitates, then says, “v24.”

temp v.

your coffee turns sour before you even have the chance to taste it. hughie looks down. annie sees. everyone sees.

frenchie scrolls with stiff fingers. “the damage is cumulative. repeated exposure causes neurological lesions, organ stress, tissue breakdown. vought recorded fatal collapse between three and five doses. sometimes sooner.”

silence presses into every corner of the safehouse. fatal collapse between three and five doses.

firecracker’s show continues on the tv, but someone must’ve muted it because her mouth keeps moving without sound. your face remains on the corner graphic, frozen mid-turn.

annie’s voice is small and furious. “hughie.”

he rubs both hands over his face. “i’m okay.”

“how many?”

“annie—”

“how many times did you fucking take it?”

he doesn’t answer quickly enough.

butcher sighs. “not the time for lovers’ arithmetic.”

mm’s stare cuts to him and he doesn’t raise his voice. he just looks at butcher like he’s trying to give him one last chance to do the right thing without being forced. “then we’ll do yours. how many?”

butcher looks bored. that means he’s hiding something. “enough.”

mm’s jaw tightens, a muscle ticking near his temple, and when he speaks again it’s slower, each word pressed out with effort, “say the number.”

“two,” hughie says quietly.

annie closes her eyes.

butcher lifts a shoulder. “same neighborhood.”

frenchie’s voice is strained. “this is not a cold, monsieur. this is brain damage. organ damage. death.”

“yeah, gathered that from fatal collapse, french,” butcher raises a brow.

kimiko signs sharply over frenchie’s shoulder. frenchie translates, eyes still on butcher. “she says you are an idiot.”

butcher points his mug toward her. “tell her ive been told.”

you hear them, but the room has gone strange around the edges. three to five doses. hughie has two. butcher has two, maybe more. you have one. one.

you look at the muted television. your own face stares back at you from under firecracker’s red headline. vought has your name, your town, your face, your connection to soldier boy. the deep knows you. homelander might know by now. noir is still alive because soldier boy chose the hallway where you were cornered instead of the mission he came here to finish.

your fingers tighten around the mug, as math works faster than fear and your mouth lets the thought escape without permission. “then i’m the safest one to take another dose.”

everyone turns. the words hang in the kitchen, awful and neat.

soldier boy’s head moves slowly toward you. “that’s off the table.”

your jaw tightens. “that wasn’t a question.”

“didn’t sound like a smart idea either.”

“if noir shows up again—”

“you’re not taking that shit again.”

“i’m not asking permission.”

his expression hardens so fast you know the hit is coming before he speaks.

“yeah,” he scoffs, dry and mean. “noticed you’re real good at that.”

it lands exactly where he aims and you go quiet. not because he wins. because he's right, and you hate that he’s earned the cruelty.

butcher watches with interest he doesn't bother hiding. “for what's worth, she’s not wrong.”

soldier boy turns on him. “it’s worth shit.”

“math checks out.”

“butcher,” mm warns.

“what? if somebody has to take another dose, better her than hughie’s brain leaking out his ears.”

hughie flinches. “jesus christ.”

“nobody is taking anything,” annie says. “not her. not you. not hughie. nobody.”

“sweet,” butcher says. “then we’ll all hold hands and ask homelander to please stop being such a cunt.”

mm steps forward. “we’re done with secret doses. frenchie keeps digging. nobody touches another vial unless the whole room knows exactly what choice is being made.”

choice. the word passes through the kitchen and finds every sore place. 

frenchie’s chair creaks. “there is more,” he says.

butcher closes his eyes. “naturally.”

frenchie looks back at the laptop. “the v24 files connect to older vought archives. payback. nicaragua. military research. genetic storage.”

frenchie scrolls once, then stops. kimiko leans closer to the screen. her face changes.

mm's the first to speak. “frenchie?”

frenchie doesn’t answer.

butcher moves behind him and reads over his shoulder. for once, the joke doesn’t come.

“what?” annie asks.

frenchie swallows. “this is not about temp v.”

soldier boy’s voice is flat. “spit it out.”

frenchie looks at him, then at the screen again, like the laptop has become something indecent. “homelander’s development file. early laboratory documentation. not the public asset record.”

the coffee mug feels heavy in your hand.

“paternal genetic source,” frenchie reads carefully. “sample origin…” his voice fails.

butcher finishes it for him. “homelander’s your boy.”

the world loses sound. you understand the words in pieces. homelander. soldier boy. genetic source. vought. son.

soldier boy doesn't move.

for one long second, he stands beside the coffee machine with his hands empty and his face locked so tightly that you almost miss the impact. there’s no softness there. no wonder. no sudden fatherly light. only something deeper than anger trying to find somewhere to go and failing because there’s nowhere big enough.

“bullshit,” he says.

frenchie turns the laptop slightly. “it’s in the file.”

“no.”

butcher’s voice is unusually low. “they used your material.”

the phrase makes your skin crawl.

soldier boy’s eyes flick to him. “when?”

frenchie scrolls. “samples were collected before your disappearance. stored under military research. transferred into the homelander program after—”

“after they got rid of me,” soldier boy concludes and nobody corrects him.

on the tv, firecracker’s muted face smiles beside yours. your name sits beneath hers like another file.

soldier boy steps toward the laptop.

everyone shifts without meaning to. giving him room. giving the bomb room. he looks at the screen for just long enough. then he asks, “who knew?”

butcher’s jaw tightens. “vought. vogelbaum. edgar. noir might’ve.”

you see the name land ugly. noir who walked away yesterday. noir who might’ve known what vought built from him. noir who might’ve carried this secret while soldier boy rotted in russia.

mm moves slightly. “take a breath.”

soldier boy looks at him. “move.”

“soldier boy—” you take one step before you decide to. you don’t know where you’re going. toward soldier boy, maybe. toward the thing in him that just got opened. toward the old, stupid instinct that thinks pain is a problem you can put your hands on and solve.

mm’s eyes cut to you. “not now.” you stop. he looks at you for another second. not unkindly. not soft either. “give him space.”

your throat tightens. you want to argue. you want to say you weren’t going to. you want to say something that makes you less obvious. but mm is right, and that makes your mouth close. this isn't about you.

soldier boy walks out of the kitchen without looking at anyone. the house seems to hold its breath after him. you move again, barely. not enough to follow. only enough to betray that you want to.

mm says your name once.

you stop at the edge of the kitchen and nod because anything else might come out wrong.

the room doesn’t recover. annie turns away from hughie like she needs space from one disaster before she can face another. hughie stares at the muted television, where your face is still pinned beneath the word terrorist. butcher sits down slowly, mug untouched now. frenchie keeps looking at the file as if the letters might rearrange into some other truth that doesn't completely ruin this team.

finally, the room settles enough to let you retreat. you slip into your room quietly. down the hall, a door doesn't quite close. you shouldn’t listen. still, you listen enough. a filtered female voice says, clipped and professional, “hold for connection.” there's static. then a click.

silence holds for a moment before a voice everyone in america knows, stripped of crowd noise and cameras and stage lights until it sounds smaller than it should.

“is this really you?” homelander. the question hangs there, almost young.

soldier boy doesn’t answer right away.

you stand frozen in the hallway, vought’s version of your face glowing silently from the tv behind you, frenchie’s files still open in the kitchen, and the whole world balanced on the space before soldier boy speaks.

then his voice comes through the half-closed door. low. rough. changed. “the situation’s changed.”

Adrenaline. Screaming. Bruises. The two of you alone in some ratty motel bathroom while water from the shower collected on the tile floor to drown out the noise.

One minute, you were yelling at him for nearly getting MM killed, the next he had your wrists pinned against cracked tile and you were kissing him hard enough to make his lips hurt. Not that he'd care. After that, it became a pattern. Quick, secretive, never discussed. Quick fucks against walls, in abandoned motels, even in the safehouse late at night when everyone was asleep, a hand slapped over your mouth to muffle any noise from your mouth while he rammed his cock into you.

And soldier boy- who had spent decades fucking his way across America without a second thought, realized one evening in a bar that he hadn't touched another woman in months.

Not because he couldnt.

No- because he didnt want to. Which was fucking ridiculous. He told himself it didnt mean anything when you rested your head on his chest after sex. Didnt mean anything when you absentmindedly played with the chain around his neck while half asleep.

Or on that quiet afternoon. You angered him on a mission, and fuck if he could wait until you're back at the safehouse. He cant. Thats why he has you on some scrappy, dirty floor, fucking you hard in prone-bone. The tip of his thick cock slams into that perfect, spongy spot inside your warm cunt, and you feel like you might cry. With your cheek smushed against the floor, and feet dangling weakly behind you, your hand reaches out, searching for something to hold onto while every harsh thrust inches you a little forward, and your hand finds his. Your eyebrows knit together while his scruff tickles the sensitive skin of your throat, and he quickly pulls out, still holding onto your hand while his warm cum shoots all over your back.

Not even that meant anything-....right?

That afternoon had stayed with Him. Your palm against his, breathing uneven and eyes squeezed shut while he held on so tight he thought me might break your fingers. People who were just fuck-buddies didnt do that. Right? But then the next day you'd barely look at him infront of the others. Like he embarassed you.

The bar is crowded and loud, neon signs reflecting blue and pink against sticky and nasty floors. Ben sits alone in some dusty corner, nursing whiskey while Butcher hustles some idiot at pool. You're sat at the bar waiting for drinks when some guy slides up beside you. Young. Pretty. Smug. Ben watches your face carefully over the rim of his glass, a perfect eyebrow slightly raised. The guy says something that makes you laugh politely, and then- he touches your arm. Soldier boys jaw tightens.

What. The fuck?

...why is he even mad- you're just fuck buddies, but hes still halfway to standing when you shake your head and say something short. Final. He cant hear it but the guy looks annoyed. You glance across the room one time- directly at Ben. Automatically, the guy hitting on you looks over too- but once he catches sight of the massive supe glaring holes through him, he basically evaporates. Right after, you grab your drinks and walk straight back to ben's booth.

"You looked homicidal,"

you smile a little, sliding him a Beer.

"I am homicidal."

At his words you snort softly and scooch into the booth next to him, slightly close like its instinct. Warm. Easy. His arm settled along the back of the booth behind you.

"You could've gone with him,"

he says casually, making your brows furrow. "Why would i do that?" He shrugs, pretending not to care. You stare at him for a second too long before looking away.

And only two nights later, you're back at it. Stubble scratching along your thighs, you moan quietly. He eats you out like a man starving, ridiculously- plump lips wrapping around your clit and sucking on it with a loud slurp.

Jesus Christ, hes a real womanizer. His beefy arms wrap around your thighs, stopping you from squirming with ease- one of your hands tangled in his hair while the other one braces against the sheets.

"....mm-, fuck-"

you whisper breathlessly. He only hums in response. "....mhmm?.."

A floorboard creaks outside.

Both of you freeze.

Then comes footsteps.

Your eyes widen in Panic. "Fuck-" and the doorknob rattles. In one panicked- intrusive reaction, you shove at ben's face with your foot.

Hard.

He stumbles backward with a loud thud into the nightstand. "OW-- Jesus fucking--"

"Shhh!" The door cracked open and inch. "Everything okay?" Hughie asks sleepily. He heard whining. You sit upright instantly, clutching your blanket to your chest while ben crouched besides the bed, rubbing his jaw with murder in his eyes. "Fine!-" you squeak. "I--uh--nightmare,."

Hughie blinks. "....Right. okay." The door shut.

Silence.

Ben slowly looked up at you.

"You kicked me in the fuckin' face." You'd almost be scared of him right now if you werent so caught off guard.

"I panicked-!"

"You panic like a goddamn mule."

You bury your face in your hands. "I'm-...sorry-."

But he barely hears you. Not because of the kick to his face- because all he could think of was how terrified you'd looked at the idea of someone finding out.

Not embarassed.

Terrified. Of him.

Something cold settles in his chest. Colder than it always does.

So he pulls away after that. Subtle at first.

He stops touching you casually. Stops sitting beside you. Stops lingering after missions to trade sarcastic comments while everyone else cleans up.

And you notice.

Of course you notice.

He can tell by the way your eyes track him across rooms now. By the little crease between your brows whenever he brushes past you without stopping.

Still, neither of you say anything.

Until one night, you finally corner him in the kitchen after everyone else went to sleep.

"You're avoiding me."

Ben scoffs, swallowing. Not nervous. Not really. Just....tense. "You're paranoid."

"Bullshit." You hiss.

Making you flinch, he slams the fridge shut harder than necessary. "Maybe i got tired of sneakin' around like your dirty little secret."

Your face falls.

The instant regret hits him like a truck, but he keeps going because hes soldier boy.

"You act like people finding out about us would be the end of the fuckin' world."

"Thats not---"

"You kicked me in the face because hughie touched a doorknob."

"I panicked!"

"Why?" His voice cracks through the Kitchen sharper than intended.

"Why are you so scared of people knowing, huh? Are you so ashamed of me?"

You stare at him like he'd slapped you. Then you laugh once- small and disbelieving.

"Ashamed of you?-"

"Sure looks like it."

"Oh my god." You drag both hands down your face before stepping closer.

"Ben, i'm- scared because this team is already hanging together by threads and if Butcher realizes we're involved he wil absolutely use it against us-"

He says nothing.

You swallow the lump in your throat, shaking your head. "You really thought i was embarassed of you?"

"When people get close to me," he says quietly, "it usually ends badly."

The honesty in that nearly breaks your heart. His expression had gone guarded in a way you rarely saw-- less arrogant, less untouchable. Just...tired.

You step closer slowly, fingers curling in the front of his shirt.

"I turn other men down because i want you," you mumble softly. "I sleep in your bed whenever i can, because i want to. There's no other guy who's hand i hold during sex-..."

His eyes search yours carefully, like he doesent trust what hes hearing.

"And for the record," you add, voice trembling slightly, "if someone had opened that bedroom door while you were eating me out? I would've died of humiliation because they caught me completely in love with you."

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Then ben kissed you.

Not rough this time,- not hungry. Just deep- and wrecked and relieved.

His hands cradle your face like something precious while your arms wrap around his neck.

"You love me..?" He mutters against your mouth like the words still confused him. His rough hands trail up your waist under your shirt.

You laugh shakily. "Unfortunately."

A huff escapes him- almost a laugh.

Then he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, eyes closed.

"Mh,"

A few soft kisses get pressed against the smooth line of your throat, making you exhale shakily while one of your hands braces on his chest.

Your and ben's heavy breathing fills the room. His hands tug your pants off, and your hands fumble with his sweatpants too. Of course hes not wearing any underwear. Pig. Biting down on your lower lip, you spit into your palm and stroke up and down his length a few times, before he pushes your panties aside and lines up with your pretty cunt.

God, hes missed it.

Once he bottoms out in you, a grunt leaves him and a quiet moan leaves you. Every thrust feels different from the other times- Like you both finally admitted something thats been killing you. Your hands scramble for leverage on the counter and the back of your head hits the cupboard with a deep thrust. If only you could bring yourself to care. Your arms wrap around his neck.

"Nnh- mh-mh-mh-...shit..."

You pant. His hips move faster and faster until he finally throws both of you over the edge, bodys locking up and limbs tangled with eachother. He pulls out of you, his cum leaking out of you with ease.

"....thank you," He mumbles. You smile tiredly.

"...for what?".

".......-fuck, i dont know. Just thank you."

Who knew the soldier boy could get so soft.

I actually kinda like this?? I think 🫣

Author's Note

Welcome to the result of my wrath. An expansion of my soldier boy x reader series, No Love Lost, made to be a more explict rewrite of the Boys season four and five. If you're going in with no prior knowlege of the other fic, enjoy! If you're coming over from No Love Lost, hello! I hope you enjoy this one as well. Going in, no matter what, please forgot everything released after season 3. Gen V, season four and five, Vought rising, none of it's real. I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter List

Prologue (7/6) (on ko-fi now!)

Season 4

Episode 1 - Down the Rabbit Hole Episode 2 - What's Dead and Buried Episode 3 - The Limelight Episode 4 - All of Us Heathens Episode 5 - Good Hair Boy Episode 6 - On Shadowboxing, Spiderwebs, and Songbirds Episode 7 - Titanfall Episode 8 - The Firebird's Gambit Episode 9 - Metamorphia Episode 10 - You Scratch My Back Episode 11 - Buzz Buzz Buzz Episode 12 - Transmutation Episode 13 - Quick, Bald, and Broke Episode 14 - Heaven, Ohio Episode 15 - When You Hear the Bell Toll Episode 16 - Scurry Under the Mountain Episode 17 - Blinding Neon Glitter Episode 18 - hymns Episode 19 - Jersey Devils Episode 20 - Don't Wake the Sleeping Dragon Episode 21 - The King of Babel Episode 22 - Diet Euphoria Episode 23 - Event Horizon

Season 5

Episode 1 - It's Always Sunny Episode 2 - Go With the Changing Tides Episode 3 - That Big Silver Screen Episode 4 - On the Tenth Day Episode 5 - Put One Right Between the Eyes Episode 6 - Washed Up and Sold Out Episode 7 - Love Thy Neighbor Episode 8 - So It Goes Episode 9 - Bloodshot Episode 10 - Flipping Texas Episode 11 - The Untouchables Episode 12 - Mr. Butcher Goes to Washington Episode 13 - And When You Love Her, Remember to Look Back Episode 14 - Homelander: The Musical Episode 15 - Run the Gauntlet Episode 16 - Operation Ranch Hand Episode 17 - Hail Mary Episode 18 - Abandon All Hope Episode 19 - Benjamin, or Italy Episode 20 - Oroborus Episode 21 - Veni Vidi Vici Episode 22 - Every Demon Wants His Pound of Flesh Episode 23 - Sunrise, Sunset

“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 ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

He saw the spread of you, the softness, the wet shine where embarrassment and heat had already started betraying you. His cock reacted before his brain caught up, hardening so fast beneath his jeans that he had to shift his stance.

His thoughts about you had never been clean, not once, no matter how many times he’d told himself you were off limits. Now you were right in front of him like every filthy idea he’d ever swallowed down had crawled out and sat pretty between your thighs.

“What the hell are you doin’?” he asked, voice low and rough, but his eyes didn’t leave you. You should’ve snapped your legs shut quicker, should’ve screamed at him like this was horrifying, should’ve thrown the razor at his head for walking in without knocking.

Instead, your thighs only shifted halfway together before hesitation caught you because the way he looked at you made your stomach twist in a way you couldn’t pretend was fear. “Ben,” you breathed, clutching the razor like it could save you from your own body. “Get out.”

The words came out too soft to be serious, too breathless to mean anything close to rejection, and both of you knew it the second they left your mouth.

Ben’s mouth twitched like he heard the lie in them immediately. “Yeah?” he said, stepping farther into the bathroom instead of leaving. “That what you want, sweetheart?”

Your lips parted, but no answer came out. His gaze dropped again, openly this time, shameless in a way that made your pulse hammer. The bathroom suddenly felt too small, too warm, too full of him and the heavy drag of his attention across your bare skin.

Ben pushed the door shut behind him with one hand, the quiet click of the latch making your whole body tense. He didn’t lock it, but he didn’t need to for the sound to feel final. “Put the damn razor down,” he said. It wasn’t loud, but it was unmistakably a command. Your fingers tightened around the handle once before loosening, the razor settling against the counter beside you with a tiny plastic tap.

Ben’s eyes followed the movement, then dragged back down to your lap. He looked at the shaving cream on your thigh, the soft hair you’d been about to remove, and the exposed heat of your pussy with an expression that bordered on offended.

“You were gonna shave all that off?” he asked, voice dropping lower. Your face burned so badly you thought you might actually pass out from it.

“I was going to,” you muttered, trying to sound annoyed and failing horribly. Ben’s jaw ticked, and his cock throbbed hard in his jeans as he stared at the part of you he had no business wanting this much.

“Don’t,” he said flatly. You blinked at him, stunned by how serious he sounded. “Excuse me?” Ben took one slow step closer, boots heavy against the tile, eyes dark and unashamed. “I said don’t,” he repeated, like you were testing his patience on purpose. “Hair adds personality.”

The words were so obscene in his mouth that your pussy clenched before you could stop it. Ben saw the tiny twitch of your thighs, saw the way your stomach pulled tight, and his expression sharpened with satisfaction.

“Well, goddamn,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You liked that.” Your breath caught hard enough to make your chest rise visibly. “You can’t just say things like that,” you whispered. Ben gave a low, humourless laugh. “Honey, I can say a hell of a lot worse than that.”

You hated how badly you wanted him to. You hated how your body had gone hot all over, how the cool air against your exposed pussy made you feel even more aware of how open you were under his gaze. You hated that he hadn’t touched you once and yet you could already feel wetness gathering, slick and humiliating, making you ache.

Ben watched it happen with the kind of attention that made you feel stripped past naked, like he could see every thought you’d ever had about him. He looked older, rougher, meaner than any fantasy you’d let yourself have, broad and smug and so full of himself it should’ve disgusted you. Instead, it made your thighs tremble.

“You always this mouthy when you’re sittin’ there with your pussy out?” he asked. “Or is that just for me?” Your breath stuttered. “Ben,” you warned, but it came out weak and needy. His eyes lifted to yours, and the amusement there was cruel enough to make your stomach drop. “Don’t use that tone unless you’re askin’ me to fix it.”

The worst part was that you had imagined him fixing it too many times to count. You had thought about Ben when he leaned over you in the kitchen to grab something from a high cabinet, smelling like whiskey, smoke, and expensive cologne.

You had thought about him when his hand brushed your lower back as he moved past you at family cookouts, careless and brief, but enough to make you throb for hours afterward. You had thought about the rough sound of his voice saying your name, thought about him catching you staring, thought about him knowing exactly what you wanted before you had to admit it.

At night, alone in your room, you’d dragged your dildo from the drawer with shaking fingers and pushed it between your thighs while imagining it was him. You’d ridden it slowly at first, knees planted in the mattress, one hand braced against the headboard while the other rubbed messy circles over your clit.

You’d pictured Ben beneath you, big hands gripping your hips, mouth twisted into something mean as he watched you struggle to take him. Sometimes you’d bounced so desperately that the toy slipped against that sensitive spot inside you again and again until your legs shook.

Sometimes you’d buried your face in your pillow and moaned his name into the fabric, terrified someone might hear and secretly wanting them to. More than once, you’d come with Ben’s name on your tongue, your pussy clenching around silicone while your brain filled in the weight, heat, and cruelty of him instead.

Sometimes, when the fantasy got too filthy to stop, you’d whispered Daddy into your pillow and pretended it was his hand in your hair forcing you to say it louder.

Ben didn’t know the details, but he knew enough from the look on your face. He saw recognition flicker there, saw guilt, saw the exact kind of shame that only came from being caught wanting something you’d already touched yourself to.

His cock pressed painfully against his zipper now, thick and hard, the ache making his patience feel thinner by the second. He had tried not to think about you like this because your father was his friend and because there were lines even he understood he wasn’t supposed to cross. But he’d thought about you anyway.

He’d thought about your mouth when you laughed too hard at his jokes, your legs when you crossed them on the couch, your ass in those tiny shorts you wore around the house like you didn’t know what you were doing. He’d thought about bending you over the kitchen counter while everyone else was outside, about pressing a hand over your mouth and making you stay quiet.

He’d thought about how pretty you’d look crying from too much pleasure, how quickly your attitude would disappear once he got his hands on you. Seeing you now, wet and exposed and pretending you weren’t leaning toward him, snapped something ugly and hungry inside him.

“You’ve thought about this,” he said, voice quiet and dangerous. Your eyes widened. Ben smiled without warmth. “Don’t lie to me, sweetheart.”

You swallowed hard, but the denial wouldn’t come. It sat uselessly behind your teeth while his gaze pinned you in place. “I didn’t say anything,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to.” Ben moved closer again until his knees nearly brushed yours, his shadow falling over you in the cramped bathroom. “Your body’s runnin’ its mouth just fine.” Your thighs pressed together on instinct, but the movement only dragged your wet folds against each other and pulled a tiny sound from your throat.

Ben’s eyes dropped instantly. “There it is,” he said, mean satisfaction cutting through his voice. “You’re wet.” Your face burned so violently you had to look away. He reached down and caught your chin, fingers firm enough to stop you from hiding but not painful.

“No,” he said. “You don’t get shy after sittin’ here like this.” Your lashes fluttered, breath trembling under his thumb. “I didn’t know you were coming in.” Ben leaned closer, his voice dragging rough against your skin. “And now that I am?”

The question hung between you, filthy and heavy. You should’ve said something smart, something sharp, something that made you feel less exposed. Instead, your gaze dropped to the front of his jeans. The shape of him was impossible to miss now, hard and thick behind denim, straining like the sight of you had ruined every bit of control he thought he had.

Ben noticed you looking and gave a low laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s your fault.” Your lips parted softly, heat blooming through your stomach at the accusation. “Mine?”

“You’re sittin’ there with your legs open and that pretty little cunt out, and you’re askin’ if it’s yours?” His fingers tightened slightly at your jaw when you shivered. “Don’t play stupid with me.”

A shaky breath escaped you, and your pussy clenched again under the weight of his words. Ben watched your reaction like it fed him. “Fuck,” he muttered. “You really do like it mean.”

You did, and that was the problem. Your old partners had always tried to be sweet, careful, soft in ways that made you feel restless instead of wanted. You’d wanted rough hands and dirty words and someone who didn’t ask you five times if every breath was okay when your body was already begging.

You’d wanted someone who could look at you and know you needed to be handled. Ben looked like exactly that kind of man. He looked like the kind of man who would take your attitude apart one cruel sentence at a time and enjoy every second of it. He looked like the kind of man who would call you pretty and pathetic in the same breath.

Your stomach tightened as his thumb dragged slowly along your lower lip, and you had to fight the urge to open your mouth for him. “What are you thinkin’ about?” he asked. You shook your head faintly, cheeks blazing. Ben’s expression hardened with impatience. “Use your words.”

“I’ve thought about you,” you admitted, barely above a whisper. Ben went very still. The room seemed to shrink around both of you, the hum of the bathroom light suddenly louder overhead. His eyes darkened in a way that made your pulse stumble. “Yeah?” he asked. “How?”

Your fingers curled against your bare thigh, nails pressing tiny crescents into your skin. “At night,” you whispered, voice shaking. “When I’m alone.” Ben’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, and his cock jerked visibly in his jeans.

“Doin’ what?” Your throat worked around a swallow. “Riding my toy.” His nostrils flared, and the grip on your chin turned more possessive. “Moanin’ my name?”

Your silence answered before you could. Ben’s laugh was low, nasty, and pleased. “Course you were.” The humiliation of it made your eyes squeeze shut, but he shook your chin once, forcing your attention back to him. “Eyes open.”

You obeyed instantly, and the satisfaction on his face made you ache harder. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me how you do it.” Your heart pounded so hard you could feel it between your thighs. “I sit on it,” you whispered, cheeks burning. “Slow at first.”

Ben’s gaze dropped to your pussy like he could already see it happening. “Then?” “Then I move faster,” you breathed, the confession pulling heat through your whole body.

“I ride it until I can’t keep quiet.” Ben’s jaw tightened again, hunger turning the line of his mouth cruel. “And you say my name while you’re fuckin’ yourself on it?”

“Yes,” you whispered, and the word came out like surrender. Ben’s breath left him in a rough exhale. His hand fell from your chin, but only so he could brace it against the counter beside you, caging you in without touching anywhere else yet.

You could smell him now, smoke and whiskey and something masculine enough to make your head swim. “Filthy girl,” he said, and the insult landed like praise. Your pussy pulsed openly, wetness slicking between your folds while the shaving cream melted farther down your thigh.

Ben’s eyes tracked everything, taking in the swollen shape of you, the soft hair framing your pussy, the shine of slick gathering where your body had given you away. “You were gonna shave this,” he said, almost offended again.

“This pretty little mess.” Your breath hitched as his knuckles brushed the inside of your knee, not quite touching where you needed him. “Don’t,” he said again, rougher this time. “I like it like this.” Your thighs trembled apart another inch. Ben saw it and smiled. “Good girl.”

The praise made you nearly dizzy. It was worse because it came from him, from Ben, from the man you’d imagined being cruel enough to make you cry and pleased enough to kiss the tears afterward. He crouched slowly in front of you now, still too close, still not touching your pussy, his eyes level with what he had walked in on.

His cock was so hard it looked painful, straining against denim while he balanced one forearm on his knee. “Spread your legs,” he said. You hesitated for half a second, not because you didn’t want to, but because the embarrassment was almost too much to survive. His eyes flicked back up to yours.

“Don’t make me ask twice.” Your knees parted wider, slow and shaky, exposing yourself fully beneath his gaze. Ben inhaled through his nose, controlled but heavy. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Look at you.” Your pussy clenched around nothing as he stared, swollen and slick and framed by the hair he’d just ordered you not to remove. He noticed every bit of it. “Bet your toy doesn’t look at you like this.”

“No,” you breathed before you could stop yourself. Ben’s smile sharpened. “No, what?” Your stomach twisted because you knew what he wanted. “No, Ben.”

His eyes flashed at the sound of his name from your mouth in that tone, breathy and obedient and already ruined. “There she is,” he said. “That’s the voice you use when you’re ridin’ that dildo thinkin’ about me, isn’t it?”

Your hands gripped the edge of the toilet seat, and you nodded faintly. “Say it.” “Yes,” you whispered. “I think about you when I ride it.” Ben’s cock jerked again, and this time he didn’t even try to hide the way he adjusted himself roughly through his jeans.

“You think about me fillin’ you up instead?” he asked, mean and direct. Your body answered with a visible shiver. His gaze dropped, and his voice went darker. “Dirty little thing.”

The bathroom felt unbearably hot now, the mirror faintly fogged from the shower you’d taken before deciding to shave. You were still exposed under the ugly overhead light, one leg braced awkwardly near the tub, shaving cream drying tacky on your thigh.

Ben looked at you like none of it mattered, like the mess only made him want you more. His eyes were hungry, but not gentle. There was nothing soft in the way he studied you, nothing hesitant in the way his attention dragged over your pussy and made you feel owned before he ever laid a hand there.

“You want me to leave?” he asked suddenly. Your pulse jumped. He wasn’t asking because he wanted to leave. He was asking because he wanted to hear you choose the opposite. You stared at him, lips parted, face flushed so hot it hurt. “No,” you whispered. Ben’s smile turned wicked. “That’s what I thought.”

He stood again slowly, towering over you in the little bathroom until your breathing turned shallow. One big hand came to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair just enough to pull your head back and force your eyes up to his.

The grip wasn’t gentle, and the shock of it made your pussy clench hard. Ben’s gaze narrowed. “You like being handled too,” he said. It wasn’t a question. You made a small sound, something between a whimper and a confession, and his mouth twisted with approval.

“All this time walkin’ around this house actin’ sweet,” he muttered. “Meanwhile you’re upstairs bouncin’ on a toy moanin’ my name.” Your face burned again, but his hand in your hair kept you from ducking away.

“Does your dad know what a filthy mouth you’ve got when nobody’s listenin’?” You shook your head quickly. Ben leaned down until his lips hovered close to your ear. “Good. Because that’s mine now.”

The words punched through you, sharp and wrong and so hot you nearly whimpered out loud. Ben pulled back just enough to look at your face, and whatever he saw there made his expression go even darker. “You want mean?” he asked quietly. “You want me not to hold back?”

Your body trembled under the question, and for once you didn’t try to pretend otherwise. “Yes,” you whispered. His grip in your hair tightened. “Then quit pretendin’ you’re embarrassed.” You nodded, but he clicked his tongue, unimpressed. “Words.”

“I want you mean,” you breathed. “I want you to not hold back.” Ben’s eyes dropped to your mouth, then to your open thighs, then back up again. Your lips trembled before the last word slipped out soft and needy.

“Daddy.” Ben went completely still for half a second, and then his smile turned downright cruel. “Careful, sweetheart,” he said, voice rough with lust. “Daddy’s real good at givin’ spoiled girls exactly what they ask for.”

Ben’s hand stayed buried in your hair for another second, keeping your head tipped back while he looked down at you like he was deciding exactly how much trouble you’d earned. “Daddy,” he repeated, voice low and rough, the word sounding filthy in his mouth, like it had dragged every last decent thought out of the room with it.

His eyes dropped again between your thighs, and his expression hardened the second he saw the razor still sitting on the counter beside you. “All that pretty hair,” he muttered, almost disgusted, “and you were gonna scrape it off like it didn’t belong there.”

His hand left your hair only so he could grip your thigh and spread you open wider, rough enough to make your breath jump. You whimpered immediately, fingers tightening against the edge of the toilet seat while your pussy clenched under his stare. Ben saw it and gave a short, mean laugh. “Look at that. She knows she did somethin’ wrong.”

Before you could answer, his palm came down sharply against your pussy.

The sound cracked through the bathroom, wet and obscene, and your whole body jerked from the sting. Pleasure burst hot and sudden beneath the pain, your thighs trying to snap shut before Ben caught one and shoved it open again.

“Uh-uh,” he said, voice hard. “You don’t get to hide now.” Your mouth fell open around a shaky moan, face burning because the slap should’ve shocked you more than it turned you on. Ben’s eyes darkened at the sound, and the front of his jeans strained harder as he stared down at you.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, palming himself roughly through the denim with one hand while the other kept your legs spread. “Knew you were a dirty little thing, but this?” His palm landed against your pussy again, hard enough to make your hips buck off the seat. “This is fuckin’ pathetic.”

“Ben,” you moaned, the name slipping out before you could stop it.

His face changed immediately.

Not anger, exactly, but something meaner and more possessive, like you’d disappointed him on purpose just to see what he’d do about it. “What’d you call me?” he asked softly. Your breath hitched, eyes wide, thighs trembling around the ache he’d slapped into you.

“Ben,” you whispered again, weaker this time, and the second it left your mouth, his hand cracked sharply across your face. Not enough to hurt badly, not enough to scare you, but enough to turn your head and leave your cheek stinging hot beneath the bathroom light.

The shock punched a broken sound out of you, but it wasn’t fear. It was a moan, loud and helpless, your pussy clenching so hard that Ben saw it happen. His jaw tightened like the sight had nearly ruined him. “Try again,” he said.

“Daddy,” you whimpered instantly.

Ben’s hand flexed against his jeans, rubbing the hard shape of his cock through the fabric while his mouth twisted into a cruel little smile. “There she is.” Your cheek burned where he’d slapped you, heat blooming under your skin while your whole body seemed to pulse with the humiliation of how badly you’d liked it.

He watched your face for a beat, making sure you were still with him, still wanting it, and the way your thighs stayed spread for him answered before your mouth could.

“You’re gonna learn real quick,” he said, voice dropping into that rough, old-fashioned arrogance that made your stomach twist, “that when Daddy tells you to keep somethin’ pretty, you don’t go reachin’ for a damn razor.”

His fingers slid down between your thighs then, not gentle, not giving you softness after the sting. He pinched your clit between two fingers, sharp and sudden, and your body jolted so hard your heel scraped against the bathtub. “Oh my god,” you gasped, grabbing at his wrist even though you didn’t pull him away.

Ben clicked his tongue, clearly unimpressed by the way you were falling apart already. “No, no. Don’t grab at me like you’re not spread open beggin’ for worse.” His fingers pinched again, controlled and cruel, enough to make your hips twitch up into his hand while your eyes watered from the intensity.

He palmed himself harder through his jeans as he watched you, breath coming heavier now, his own restraint fraying in the sharp line of his jaw. “Look at you,” he said, dragging his gaze over your pussy, swollen and wet and framed by the hair he’d decided belonged there. “Gettin’ all messy because I punished this pretty cunt for misbehavin’.”

Your face went hotter, but you couldn’t stop the needy little sounds spilling from you every time his fingers pressed and released. He noticed each one. He fed off them. “That’s it,” he muttered. “Cry about it a little. Makes you prettier.”

“Daddy,” you moaned again, louder this time, the word shaking out of you like a confession.

Ben’s expression went hungry.

He leaned closer, broad body crowding yours until all you could smell was smoke, whiskey, and him. His thumb brushed over your stinging cheek with a mockery of tenderness, almost sweet if his other hand wasn’t still between your thighs, keeping you trembling and exposed.

“Now you remember,” he murmured. “Had to slap some manners into you, huh?” Your lashes fluttered, and you nodded before you could stop yourself. That made him groan under his breath, rough and pleased, his hand rubbing over his cock through his jeans with less patience now.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he said, voice thick with lust. “You’re gonna be a real problem for me.” Then his eyes dropped once more to your pussy, and his mouth curved into something wicked. “But first, we’re gonna make damn sure you don’t forget who told you not to shave.”

Ben’s smile stayed cruel for one more second before he finally stood to his full height, towering over you in the cramped bathroom like he owned the damn place. His hand dropped from your hair, but the loss of contact didn’t make you feel free. If anything, it made you feel more exposed because his eyes kept you pinned harder than his grip ever could.

The bathroom door was still unlocked behind him, not even fully latched right because he’d shoved it closed in a hurry. Anyone in the house could’ve walked past and heard the low scrape of his breathing, the tiny desperate sounds you kept failing to swallow, or the sharp metallic clink when Ben touched his belt.

He didn’t care. Not even a little. He glanced toward the door once, almost lazily, then back at you like the risk only made him meaner. “Ain’t gonna save you by lookin’ at it,” he said, voice rough and smug. “Door’s right there, sweetheart.”

Your thighs trembled around the ache still pulsing between them. Ben’s hand moved to the buckle at his waist, and he looked down at you with that old-fashioned arrogance that made your stomach twist. “Now be useful and undo it.”

Your mouth went dry as you stared at him, sitting there with your pussy still exposed and your cheek still warm from his hand. Ben didn’t move closer at first, just waited with his head tilted slightly, like patience was a punishment of its own.

The leather belt sat heavy around his waist, dark and worn, the buckle catching the harsh bathroom light. You reached for it with shaky fingers, and his eyes dropped to your hands immediately. “Look at you,” he muttered, almost amused. “Shakin’ already.”

“I’m not,” you whispered, but the lie sounded pathetic even to you. Ben gave a low laugh that made your pussy clench again. “Sure you aren’t.” Your fingertips brushed the front of his jeans, and you felt him hard beneath the denim, thick and straining, hot even through the fabric.

He hissed softly through his teeth when you touched him, jaw tightening like he hated giving you the satisfaction. “Careful,” he said. “You wanted Daddy mean, don’t go actin’ delicate now.”

You swallowed hard and worked the belt open, the metal buckle clicking loudly in the quiet bathroom. The sound made your pulse jump because it felt too real, too close, too far past fantasy to pretend you hadn’t wanted this exact moment. Ben watched you unthread the leather with dark, greedy eyes, his chest rising slower now like he was forcing himself not to rush.

The belt slipped loose in your hands, heavy and warm from his body, and he let it hang there for a second just to watch you stare. “Jeans,” he ordered. Your fingers moved to the button, clumsy from nerves, and he clicked his tongue in irritation.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart, you ride a damn toy moanin’ my name but can’t work a zipper?” Heat flooded your face, but the shame only made your body react harder. You popped the button open, then dragged the zipper down slowly.

Ben’s cock strained immediately against the fabric beneath, the shape of him obscene and impossible to ignore. “That’s it,” he said, voice dipping. “There’s the smart girl.”

He shoved his jeans down just enough to free himself, and the sight of him made every thought in your head scatter. Ben was thick, heavy, and flushed dark at the head, the skin pulled tight and hot from how long he’d been hard watching you.

He wasn’t neat or pretty in some soft way. He looked obscene, masculine, and demanding, the kind of cock that made your stomach dip before you even touched it. A vein ran along the underside, standing out more when his hand wrapped around the base and stroked once for his own relief.

Pre-cum already glistened at the tip, gathering slowly before slipping down the swollen head. Your lips parted before you could stop yourself. Ben saw it and smiled like he’d caught you stealing. “Yeah,” he murmured.

“That’s what I thought.” He tapped the head of his cock against your lower lip, smearing the first wet streak across your mouth. “Been thinkin’ about this too, haven’t you?” You nodded before pride could stop you. “Say it.”

“I’ve thought about it,” you whispered, voice shaking so badly it barely sounded like you. Ben’s hand moved to your jaw, thumb pressing into one side while his fingers held the other. “About what?” he asked, because of course he wanted to make you say it. Your eyes flicked down to his cock, then back up to his face.

“About your cock,” you breathed. Ben groaned under his breath, a low, filthy sound that made his grip tighten. “Good girl.” The praise hit you hard enough to make your thighs squeeze together. His gaze dropped and caught the movement, and his mouth curled with satisfaction.

“Still tryin’ to rub that needy little cunt together?” he asked. “Greedy thing.” You whimpered, and he dragged the wet tip of his cock across your cheek before you could answer. “Mouth open.”

You obeyed instantly, lips parting around a shaky breath. Ben didn’t let you take him yet. Instead, he dragged his cock slowly across your face, smearing pre-cum over your lips, your cheek, and the corner of your mouth in a hot slick line.

The humiliation of it made your eyes flutter, but you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. You wanted him too badly, wanted the weight of him, the taste of him, the proof that he’d stopped pretending he didn’t want you back.

Ben watched your face the whole time, his expression cruel and fascinated, like he wanted to memorize exactly how ruined you looked before he even got inside your mouth.

“Look at that,” he muttered. “Pretty face made a mess already.” He rubbed the head of his cock against your lower lip again, smearing more pre-cum there until your mouth felt wet and swollen. “Tongue out,” he said. You stuck your tongue out immediately, and his eyes darkened. “Fuckin’ hell.”

Ben leaned over you, keeping one hand on his cock while the other gripped the counter beside your head. For a second, you thought he was just going to push inside your mouth. Then he spat directly onto your tongue. The wet heat of it landed heavy and humiliating, and your whole body shivered violently.

Ben smiled like the reaction pleased him. “Don’t swallow,” he said. Your tongue stayed out, trembling slightly, the spit shining there beneath the ugly bathroom light. He dragged the tip of his cock through it slowly, smearing his spit and pre-cum together over your tongue in a slick, filthy glide.

Your eyes watered from how badly you wanted him to stop teasing and just use your mouth already. Ben saw the desperation immediately. “Christ,” he said, voice rougher now. “You really are made for this.” He rubbed himself across your tongue again, hips pushing forward just enough to make your throat tighten in anticipation. “Daddy’s gonna ruin that mouth.”

The first push inside was slow enough to make you feel every inch. Ben’s cock stretched your lips wide, heavy on your tongue, the taste of pre-cum, spit, and warm skin filling your mouth all at once. Your hands went to his thighs automatically, gripping the denim bunched low around them for balance. He hissed sharply when your lips sealed around him.

“There you go,” he murmured, voice already darker. “Knew you’d look good with a mouthful of cock.” You made a soft sound around him, and the vibration dragged a rough groan from his chest. His fingers threaded into your hair, not gently, not sweetly, but with control that made your scalp sting in the best way.

“Don’t use teeth,” he warned. “Unless you want me to get real mean.” Your eyes flicked up to his. He smiled down at you. “That’s what I thought.”

You tried to start slow, lips sliding carefully along his length while your tongue pressed against the underside. Ben let you for maybe three strokes. Then his grip tightened in your hair, and he pulled you forward until the head of his cock pushed deeper against your tongue. “No,” he said flatly. “Not like that.”

Your breath stuttered through your nose as he held you there, the weight of him filling your mouth more completely now. “You don’t get to tease after what you almost did to that pretty bush.” He dragged you back slowly by the hair, then pushed in again, deeper this time.

Your throat fluttered around him, and his jaw tightened hard. “Fuck,” he groaned. “That’s better.” He looked down at you with blown pupils and a cruel little twist to his mouth. “Open up.”

You forced your jaw looser, eyes watering as Ben pushed farther in. He watched every tiny reaction, every blink, every shaky inhale through your nose, every way your hands tightened on his thighs. His cock was thick enough that your lips burned around him, and the stretch made your head feel light. “That’s it,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction. “Take it.”

He pulled out just enough for air to rush into your lungs, then pushed back in before you could recover fully. The rhythm made your body jolt, and your pussy pulsed wetly between your thighs. You were painfully aware of it, of how exposed you still were, of the soft hair Ben had forbidden you to shave framing the slick mess your body had become.

He was aware too. His eyes dropped once toward your open thighs, and he actually groaned at the sight. “Still drippin’,” he muttered. “All because Daddy’s using your mouth.”

The words made you moan around him, and Ben’s grip in your hair went brutal for half a second. “Yeah?” he asked, breath roughening. “You like hearin’ that?” You nodded as best you could with his cock in your mouth, and he gave a short, nasty laugh. “Course you do.”

He started moving his hips then, shallow at first, fucking into your mouth with controlled little thrusts that made your eyes water more with each one. The sound was obscene, wet and muffled and trapped in the small bathroom. Your cheeks hollowed instinctively, and Ben cursed beneath his breath.

“Goddamn, sweetheart.” His free hand came down to your cheek, thumb smearing the pre-cum already drying there. “Look at you.” He pushed deeper suddenly, making you gag softly around him. “That’s it. Let me hear it.”

The gag made him throb against your tongue. You felt it and whimpered, humiliation and arousal twisting together so tightly you couldn’t separate them anymore. Ben’s breath came heavier, his stomach tightening beneath his shirt each time your throat tried to take him. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t slow out of sweetness. He just watched you with cruel hunger, fingers locked in your hair while he used the grip to set the pace.

“You wanted this,” he said, voice low and harsh. “Don’t forget that.” Your nails dug into his thighs, and he looked pleased by the desperation. “Been upstairs ridin’ that toy thinkin’ about me, right?” He thrust again, rougher this time, making your throat flutter.

“Now you’ve got the real thing, and you’re still actin’ surprised.” A tear slipped down your cheek. Ben wiped it with his thumb, then smeared it into the pre-cum across your skin. “Pretty when you cry.”

Your body went hot and weak at that, thighs squeezing uselessly around the ache between them. Ben noticed the motion and laughed again, cruel and breathless. “Poor thing,” he said, though there was no pity in it. “Mouth full and still worried about your pussy.”

He pulled out until only the tip rested against your tongue, letting you breathe for one shaky second. You gasped softly, lips wet and swollen, chin messy. Ben looked at your mouth like it belonged to him now. “Say it,” he ordered. You blinked up at him, dazed.

“Say whose cock you wanted when you were ridin’ that little toy.” Your voice came out broken and wet. “Yours.” His eyes narrowed. “Try again.”

“Daddy’s,” you whispered.

Ben’s whole expression changed.

The word hit him like a match to gasoline, and his cock jerked hard in his own hand before he pushed back into your mouth. “There you go,” he groaned. “Now you’re learnin’.” He fucked your mouth harder after that, no longer pretending he was patient. His hips snapped forward in short, rough strokes, each one forcing your lips wider and your throat tighter around him.

Your hands gripped his thighs as tears gathered faster now, not from fear, but from the overwhelming fullness and the ruthless pace. Ben watched them spill with obvious satisfaction, his mouth parted, his breathing rough and uneven.

“Take it,” he rasped. “That’s a good girl.” You moaned again, and the sound came out muffled around his cock. “Fuck, that mouth.”

The unlocked door sat behind him like a dare the whole time. You could see it in brief, watery flashes whenever your eyes drifted past his body, the simple twist lock untouched, the hall beyond hidden but not distant enough. Ben didn’t even glance back. If anything, he angled himself wider in front of you, broad shoulders blocking most of the room while his hips kept moving.

“You nervous someone’ll hear?” he asked, voice thick with amusement. Your eyes widened around him, and that was answer enough. “Too bad.” He pushed deeper, holding you there long enough for your throat to tighten around him.

“Should’ve thought about that before callin’ me Daddy with your cunt out.” The shame made you whimper, and Ben’s cock pulsed heavily against your tongue. “There she is,” he muttered. “Loves being scared of gettin’ caught.”

He pulled out fully for a second, letting his cock drag wetly over your lips. You coughed once, soft and breathless, saliva clinging between your mouth and the flushed head of him before breaking. Ben gripped his cock at the base and slapped the heavy length lightly against your cheek. “Messy,” he said. “But you can do better.”

Your lips trembled as you looked up at him. “Please,” you whispered before you could stop yourself. His brows lifted. “Please what?” Your face burned. “Please use my mouth.”

Ben stared at you for half a second, then laughed in a way that made your stomach fold in on itself. “Now that’s a polite little slut.” He tapped the tip against your tongue. “Open.”

You opened for him again, and he slid in with less resistance because your mouth was already wet and stretched from him. This time he didn’t bother building slowly. He buried one hand in your hair and braced the other against the wall beside the mirror, hips driving forward until your throat tightened around him.

The bathroom mirror caught the angle of him above you, jeans shoved low, shirt rumpled, jaw clenched, eyes dark with lust. He looked like he’d walked straight out of every forbidden thought you’d ever had and become worse in person.

Meaner. Larger. More shameless. Your own reflection flashed in the corner of the mirror too, knees parted, face messy, mouth full, eyes wet. Ben saw you notice and grinned. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Look at yourself.”

You did, because his hand in your hair gave you no choice. Your face was smeared with pre-cum, spit, and tears, lips stretched around his cock while your mascara had started to blur at the edges of your lashes. Your body looked wrecked and exposed, pussy still bare under the light, the soft hair between your thighs damp with slick.

The sight made you moan around him without meaning to. Ben groaned immediately, hips stuttering once before he corrected himself. “Fuck,” he hissed. “Don’t do that unless you want me to finish early.” He pulled out abruptly, leaving you gasping, and wrapped his hand around himself at the base.

His cock was slick from your mouth now, shining wet, the head darker and more swollen than before. Pre-cum leaked again, thick and clear, slipping from the slit despite the way he held himself back. “Not in your mouth,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Not yet.”

You looked up at him, dazed and needy, throat aching and lips parted. Ben saw the disappointment flicker across your face and laughed under his breath. “Don’t pout,” he said. “You haven’t earned that.” His thumb smeared over your bottom lip, dragging saliva across your mouth before pushing lightly against your tongue.

You sucked it without thinking, and his jaw clenched so hard you saw the muscle jump. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re trouble.” He stepped closer again, cock heavy in his hand, still hard and slick and flushed from how close he’d nearly gotten. “Hands behind your back.”

You obeyed immediately, folding your hands behind yourself while still seated and exposed. Ben’s eyes dragged over you, pleased and mean. “Good. Now you’re gonna sit there and let Daddy decide what he does with you next.”

He rubbed the head of his cock over your lips again, not letting you take him, just painting your mouth with more slick while you fought to stay still. “This is what happens when you try to ruin somethin’ I like,” he said, voice low and dangerous.

“I make a mess of you instead.” Your pussy throbbed visibly beneath his gaze, and Ben’s mouth twisted. “Still wet,” he murmured. “That poor little cunt’s got no shame at all.” You whimpered, shoulders trembling with the effort not to reach for him again.

He dragged the underside of his cock across your cheek, then down over your chin, smearing your own spit back across your skin. “Gonna remember this every time you see that razor, aren’t you?” You nodded quickly, eyes wide and glossy. “Yes, Daddy.” Ben’s smile sharpened. “Damn right.”

He pushed back into your mouth one last time, slower than before but somehow even more possessive. Your lips closed around him, and he gave a deep groan that vibrated through the quiet room. He didn’t thrust immediately.

He just held himself there, heavy on your tongue, making you feel the weight and heat of him while your eyes stayed fixed on his face. “See?” he murmured. “This is useful.” Your throat worked around him, and his cock twitched hard. He hissed and pulled back before he could lose control.

“Fuck.” His hand tightened around himself again, stopping the orgasm that had clearly started to build too fast. He looked angry about wanting you this much, which only made him look hungrier.

“Not yet,” he said, voice wrecked but firm. “Daddy’s not done teachin’ you a lesson.” You gasped softly when he withdrew fully, mouth empty and aching. Ben looked down at you, cock still hard in his fist, and smiled like the night had only just started.

You sat there exactly how Ben had told you to, hands tucked behind your back, shoulders pulled slightly open because you weren’t allowed to hide from him anymore. Your breathing came back in uneven little pulls while your chest rose and fell too quickly, tits bouncing faintly with every shaky inhale as the bathroom light made every inch of you feel exposed.

Your mouth was still swollen and wet from him, lips parted as you tried to steady yourself, but Ben’s eyes weren’t on your face anymore. They had dropped lower, dragging over your bare chest, your trembling thighs, and the slick mess between your legs with the kind of shameless hunger that made your pussy clench again.

He stood over you with his jeans still open, cock hard and flushed in his hand, the head wet from your mouth and still leaking despite how tightly he held himself back.

The bathroom door stayed unlocked behind him, quiet and dangerous, but Ben didn’t even glance at it. He looked like he wanted the risk. He looked like he wanted you to remember every second.

“Hands stay there,” he said, voice rough and mean, his accent thicker now that he was worked up. “You move ’em, I stop.”

Your thighs twitched at that, and his mouth curled like he’d felt it somehow. “Course that gets your attention,” he muttered, stepping closer until his knees nearly brushed yours. “Mouth full of cock, cunt all wet, still sittin’ there like you’re the one bein’ tortured.” He dragged his gaze over your pussy again, slow and deliberate, taking in the soft bush he’d already decided belonged exactly where it was.

“Look at this,” he said, almost under his breath, like he was still pissed at you for nearly shaving it. “Pretty little thing, all soaked and puffy, and you were gonna take a razor to it.” Your face burned, but you didn’t close your legs. You couldn’t.

Ben dropped slowly to one knee in front of you, then the other, big hands landing on your thighs with a grip that made your breath hitch. “Since you wanted to be stupid,” he said, spreading you open wider, “Daddy’s gonna remind this pussy why it doesn’t need fixin’.”

The first rough pull at your bush made you gasp sharply. Ben’s fingers tangled in the soft hair between your thighs, tugging just enough to make your hips jerk and your clit throb. “There,” he said, voice low with satisfaction. “See? Personality.”

Your pussy looked wrecked beneath his stare, swollen from arousal, glossy with slick, the lips flushed darker and parted around the wet ache he’d worked you into without even properly touching you yet. The hair framed you messily, damp near the center from how wet you’d gotten, and Ben looked at it like it was something he wanted to ruin and worship at the same time.

His thumb dragged through your folds once, slow and rude, spreading your slick before he pressed the pad of it against your clit. You whimpered, shoulders trembling as you fought to keep your hands behind your back. Ben watched your face with cruel amusement. “Don’t start cryin’ yet,” he said. “Haven’t even put my mouth on you.”

Then he leaned in.

The first drag of his tongue through your pussy made your whole body jolt against the toilet seat, a broken sound spilling out of you before you could swallow it. Ben groaned into you immediately, the vibration rolling straight through your clit and making your thighs shake harder beneath his hands.

He didn’t eat you gently. There was nothing delicate about the way he opened you with his thumbs, pulled lightly at the hair to angle you how he wanted, then licked into you like he was angry at how good you tasted.

“Fuck,” he muttered against you, mouth wet and rough. “That’s why you were actin’ so dumb, huh?” His tongue pushed inside you suddenly, hot and firm, and your head tipped back against the wall with a helpless moan. “Daddy,” you gasped, already shaking. Ben’s hands tightened on your thighs. “Yeah,” he growled into your pussy. “That’s what I thought.”

He tongue fucked you with filthy, impatient strokes, pushing in and dragging out just to feel the way you clenched around him. Every time your hips lifted, he shoved you back down with one hand and tugged at your bush with the other, keeping you spread open and helpless under his mouth.

“Stay still,” he snapped, but there was a rough smile in his voice. “You wanted to be a big girl and shave this pretty cunt, didn’t you?” His tongue circled your clit before he sucked it into his mouth, and the sudden pressure ripped a loud cry out of you.

“Ben—” His hand came down hard on your thigh, not your face this time, but the warning was clear. He pulled back only enough to glare up at you. “What’d you call me?” Your chest heaved, tits bouncing with the effort of breathing. “Daddy,” you corrected quickly, voice breaking. Ben’s expression softened into something meaner. “Better.”

He went back down like he’d been starving.

His mouth sealed over your clit, sucking until your legs tried to clamp around his head, but his shoulders forced them open again. The scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs made everything sharper, rougher, dirtier, every pass of his mouth leaving you more sensitive than the last.

He kept making those low, approving sounds into you, like he couldn’t decide whether to punish you or praise himself for getting you this messy. “Look at you,” he mumbled between licks, his lips shining with you. “All wet for your dad’s best friend.”

The words made you moan so hard your hands twitched behind your back, and Ben noticed instantly. “Don’t you fuckin’ move those hands.” You froze, breath catching. He smiled against your pussy. “Good girl. Learnin’.”

You were shaking so hard now that staying upright took effort, your back pressed against the wall, knees spread wide, hands locked behind you while Ben worked you open with his mouth. His tongue pushed inside you again, deeper this time, the wet obscene sound of it filling the bathroom while his nose brushed against your clit. You moaned his title over and over, each

“Daddy” softer and more ruined than the last, and every one seemed to make him rougher. He dragged his tongue up to your clit and flicked it fast, then sucked, then pulled back just to spit on your pussy and smear it in with two fingers.

“Messy little thing,” he muttered, rubbing the spit and slick over your swollen clit before replacing his fingers with his mouth. Your body lurched forward, but he shoved you back again with a hand on your stomach.

“No. Sit there and take it.” His other hand pulled at your bush again, possessive and cruel, making you whimper from the sting and the pleasure tangled together. “This stays,” he said against you. “You hear me?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you sobbed.

The answer made him groan like it satisfied something ugly inside him. He licked you harder after that, mouth dragging over every wet, swollen inch of you while his hands held you open like he owned the view. Your orgasm started building too fast, violent and hot, gathering low in your stomach until your thighs trembled uncontrollably around his head.

“I’m close,” you gasped, voice shaking. Ben didn’t pull away. He only looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and mouth slick, and the sight nearly finished you right there. “Then come,” he ordered, voice muffled against your pussy.

“Cum on Daddy’s tongue.” His tongue pushed back inside you at the same time his thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, cruel circles that made your whole body seize. You cried out, hands straining behind your back as pleasure finally snapped through you.

You came hard against his mouth, hips bucking despite his grip, thighs shaking so violently that Ben had to hold you down. He didn’t stop. He licked you through it, tongue dragging through the slick rush of your orgasm while you sobbed his name wrong once and then corrected yourself into a desperate “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy” that made him growl into you.

Your pussy clenched around his tongue, swollen and soaked, every pulse making your body jolt in sharp little waves. Ben drank it in with a filthy kind of satisfaction, sucking and licking until you were writhing away from him because it was too much. Only then did he finally pull back, lips and chin wet, breathing rough as he looked up at you.

“There,” he said, voice wrecked but still cruel. “That’s what this pussy needed.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grabbed your thigh hard enough to make you whimper. “Not a razor.” His eyes dropped to the soft, damp hair between your legs, and his mouth twisted with smug approval. “Me.”

Ben didn’t give you time to come down properly before his hand was back in your hair, hauling you up from the toilet seat with a roughness that made your knees nearly buckle. Your body was still shaking from his mouth, thighs slick and trembling, pussy swollen and wet enough that every step felt obscene.

“Up,” he growled, like he didn’t care that you were boneless and breathless and barely able to think. His grip stayed firm at the back of your neck as he turned you toward the sink, crowding behind you with his open jeans brushing against the backs of your thighs.

The bathroom mirror caught everything immediately, your messy mouth, your flushed cheeks, your tits rising and falling too fast, and Ben behind you looking huge and mean and completely gone on you. “Look at yourself,” he said, voice low against your ear. “Look what Daddy did to you already.”

Your palms hit the counter as he bent you forward, the edge of the sink pressing hard into your hips while your legs shook beneath you. Ben didn’t let you close them, not even for a second. He shoved one thigh between yours and forced your stance wider with his own legs, spreading you open until your pussy was exposed to him in the reflection.

“There,” he muttered, one hand gripping your hip while the other dragged down your spine. “Much better.”

Your eyes flicked to the mirror and immediately tried to drop, humiliation burning through you at the sight of yourself bent over the bathroom sink with your thighs parted and your slick still shining between them. Ben caught your chin from behind and forced your head back up. “No,” he snapped. “You wanted this. Now you watch.”

Before you could answer, two of his fingers shoved into your mouth, pressing down against your tongue until your lips closed around them automatically. “That’s it,” he said, sounding disgustingly pleased. “Drool on ’em.”

Your eyes watered as he pushed them deeper, your mouth stretched around his fingers while saliva gathered fast and messy. He watched you in the mirror, jaw tight, pupils blown, his cock dragging hot and heavy against your soaked folds from behind.

The tease of it made your hips jerk back despite yourself. Ben laughed under his breath, mean and breathless. “Greedy little thing. Mouth full and still tryin’ to get fucked.”

Then he lined himself up and thrust into you hard.

The stretch stole every bit of air from your lungs. Your moan came out muffled around his fingers, broken and wet, while your hands scrambled against the sink for something to hold. Ben cursed behind you, low and rough, his grip on your hip turning brutal as your pussy clenched around him immediately.

“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead dipping briefly against your shoulder. “Tight little cunt’s been beggin’ for this all night.” He didn’t give you time to adjust for long. He pulled back halfway and snapped his hips forward again, shoving himself deep enough that your knees nearly gave out. “Look,” he ordered, fingers still pressing into your mouth. “Look how pathetic you are takin’ it.”

You forced your eyes up to the mirror, and the sight nearly ruined you. Your lips were stretched around Ben’s fingers, drool slipping down your chin, eyes glossy and blown wide while his body crowded yours from behind.

His cock disappeared into you with every rough thrust, your pussy wet enough that the sound filled the bathroom, filthy and rhythmic beneath both of your breathing. Your slick coated him instantly, creamy and clear around the base every time he drove back into you, making a messy shine where your bodies met.

Ben’s hand left your hip suddenly and came down hard across your ass, the slap echoing off the tile. You cried out around his fingers, clenching violently around him. He felt it instantly. “Oh, you liked that,” he said, voice sharpening with cruel amusement. “Course you did. Dirty little slut likes bein’ bent over and used in the bathroom.”

Your pussy tightened harder at the words, and Ben groaned like it pissed him off how good you felt. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, spanking you again, harder this time. “You’re squeezin’ me every time I call you what you are.” His fingers pressed deeper into your mouth, making you drool more, making the reflection even messier.

“That what you needed?” he asked, hips snapping into you with mean, steady force. “Needed Daddy to talk to you like some needy little whore so this pretty cunt would behave?” You whimpered around his fingers, nodding before you could stop yourself. His mouth twisted in the mirror. “Yeah. Thought so.”

Ben fucked you harder after that, like your body had given him permission to stop pretending he had any restraint left. One hand stayed in your mouth, keeping you quiet and messy, while the other alternated between gripping your hip and landing sharp, stinging slaps against your ass.

Each one made your body jolt forward against the sink, and each thrust dragged you back onto him again. “Look at that,” he rasped, eyes locked on the reflection of where your bodies met. “Taking Daddy’s cock like you were made for it.”

Your walls fluttered around him, slick and hot and clenching every time his voice dropped into that cruel, possessive tone. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, hips stuttering for half a second before he caught himself. “This pussy’s dangerous.”

You tried to say Daddy, but it came out as a wet, muffled sound around his fingers. Ben’s expression darkened at the attempt. “What was that?” he taunted, thrusting deep and holding there until you squirmed. You drooled around his fingers, eyes pleading in the mirror, body shaking from how full you felt. He pulled his fingers out just enough for you to gasp. “Say it.”

“Daddy,” you cried immediately, voice wrecked and breathless. Ben slammed back into you so hard your hands slipped against the counter. “Good girl,” he grunted. “Say it again.”

“Daddy,” you moaned, louder this time, and your pussy clenched down around him so hard he swore through his teeth.

His hand came back to your hip, fingers digging in as he chased that reaction again and again. “That’s it,” he said, voice rough and breaking at the edges now. “Keep squeezin’ me like that.”

You could feel how close he was getting, the way his thrusts turned less controlled, deeper and harsher, each one punching little broken sounds from your throat. Your own orgasm built fast, too fast, pressure tightening low in your stomach until your thighs were shaking against his.

Your cum started slicking him even more before you fully tipped over, wetness gathering thick and messy around his cock, smearing down your inner thighs, making every thrust sound wetter than the last. Ben saw it in the mirror, saw your pussy getting sloppy around him, saw the creamy ring of your arousal coating the base of him. “Don’t you look away,” he ordered. “You’re gonna watch yourself cum on Daddy’s cock.”

The command snapped something inside you. Your body seized against the sink, pussy clamping down around him as your orgasm hit hard enough to make your vision blur. “Daddy,” you sobbed, shaking violently while pleasure tore through you in hot, helpless waves.

Your cum soaked around him, slick and messy, your pussy pulsing so hard it pushed wetness down over his cock and onto your thighs with every clench. Ben groaned deep behind you, his grip turning almost painful as your orgasm dragged his out of him too.

“Fuck,” he rasped, hips driving in once, twice, then holding deep as he came with a broken, furious sound against your shoulder. You felt him spill hot inside you, thick pulses filling you while his cock twitched hard through every wave. The heat of his cum made you whimper, your overstimulated pussy clenching around him again as if trying to milk out every last drop.

Some of it pushed wetly around his cock where he stayed buried, mixing with your slick until both of you were messy and trembling in the mirror. His body pressed hard over yours, breath hot at your neck while both of you shook through it together. After a long moment, Ben laughed softly against your skin, rough and breathless. “That’s one hell of a lesson, sweetheart.”

© CUMKISSED ♡ | EST. JUNE 2026 ˎˊ˗ all original content found here belongs to me. canon material belongs to its respective owners. don't repost it, don't feed it to ai, don't translate it, don't archive it elsewhere, and definitely don't pretend you wrote it. ♡

It started simple, casual, easy. Dean had come to your room long past midnight when neither of you could sleep, the way it usually ended up. The conversation bounced from topic to topic before Dean got a little flirty and ended up asking you how many times you've come in one night.

The answer made his jaw drop. None. No guy had ever made you come.

"You're serious? No bullshit?" he asked, squinting his eyes to figure out what was true.

You laughed. "Is it really that unbelievable?"

Dean huffed, motioning wide with his hands. "Yeah! I mean...shit, sweetheart, that's tragic. Really."

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, and I'm assuming you've made every girl you've been with come?"

He stopped, looking dead serious. "Well...yeah. That's kind of the whole point."

Your smile fell slowly. "Seriously? Every time?"

He chuckled in disbelief. "I know what I'm doing, sweetheart."

Somehow, the air changed, and you swallowed. Something in you was brave tonight, and the next words out of your mouth surprised you both. "Show me." Dean didn't move, didn't breathe. He just stared. Stared for a second too long and you were backing out. "I didn't mean— well, okay, fuck—"

And then he was on you, pushing you down until your back hit the mattress, his lips sliding against yours desperately. His hands gripped your waist and hair, tight but not hurtful. "Fuck, thought you'd never ask," he murmured into your lips.

You gasped into the kiss, quickly catching up to his movements and sliding your fingers through his hair, tugging. He groaned, pressing his hips into yours, grinding. You moaned at the feel of him, half-hard and still big.

He pulled back suddenly, panting as he stared down at you. "If we're doin' this, we're doin' it right." You furrowed your brows at his words, sitting up as he stood up. He sat on the edge of the bed, grabbing your hand. "C'mere, baby."

Your neck and face heated up slightly at his words, but you followed his command, moving over to him. He lifted you up and placed you on his lap, his hands gripping your hips as he leaned in and sucked softly on your neck.

You bared your neck, eyes closing as he suckled, a soft sigh leaving your lips. His hands guided your hips, moving you back and forth slowly over him. You moaned softly from the friction, hand coming up to grip the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Oh, hell," you moaned softly, trying to speed up your hips. But Dean just kept them where he wanted them, at his pace.

"Mm, nah, baby, this is gonna be heaven. Gonna make you feel so fuckin' good."

He forced those slow rolls of your hips until you were whining, your head on his shoulder as you felt the wetness seeping through your panties and onto your jeans. Dean was more than hard by the end of it, his cock aching and begging for more, but he stayed patient.

This was all about you.

Hickeys were sucked dark into your neck, and your nipples were hard from the sensation, straining against your bra. Dean stopped your hips, his hands tugging your shirt up and you let him, arms going up to help him get your top off.

The bra came soon after, and then his lips were sucking on one nipple, his fingers pinching the other. You arched into him, moaning. "Fuck, Dean," you whimpered.

Dean hummed into your skin, switching nipples and repeating the process until you were withering. His lips kissed at the valley in between your tits, his tongue lapping at your skin as he popped open the button of your jeans.

He manhandled you onto the bed, your back hitting the mattress, your tits bouncing. Dean yanked your jeans down, tossing them somewhere before diving down, pressing sloppy kisses to your thighs.

His fingers dug into your flesh, spreading your legs apart as he continued kissing toward your soaked panties. He was like a man starved, his teeth scraping against your skin and his tongue soothing each pass. He finally got to your panties, pressing a kiss to the soaked center.

"Look at you, all desperate for it." He chuckled, eyes flicking up to look at you. You were a panting mess, your chest heaving and your eyes locked on his.

He massaged your thighs, pushing your legs up into a bended position, spreading you open more. "Don't move," he told you, pulling back to yank his shirt off. He moved up, muscles flexing as he hovered over you.

Your hand glided down his body, nails scraping against his abs, before your fingers hooked in the waistband of his jeans. Dean chuckled, leaning down and kissing you desperately. All teeth and tongue and it took your breath away.

He pulled away, quickly shedding his jeans and leaving him only in his boxers, soaked with pre-cum and hiding none of his hard-on. He pressed his hips into yours, grinding as he sucked at your jaw.

You moaned and he pressed harder, dragging his clothed dick against your soaked panties. "Ah- fuck," he growled, teeth nipping at your skin. "Feel so fucking good, sweetheart."

"Dean..." You grabbed his head, forcing him to look at you. "Fuck me."

Dean's eyes flickered over your face, a smirk on his lips. "Patience is a virtue, baby," he said, before yanking your panties down. He freed his cock from his boxers, and the look on your face told him all he needed to know.

He dragged the head up and down your slit, causing both of you to let out small, desperate noises. "Fuck- so goddamn wet."

The head caught on your entrance with every pass, and every time he pushed in a little further, causing you to moan. He leaned down, one arm placed by your head, holding him up as he hovered over you. The other hand gripped himself, lining him up with your entrance.

He kissed you deeply, pushing in slowly. Your mouth fell open in a quiet whimper, nails digging into his back at the sheer size of him. The stretch was deliciously painful. Dean groaned into your lips, the feel of your wet heat causing his head to spin.

"Dean- fuck," you moaned, head falling back into the pillow.

He stopped about halfway, stilling so that you could fully adjust. He gave small, shallow thrusts, forcing your pussy to stretch around his dick. His hand came down, thumb slowly rubbing circles over your puffy clit.

You whimpered, digging your face into his shoulder. He chuckled, deepening his thrusts until he was fully inside, feeling the way your legs shook slightly. "Hell, baby, you take me so fuckin' good," he murmured, nibbling your earlobe.

His thrusts stayed slow, pulling halfway out and then pushing back in, getting you used to the feeling of him. He did that for what felt like forever, dragging his cock along your walls in a way that made him crazy.

His thumb never stopped its ministrations on your clit—pausing for a second to hike your leg up over his shoulder, but he went right back to it.

The angle had changed now, deeper and far more pleasurable, and you moaned right into his ear when he thrusted particularly hard. "Yeah?" He chucked against your jaw.

You whined, nodding. Dean did it again, and then again, before he fully sped up and started pounding into you like it was all he was made to do. Your nails dragged down his back as you whined out, legs shaking as he sped up his assault on your clit.

"So fucking good," he praised into your ear, pulling almost all of the way out before slamming back in.

"Oh!" you moaned, voice cracking as your head dug into the pillow, toes curling. "Dean, oh, fuck!"

Dean groaned against you, repeating the motion again and again just to hear the noises from your mouth. "Say my name like that again," he panted against your ear. "Fuckin' love how you moan my name."

He sucked on your neck, keeping his pace. "Dean!" you cried out, nails digging into his skin enough to send sparks through him, causing him to moan.

"Fuck, sweetheart, you're so good f'me," he murmured, pulling his head back to look at you. Your eyes were closed, mouth open in small moans and pants. "Look at me."

You whimpered, eyes fluttering open and struggling to stay that way as he continued thrusting. "I'm-"

"Good," Dean interrupted. "Wanna feel you come on my cock. Wanna watch those pretty eyes as you do."

You nodded, speechless as he forced the orgasm from you finally. Your moans were broken as you arched, legs shaking as your pussy clamped down around him, pulsing as your climax overtook you.

Dean moaned, leaning in and kissing you through it as he spilled inside of you. You gasped into his mouth at the feeling, hands grabbing at his hair. "Oh, fuck," you whined, nodding at the feeling.

Slowly, you both came down and Dean stopped, taking his time slipping out of you. You were both panting and he brought his hand up, brushing the hair from your face. "Feel good?" he asked, smirking.

You closed your eyes, nodding. "Mhm."

He leaned in, kissing your neck softly. "Good. Told you I know what I'm doing."

You giggled, leaning into his touch. "Shut up."

You smoothed out your bloody skirt out of habit. Why your brain was worried about wrinkles when the fabric was ruined was beyond you. Just one of those nervous ticks your mother would sigh at you about your entire childhood. 

Stop fidgeting. Sit up straight. Cross your ankles. For heaven’s sake, at least pretend to smile.

If only she could see you now. 

Your whole body flinched when the door of the ornate wood office you sat in opened. You didn’t bother to stand. Civility was out the door tonight. The blood staining your hands was proof enough of that.

The door thudded shut behind you, your eyes locked on the roaring fireplace before you. Flames danced in the dim space before a light flickered on from somewhere behind you, most likely the one on the large mahogany desk in the center of the room. 

Your back was ramrod straight at the very least. Maybe your mother was looking down at you with a smile for that.

Hell, who were you kidding. She was looking up. Knowing her, she’d made friends with the demons and was working on charming the devil himself.

Your body was perched on the edge of the cognac brown leather couch, barely sitting on the cushion, poised for…something. To flee? To fight? To accept death?

Why was your neck suddenly itchy? 

Oh, right. The dried blood. 

You absently scratched at it, heart stopping when footsteps echoed off the hardwoods, making the way from the grand rug over in your direction. You breathed slowly, feeling the man’s gaze on your back. The footsteps fell away, the distinctive sound of a record catching behind you. 

Rita Hayworth’s voice filled the air, breath catching. 

Put the blame on mame, boy.

Your visitor said nothing, just let the sound play through. Once. Twice. Three times. 

What the fuck was this person getting at? Put the blame on…but you did it. There was nothing else to…

Footsteps sounded again, heart in your throat as they continued closer this time. Hands rested on the back of your shoulders, not gripping them but simply…resting there.

“It’s almost insulting really. You, not having a clue what you were doing, slitting Harrison Blackburn’s throat like it’s your fuckin’ day job. You put my boys to shame. They tell me they ain’t never seen something so ruthless out of someone so…innocent. I should put you on the payroll.”

Ah. That explains why two burly men picked you up, blood still wet and sticky, shoving you in the back of a car and driving you straight to a massive estate in River Forest. This guy was in the mob too and if he was happy about Harrison’s death then that meant one thing.

Winchester.

“Is that why I’m here? To join the crew?” The man didn’t laugh at the bad joke, simply removed his hands from behind you. He stalked around the right side, into your field of vision. You swallowed thickly at the man in the suit before you.

Harrison had been handsome, your fatal flaw for ever getting involved with him right there, but this man? 

Oh, this man could turn a saint into a sinner with nothing more than a flirty smile.

“Dean Winchester.” Oldest son. He walked over to a matching leather chair off to the side, taking a seat, a glass of dark amber liquid in his hand. He held it out to you, an offer, and you gracefully took it, Dean not seeming to care that your blood stained hand touched his.

You sipped down the burning drink, unsure if it was a whiskey, a scotch or whatever the hell it was. All you knew was if you were about to be killed by Dean Winchester, you wanted to be drunk for it. You threw back the rest of the glass, Dean’s eyes flaring wide for a split second.

“That’s a sipping whiskey, sweetheart. Burns even the hardiest of men. You’re full of surprises.”

“It’s been a day,” you said, handing him back the glass. He hummed as he took it, setting it aside on a end table.

“That it has. So. To what atrocity did your beloved commit to be met with a grisly fate at your delicate hands? Surely you knew who Harrison was.”

“Not until it was too late. You don’t exactly get to break up with a mobster’s son. You just hope they get bored of you.” Dean licked his lips, narrowing his eyes.

“And yet…seems you were the one to end the relationship after all. What changed? Cheat one too many times? Force himself on you? Beat you so badly you had to hide inside for weeks?” Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What made you snap?”

“He was making plans to kidnap a child. One of the rival families. Was going to send the boy back in pieces. He was proud of himself, proud of how happy his father was with his planned brutality.” Dean watched you cautiously, sitting up straight. “Only the truly evil hurt children.”

“So you slayed the demon,” said Dean, looking you up and down. “It was my cousin.”

“What?” Dean nodded. 

“My cousin, Jack. He’s about four, cute as a button. We found out and I was planning on making Harrison pay deeply. You want to fuck with the grown ups, with the men, fine. But you leave the women and kids out of it. End of story. Blackburn crossed a line. The only thing I didn’t know was Senior was all for it. That’s an injustice that still needs to be corrected.”

You stared at him, Dean running a hand over his mouth, slumping back into his chair. 

“I didn’t want him to die that quickly.”

“I stabbed his dick too if that makes you feel better.” Dean smirked, tilting his head.

“It does to a degree. But now I have a conundrum.” You made fists with your hands, Dean spotting the movement. “You did me a favor, not for any personal gain but simply to protect a kid. I respect that. Greatly.”

“But.” He smiled, almost sad like.

“But as far as anyone knows, my men killed Harrison in retaliation for the planned kidnapping and murder. You, you are just Harrison Blackburn’s girl that we grabbed.”

“So un-grab me.” Dean cocked his head, shaking it. “Why not?”

“Because daddy Blackburn sees you as part of the family. The daughter he never had. You and Harrison were engaged. No, no. I hold a valuable card with you, sweetheart.”

You swallowed, closing your eyes. “You’re saying…you’re saying I did you a massive fucking favor and my reward is to be kidnapped by you?”

“Kidnapped is such a mean word,” said Dean, shaking his head. “Think of it as an involuntary stay at a sprawling estate where your every want and desire will be fulfilled until such time as the Blackburn family empire has come crumbling down. I’ll give you more than enough money where you never have to work or depend on a man again once it’s through. I’ll leven relocate you to a place of your choosing.”

“The Blackburns have been in the mob since 1893,” you growled.

“So only some fifty odd years. Bound to fall apart sometime soon,” said Dean, standing up with a smile. You finally stood, Dean eyeing you up and down. Blood spatter on your face. Jacket and blouse soaked. Blue skirt stained almost black and tar like. “I can treat you like a princess or a prisoner. Your choice.”

“Senior doesn’t give two shits about me and we both know it.” You lifted your chin, narrowing your eyes. “So what the fuck do you really want with me?”

“Such a nasty mouth on such a proper appearing lady,” Dean snickered. “One might think you were raised in the gutter. Tell me, why would I, leader of the Winchester family, want you? If not for ransom or leverage, then what?”

“I’m done with this.” You stalked around the coffee table, Dean easily shifting and walking around the chair, nonchalantly blocking your path to the office doors. “You saw what happened to the last guy that fucked with me. Move.”

“Baby, there’s nothing more that I’d love than to…fuck,” he let the word linger, eyes raking up and down your body, “With you. But you killed a boss’ son. I let you go, Blackburn will find you and torture you and this place will seem like heaven compared to the twisted games he’d play with you. If he was so willing to let a child suffer, imagine what he’d do to you?”

“I’ll leave Chicago.” Dean shook his head. “Yes, I-”

“The Winchesters are indebted to you.” Dean stepped once, twice, closer until he was in your space, staring you down with a smirk. “We repay our debts. You will be protected until it is safe. No exceptions.”

“Why do you even care?” He reached up a hand, stroking over your jaw, catching your chin between this thumb and forefinger. 

“Someone will come escort you to your new quarters so you can wash. Feel free to roam the house and grounds.” He dropped his hand and walked past you to his desk, refilling his glass with more liquor. “You’re dismissed. Wait.”

You peered over your shoulder, Dean’s green eyes dark, predator like. It made you shiver, his subtle warmth from before gone.

“It does make a man think…what are the odds that Harrison meets his demise by another the same night I was planning to end his life?” Dean carried his glass over, swinging it back in full like you had, gritting his teeth through the pain. “Not even a tremble during the act. Just…brutally efficient.”

You swallowed and faced forward, Dean pressing up behind you, leaning in, ghost of his breath caressing your ear.

“Almost like…it wasn’t the first time. Reaper.”

Your stomach dropped, body rigid as stone. Dean chuckled softly behind you. 

“Unfortunate for you I have a source inside Blackburn’s organization. He’s always known his son was psychotic which is why he hired you, to keep an eye on the schmuck. Senior was outraged at the thought of his son going after a child. Senior ordered the hit on Harrison. How am I doing so far, sweetheart?”

You kept your mouth shut, Dean humming.

“And all the while, he gets to blame it on a mugging gone wrong, a rival family taking out his second born. Doesn’t matter. Senior took care of a problem and you just…float on away back into the shadows like you do. Until she’s called upon again by some criminal socialite to do the dirty work of the mob or the police or a scorned ex-wife. You’re a dangerous woman, Y/N Y/L/N. You were so close to getting away with it, with me believing your little story. Problem is, Senior knows the rules. He’s a bastard but a respectable one. No women. No kids. That man would never be proud of his son for going outside the bounds.”

You stared dead ahead, forcing your body to stay steady. “So you caught Reaper. I’m done with the foreplay. Kill me already, Mr. Winchester.”

“You’ve done nothing to me. Why would I kill you? Your reputation precedes you. Vixen of death. Reaper of souls. The smile that sends evil to hell. Quite impressive for a murderess to have such a strong moral code. Never the innocent, only the cruel.” Dean walked around you, tilting his head with that dark smile again. “I can’t just let someone like you with your…skills…walk away. Now that you’ve moved on from New York and LA to make Chicago your new hunting ground, I can’t let you wander about. Not until we can trust one another and trust takes time.”

You shook your head. “You’re afraid someone will hire me to kill you. Or kill some corrupt player that’s important to your organization.” Dean hummed. You licked your lips, tasting the hint of iron, flashing Dean a dark smile of your own. “You’d be better off killing me. Letting me wander about, keeping me caged…never know what kind of secrets I might find out about you, Mr. Winchester. Because that hit? Oh, I’ll do that one for free.”

“So that’s a no on the working for me thing.” You feigned a pout, quickly narrowing your eyes. Dean laughed quietly, eyeing you up and down. “You’ll change your mind eventually.”

“Careful there, Icarus. You don’t want to play with this fire.” Dean gave you a look that said he very much did. You rolled your eyes, bumping into him hard as you went for the office door.

“Breakfast is served at eight,” he said and you could just hear the smile in his voice. “Goodnight, Reaper.”

“You’re going to regret this, Winchester.”