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ৎ୭ okay so, clingy!dean, patching up trope, friends to lovers, morning sex...uh yeah i'm crazy and i hope you all like it. the sex moves fast toward the end sorrrry, i was too excited to finish so if it sucks i apologize. i have also been in a mind-fuck since my dog's death so this might not be my best work but i sure as fuck hope it hits since i got turned on while writing. count how many times i use “baby” as a pet name ffs. love ya. requests open :)
rated r, 18+ smut, blood mentioned a lot ⋆✴︎˚⋆ 5k words ⋆✴︎˚⋆ fem!reader (no y/n)
His knuckles were bathed in blood and tight around the wheel. He tore down an empty road as the moon sat high in the sky with you beside him, clenching your side while your head rested on his thigh. Every whine, every tiny cough, every shaky breath made his heart stop. Bad hunt. Very bad hunt.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he choked out. “Fuck.”
“Just…get me…back.”
“I’m trying, sweetheart. I’m trying.”
His name fell out of your mouth like a beg—a tiny, fragile cry for him. His heart practically dropped to the floor of the Impala. He couldn’t stop picturing you dying in his lap. Guilt began building inside him. Why did he leave you alone? Why didn’t he protect you? Every possibility tore through him until only one remained, crueler than the rest.
What if you die before he can tell you he loves you?
By the time the glowing sign of the motel came into view, you were barely conscious. Before the engine had even died, he was already lifting you as gently and quickly as he could.
The mattress softened beneath you as he laid you down, his hands cradling your bruised and bloodstained face. The look in his eyes—that worry, that love—was enough to pull you back. He hesitated for only a second before rushing around the motel room, grabbing whatever he could. He yanked open the first-aid kit, gauze spilling onto the floor.
He crouched down and peeled your blood-soaked shirt up, exposing the wound on the side of your stomach. A tiny whimper left you when the cool air hit the wound. It was a deep slash that could barely be seen through all the blood.
“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled.
You opened your eyes to look at him. He was damp. Sweat and blood caked in his hair and smeared on his face. His gaze was tender, but so much worry sat behind it. His hand moved to your wound, gently pressing a towel against it. You held back the scream your throat wanted to let out.
“Get ready,” he murmured, giving you a moment before pressing harder against your stomach. A broken cry left your lips, followed by a ragged breath.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he panted, eyes darting to your face immediately. Slow blinks. Tiny breaths. “Talk to me,” he pleaded through his teeth.
“I…like…your shirt.”
A broken laugh left him. “Yeah?” He leaned over you, looking at your frail face. “You pick now to flirt with me?”
“Yeah…” you sighed, eyes fluttering shut.
“No.”
His voice cracked as his hand left your side to cup your face. “Keep talking, baby. C’mon.” You hummed, forcing your heavy eyes open and gathering the strength to speak.
“I don’t…” You drew in a shaky breath. “I don’t have insurance.”
Another broken laugh escaped him. “On the house.”
Your face twisted with pain, and every part of him was screaming to pull you into his arms and apologize until his throat gave out. But instead, his trembling hands returned to your wound, carefully pressing fresh gauze against it—doing everything he could to stop the blood and keep you alive.
After the gauze was soaked in blood, he knelt to assess the wound, trying to see how deep it was. His breath caught. It was still deep, but not nearly as bad as he’d imagined. He let out a slow breath before hurrying to the sink, grabbing water to clean the area. He was back at your side almost instantly, carefully washing away the blood until the wound came into view. His big hands worked slowly, as tenderly as they could, so he wouldn’t cause you more pain.
He tore through the med-kit again until he found the wound closures. The slash definitely needed stitches, but these would have to do. He peeled a few from the package before looking back up at you.
“Alright, baby.” He held one up between his fingers. “I gotta pull the cut together.”
You nodded weakly as he pressed the adhesive strips into place.
“This is gonna hurt.” His fingers settled on the first strip. “Breathe for me.”
A choked cry tore from your throat, back arching off the mattress before you could stop it. His eyes pinched shut, and his jaw tightened, like he felt it too. “I know,” he said immediately. “I know, baby.”
He hesitated, fingers refusing to move to the next strip. When he looked at you, you were still trying to catch your breath.
“Do it, Dean,” you whispered.
He nodded once and tightened the second strip. You sucked in a sharp breath, knuckles turning white against the sheet. Before either of you could overthink it, he pulled the last one closed. Once the wound was finally together, he carefully laid a thick gauze pad over it.
“You’re a cute…doctor, doctor.”
He ripped a piece of medical tape with his teeth, raising his eyebrows at you. “Doctor, huh?”
You hummed, looking at him through heavy eyes. “You’re bloody.”
“Yeah, well…” a small, broken smile tugged at his mouth. “You’re one to talk.”
You hummed again, letting your eyes drift over him one more time. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The motel room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing and the soft tear of medical tape between his fingers. You could feel his hand on your side, staying there long after the pad was secured.
“Dean.”
“Yeah?”
“Am I okay?”
His eyes dropped to your stomach before slowly finding yours again. The hesitation was small, but you caught it. “I think so, sweetheart.”
“Okay,” you whispered, letting your eyes flutter shut again.
His expression changed immediately. “No.” His hand tightened against your side. “Flirt with me more.”
“M’tired, D…” Your voice faded, barely more than a whisper.
“I know, baby.” Every part of him wanted to let you rest, but the other part needed your eyes open and looking at him. Looking at him like you always do. Steady. Quiet.
“I know. Just…give me a little longer, okay?” He leaned over you, hoping the sight of him would keep your eyes open. “Tell me something stupid,” he whispered. “Anything.”
“You’re really pretty.”
For a second, he forgot how to breathe.
“Pretty?” he repeated softly, like the word didn’t belong to him.
You nodded, clearing your dry throat. “Yeah.”
You were exhausted. Frail. Bloody. And somehow, you were still smiling at him. You lifted your hand, fingers weakly reaching up to tussle his hair.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he chuckled.
“Saying goodnight,” you mumbled, giving him one last smile before your eyes slipped shut. His entire face dropped. The panic came rushing back. He couldn’t do anything but watch as your breathing slowed, counting every rise and fall of your chest until he was sure you were still there. He waited a few minutes before carefully moving you into a more comfortable position on the bed and pulling a blanket over you.
He tried to keep busy. He cleaned up the mess on the floor and threw away the bloodied supplies—anything to keep his hands busy. Eventually, he grabbed a chair and placed it beside the bed. He sat there for a while in silence until he couldn’t keep himself grounded.
“Bobby,” he said, voice tight, eyes still on you. “She got hurt. Bad hunt.” He swallowed, staring at your sleeping face with his phone pressed to his ear. He was sitting there hunched over, elbows digging into his thighs. “I patched her up, but—” His voice caught, and he looked away for a second. “Bobby, I hope I did enough.”
His eyes dropped to the floor, foot tapping the carpet softly. “No, she’s sleeping.” He rushed the words out. “She’s sleeping. She was talking. She was joking with me. She—“
He stopped, letting out a breath.
He listened for a minute, eyes fixed on you. Then his voice came out quieter. “I thought she was going to die before…” He paused, swallowing hard. “Before I could tell her.”
“No, I know.” His jaw tightened. “But I was scared, Bobby.”
He looked down at his hands, still stained with layers of blood. “I thought I was gonna lose her.” He went quiet, listening to Bobby on the other end for a couple of minutes. Then a small sound left you, and his head snapped up immediately. “Hang on.”
Then you shifted beneath the blanket, slowly turning onto your back.
“Bobby, I gotta go.” His eyes stayed locked on you. “Think she needs me.”
For the next hour, he watched. He memorized your breathing patterns, he counted every time you twitched, and replayed the events of the night until they blurred together. He was tired, but he’d never admit it. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed beside you. But he couldn’t fall asleep. He had to be here when you woke up.
His head rested against the back of the chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Then he heard you.
“Dean?”
He moved so fast it almost hurt. He was on his knees beside the bed in seconds, right next to your face. “Hey,” he said softly. He watched you swallow, catching the dryness in your throat. Before you could even ask, he was already reaching for a glass of water.
Your eyes drifted to the chair next to the bed. “How long was I out?” you choked out, watching him cross the room to you.
“About an hour.”
You nodded, slowly pushing yourself up onto your elbow.
“Careful, sweetheart.”
“It’s okay,” you said, your voice dry as you reached for the glass. You drained it in one long drink before gathering yourself to sit on the edge of the bed.
His brows pinched together as he stepped toward you, ready to catch you if you fell. “What are you doing?”
“I am showering. Feel icky.”
“No.”
“No?” you repeated with a small smile, slowly easing yourself off the bed. Your face pinched with pain for a second before relaxing again.
“I’m coming in.”
“I’ll be okay, Dean.”
“Not asking.”
He walked behind you as you made your way to the bathroom, his hand hovering behind your back. The bathroom was cramped. You held onto the sink, looking at him through the mirror as he turned on the shower. The back of his shirt was stained with blood, not like the front, but enough to show tonight’s events. He turned around, and you went right to him, pulling him into a hug. He held you gently, careful not to hurt you, but he couldn’t shake how tightly you were holding onto him.
“I’m okay,” you mumbled against him. All he could do was hum, not fully believing you after everything that happened. You started to pull back, but he didn’t let go right away. He couldn’t. He held you for just a little longer before finally forcing himself to release you. His eyes were heavy, and you kissed his cheek gently, letting it linger before moving away to undress yourself.
He lowered the toilet lid and sat down, watching as you moved carefully. When you tried to bend down to take off your shoes, your wound pulled painfully, stopping you. He immediately patted his thigh, silently offering to do it for you. It was quiet aside from the sound of your shoes hitting the tile. Your fingers moved to the waistband of your bottoms, moving slowly so your wound didn’t get agitated. He watched, waiting for any sign you needed him.
“Got a dollar?”
“What?”
“For the striptease.”
He sighed, trying to hide the smile he wanted to give you. Your fingers moved to your shirt, already half off. The stretching instantly caused you to wince, and he immediately stood to help. He threw it in the sink, and without asking, undid your bra and laid it on the counter. Your eyes met his in the mirror. He looked wrecked.
His hands settled gently at your hips, hooking beneath the waistband of your underwear. He didn’t say anything, just pulled them down and let them fall to the floor.
“Go shower,” he mumbled.
He moved back to the lid as you stepped inside the shower. The warmth cradled you as he sat there deep in thought. You tried to go about your normal shower routine, but the second a wince left you, he opened the curtain and stuck his head in.
“You okay?”
“Yes, pretty boy.”
He nodded once, moving back to stare at the ceiling. His mind wandered right back to the hunt—the blood, your voice calling his name, and how he thought he lost you. His heart kept climbing into his throat every time he didn’t hear you move. You were only in there for a few minutes, but it felt like an hour.
His head lifted to the curtain when you stepped out, dripping wet. The shower was still running behind you as you grabbed a towel, flipping your hair forward to twist the towel around it. He forced his eyes anywhere but your body, settling on the floor instead. You wrapped another towel around yourself before stepping closer. His breath caught when your hands cupped his face, lifting his gaze as you scanned the cuts on his face.
“You’re hurt, D.”
“I’m fine, sweetheart.”
You gave him a look, sighing softly. “The water’s hot.”
“I don’t need—”
“No.” You cut him off, and for once, he didn’t argue. He stood, stretching slightly before pulling his shirt over his head. Your eyes scanned his chest, then his stomach. There were a few small cuts, but nothing that worried you—his face and hands needed the most attention. He bent down, undoing his shoes quickly before moving to his belt. His eyes lifted to yours as his fingers worked the buckle loose.
You gave him one last look before stepping out of the bathroom. He watched you for a second before dropping his jeans and boxers. The steam filled the air as he stepped into the shower, and you went about your normal after-shower routine. You gathered a fresh shirt and boxers for him, placing them on the sink as he stood under the water. He still hadn’t let himself breathe; he was still tense even if his body was starting to calm from the warmth.
He took a fast shower, trying desperately to get back to you. You were sitting on the second bed, damp hair and the med kit next to you. For the first time tonight, you had a moment to actually process everything, but your mind just kept settling on Dean. All you wanted to do was hold him and make sure he was alright.
He stepped out of the shower, and his eyes darted to the pile of fresh clothes on the sink. A tiny sigh left him; he didn’t know why it meant so much. He ran the towel through his hair as he walked into the room, looking for you immediately. He tossed the towel and sat next to you on the bed.
The motel room was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner and the faint sounds of people outside. You looked at him, taking in every piece of him that was still there. And he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were still here. He never enjoyed the smell of your lotion more than he does right now. Your eyes dropped to his hands. His knuckles were swollen, scraped raw, and already bruising.
“Should ice your hands.”
“Too late,” he sighed, looking down at them. “Kept going after he was gone.” He swallowed, jaw tightening. “Didn’t even realize I’d gone through him and was hitting the pavement.”
Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten. Not because of what he’d done. But because you knew why. You didn’t even remember that happening, even if you were lying on the ground next to it all. You brushed your thumb over his bruised knuckles. For a second, he looked like he wanted to lean into you, like he was trying to fight the urge to rest his head on your shoulder.
“Don’t think my face is that bad,” he muttered.
“Let me play doctor for a minute,” you sighed. “You got to.”
A tiny smile came across his face, and you went to open the med kit. He only had a few cuts, nothing serious, but you still wanted to patch them up. You shifted closer, tending to the wound you could reach on his temple. But then you stretched a little farther, trying to tend to the other side of his face. Your brows pinched as you pulled on your wound a little, and he noticed.
Of course he noticed.
A small sigh left him, and before you could protest, his hands settled at your waist, softly, since he could feel the gauze pad underneath your shirt.
“C’mere, baby,” he mumbled, lifting you onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world—like it didn’t make his heart race to feel your weight on his lap. His voice was deep with exhaustion, and it nearly made you crumble. You gazed down at him, caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. He looked back at you, tired and bruised. “Can you reach now?”
You nodded, already moving to address the two cuts on that side of his face. He didn’t look away. He just watched you. Watched the concentration on your face, the careful way your fingers moved, and the way you treated every little injury like it mattered. When you finished, you gently pushed his damp hair back from his forehead so it wouldn’t ruin the bandage. And without thinking, he wrapped his arms around you. Not tight. Not the way he wanted to. He could feel where you were still hurt, and the last thing he wanted was to make you ache more.
So he just held you, his head pressed against your chest. You dropped your cheek against his hair as your hand moved to the back of his head. He breathed you in, closing his eyes softly for the first time all night. He froze when he felt you lift your head, thinking you wanted to pull away. But instead, your lips pressed against his forehead. Once, over a bandage. And then, back to his forehead. A quiet hum left him, his arms tightening just slightly around you before he remembered and eased up.
“You should sleep, D.”
“Don’t want to,” he mumbled against you.
A soft smile sat on your face. “Yes, you do.”
“Can’t let you go,” he whispered, and your hand slowed against his hair.
“Baby,” you said softly, and he hummed again. “Come lay with me. You don’t have to sleep, but just please…lay down.”
He lifted his head slowly, eyes finding yours immediately. One hand left your back and moved to cup your face, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek.
“Come on,” you said softly, carefully moving off of him. You held your hand out even if the walk to lie down was practically non-existent, but he grabbed it anyway. He rolled into the bed so he was on the right side, knowing you couldn’t lie on yours. He settled against the pillow as you crawled in next to him, resting on him. The room went quiet, and very quickly his breathing started to change. Slower. Deeper. You looked up at him to find his eyes already closed. For the first time all night, he finally gave in and let himself be. You stretched ever so slightly toward the nightstand, flicking off the light before settling deeper next to him to sleep.
Shortly after sunrise, you woke up on your back with him flopped over on you. He was snoring softly in your neck, lips vibrating gently against your skin. His weight was heavy and warm, and for a moment you sat in it. You didn’t want to wake him, so inch by inch you slithered out to the bathroom. But by the time your toothbrush was in your mouth, he was standing in the doorway. Hair messy. Eyes barely open.
“You okay?” he asked through a yawn.
“Yeah, D, go back to bed,” you mumbled under the toothbrush.
“No.” You tilted your head at him. There was something vulnerable about the way he stood there. “Come back,” he said softly, almost like he couldn’t admit it.
You rushed through brushing your teeth, and he waited the entire time, watching you with sleepy eyes. The second you finished, he took your hand and led you back to the bed. He rolled back into the sheets, still holding you as you settled beside him. Then, without fail, his arm wrapped around you again, and his face was tucked in your neck. Your hand moved slowly along his back, trying to ease him back to sleep. But he didn’t. He just shifted closer.
His nose brushed along your jaw before his lips pressed softly against your skin. You tried to steady your breath, not because you didn’t want it, but because he was awake enough to know exactly what he was doing.
His kisses grew slower, lingering as they moved over your face and along your neck. But then he found your sweet spot, kissing you long enough that a tiny moan left your lips. You felt him smile against your skin, kissing you there again. Then, his tongue slipped out, making you gasp.
“Dean.”
“Yeah, baby?” he murmured, amusement in his voice. His hand came up to hold your face, and you melted into it, giving him more room. Another moan.
Then he shifted, moving up to look at you. You both held each other’s tired gaze, but through it, he could see everything—the girl he thought he was going to lose, the girl he’d loved for a while, and the girl he couldn’t imagine letting go of. He didn’t even have time to think before your hands grabbed his face and pulled him to your lips.
The kiss was long and slow. Neither of you wanted to be the first to pull away. And for a moment, there was nothing but that kiss. That devilishly deep kiss that neither of you could take credit for because it was so evenly done. Everything about last night seemed to have made sense, like it was what you both needed to realize.
You both rolled onto your sides, closer now, frantic now. His hand lifted your thigh onto him as yours tugged at his hair. Sunlight was beginning to fill the room, and when you felt how hard he was, a moan slipped into his mouth. He pulled you even closer so you could feel all of it—he wanted you to feel it twitch in his boxers.
His hand left your thigh and moved slowly against your underwear. He could feel your wetness growing as he ran his knuckle up and down, which gained a whimper from you. His lips moved into a smirk, breaking the kiss before you pulled him right back. You were hungry. And he loved that. He kept teasing you, running his knuckle up and down and pressing softly into you. He could feel you shifting your hips toward him, pleading for more of his touch.
And because he loves you, because he loves every second of this, he pushed himself up on his elbow to pull down your underwear. His fingers curled around the band before he leaned down to give your hip a big wet kiss. He could feel you pulling up his sleeve so you could kiss his bicep, which made him smile against you. He let you kiss him until he couldn’t take it anymore, moving back fast. He looked at you with furrowed brows before kissing you again, fingers moving to your wetness to play with you.
He was devouring your whimpers, playing with you so slowly that your hips wouldn’t ease off of him. But then he slipped two fingers inside you, making you gasp in his mouth.
“Fuck baby,” he breathed, feeling you soak his fingers. “You’re soaked.”
You whined at his words, and he started moving slowly inside you—like it would be a disservice to not learn what you feel like inside. Your mouth was parted against his jawline, moans pouring out as he kept going. He watched your face, how you were crumbling beneath his fingers. He started picking up the pace, and you got louder.
“Yeah,” he grinned, and you hated him for that.
“Dean.”
“What sweetheart?” he mumbled.
“Don’t stop,” you choked out. “Please.”
He thought about making you beg. God, he wanted to hear that, but at the same time, he wanted to give you everything and more. He went faster, deeper. But then your hand trailed down his stomach and slipped into his boxers. He let out a low groan when he felt you grab his cock, the one that had been throbbing painfully. He’d never been this wrecked from whimpers, whines, and moans before.
You held him for a second before coming out and tugging at his boxers to let his cock out. His eyes stayed on you as you spat in the palm of your hand. His fingers weakened inside of you when you started twisting and pumping his head. He threw his head back against the pillow at the feeling, moaning your name through a broken breath. Spit was pooling at the base as you moved your hand up and down. He was moaning deeply, and almost forgot to breathe once your lips met his neck. He let this go on for a few minutes before he rolled you over because he couldn’t bear not being inside you anymore.
“Need to fuck you so bad,” he mumbled, leaning down to kiss you one more time. He looked down at your stomach, hoping this wouldn’t hurt you. You caught it instantly, fingertips running up and down his forearms.
“I don’t care, D.” The tiniest bit of concern spilled onto his face. “I need your cock.” You paused, shifting so you were flat against the mattress. “Need you to fuck me. Please, baby, please.”
“Fuck,” he muttered, throbbing at your pleas and the pout that sat on your face. “Just tell me.”
“I know.”
The sun had fully taken over the room as he held his thick cock in front of your dripping pussy. He shifted toward you, dragging his head up and down your opening. His eyes were down, watching it the entire time, like he was waiting for the right second to push into you. You kept your focus on the sensation of him sliding up and down, the ache in your pussy deepening with every slow pass until he had you withering beneath him.
“You want it, baby?” he smiled, sliding even slower.
“Want it so bad, Dean.” Your voice was quiet, breathy, almost. “Stop teasing and fuck me.” You pouted, reaching out to touch his stomach.
A hum left his throat, and he pushed slightly inside you. “You’re so cute…need my cock that much, huh?” Before you could even reply, he slipped inside you, getting a loud moan from you. The feeling of you wrapped around him in all your dripping glory completely ruined his original idea of fucking you slowly. He didn’t want to waste any time. He wanted to fuck. He wanted to give you every inch of him and hear every sound that fell off your tongue.
And he got it.
Messy moans and cries filled the air as he drove his cock in and out. His own moans began mixing with yours, low, rugged, and sexy. And he was caught on the way your pussy sounded, how sopping wet you were with him buried deep inside you.
“Ah, fuck, sweetheart,” he said through a pant, grabbing your thighs and pounding even more.
“I’m yours,” you moaned, the words strong in your throat. “You know I’m yours.”
He slowed down almost to a stop and looked at you, his cock twitching softly inside. The words hung in the air, and he swallowed them down, letting them settle deep in his chest.
“Baby, I’m yours,” you repeated, wrapping your fingers around his forearm.
He leaned down, grabbed your face in his hands, and met your mouth. His hips picked back up, but this time, there was a different rhythm to it. A slower, more deliberate pace. Your foreheads were pressed together, eyes fully stuck on each other.
“Mine. Fuck—“ He breathed against your mouth. “You’re mine.”
“Not going anywhere, Dean,” you choked out, moans melting with your words.
“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling you even closer like he could press your words into his chest.
His pace stayed slow and deliberate, but he was deep. So deep you knew you’d feel him for days after. He couldn’t focus on anything but your sounds and your growing wetness around him. The sounds of your wetness and moans were sending him to the edge. He moved his fingers down to your sweet spot, rubbing softly because he couldn’t bear the idea of you not having an orgasm—he was determined for you to come on his cock.
And a few more thrusts and rubs, he got you close. He didn’t want to ruin it for you. God, he’d hate himself if he did. You could tell he was near, so you lowered your sounds until your orgasm hit. He kept his pace with both his fingers and his cock, not letting you miss any ounce of pleasure. Your moans filled the motel room, his name slipping through your cries.
He knew he was done after that.
“Come for me, baby,” you whined, wrapping your arms around him so he stayed close. He let out a low groan and kept pounding, feeling every bit of warmth and plushness you had to offer him. “Dean, gimme it.”
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he moaned loudly, your words opening a floodgate of pleasure.
Another deep moan left him when you squeezed around him, adding a little extra pleasure for him when he hit the peak. His sounds were heavenly, rumbling through you like they were meant to live inside of you. He took longer to come down than normal, his orgasm hitting harder than it had in a while—like he was saving it just for you.
He rolled off next to you, not wanting to squish your wound that came out of this unscathed. Pants filled the morning air, the smell of sex mixing with the scent of coffee outside. Without hesitation, he pulled you close, looking at you for a moment before kissing you slowly.
After a couple of minutes, he mumbled against you.
“Breakfast, baby?”
ৎ୭ feedback and requests are welcome here! or in the replies lol
✦summary: dean learns, slowly, that he's actually pretty good at being boyfriend material. it would be nice if you'd stop pining after him long enough to notice✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends with benefits to lovers, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (facesitting, praise kink, big dick dean, fingering, pussy spanking, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dean has an orgasm rule and you. benefit. dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.5k✦
✦author's note: request! super normal about this one✦
You tell yourself, over and over again, that this is going to be the last time. It’s not something that’s meant to be held onto, so you can just… let go.
But then you find yourself here. Between tangled sheets with your legs spread wide, your nails digging into Dean’s bicep and his cock dragging through your wet, sensitive cunt.
“There you go,” he coos in your ear, every thrust deep and rough. “That’s my girl, takin’ me so good, so- Good-“
Dean moans, pressing up against the soft, gummy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back in your head.
He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.
What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.
You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.
“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-
You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.
He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.
But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-
“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“
You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.
“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“
You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-
“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“
Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.
For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.
Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.
“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.
You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.
“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”
And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.
When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.
He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.
Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.
And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.
You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.
You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.
“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.
“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”
“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.
“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”
You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.
“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“
“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.
It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.
You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time.
You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.
Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep.
“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“
Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-
“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”
Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.
But you did it. You held the line.
And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.
Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.
And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.
And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.
“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.
“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”
You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”
“Uh huh.”
You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.
“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.
“That’s what I said.”
“Dean-“
“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.
Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.
“Uh- Hey, Dean-“
“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.
“Dude-“
“Shut your face-“
“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“
“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“
“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.
He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.
Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.
“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.
“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.
“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“
“Henry’s?”
“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”
“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.
“Whatever you want.”
God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.
“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.
The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.
The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.
He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.
“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”
“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”
“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”
You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”
“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“
“No, you don’t.”
He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.
It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.
“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.
“You?”
“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“
“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“
“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”
“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”
“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”
“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs had you learned to play?”
Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“
“I think we do.”
“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“
“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”
“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”
“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.
“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“
“You could teach me.”
“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”
“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.
“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”
You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“
“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”
You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.
You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.
“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”
You blink. “What?”
“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”
“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”
“Yeah. I know.”
You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.
“You alright-“
“Yep. I- I’m good-“
“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“
“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.
“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.
“You are old.”
“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”
Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-
Hold the line.
“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.
“That all I am to you? Some wine?”
“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”
“Good cheese, huh.”
“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.
When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.
“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“
“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”
“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”
You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.
Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.
His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.
But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.
It just feels different.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.
If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.
For once, you decide not to try.
The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.
He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.
“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.
“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.
“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”
You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.
The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.
Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.
Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.
You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.
Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.
“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.
“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”
“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”
“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”
Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.
“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.
“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“
“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”
You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.
“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.
You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-
“Hey.”
You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.
“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”
“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.
“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”
“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.
The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”
And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.
So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.
Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.
“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.
He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.
“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.
“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”
Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.
“Oh- Okay.”
Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.
“Get your book.”
You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“
Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”
He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.
Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.
Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.
A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”
You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.
You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.
But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.
“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”
You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.
“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”
You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.
“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“
“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“
“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it does-“
“Nah.”
“Dean-“
“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”
Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.
“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“
“Would you care?”
Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.
“Would you care-“
“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”
Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.
“What-“
“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”
Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”
“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“
“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“
“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.
“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”
He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.
“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.
“You were-“
“Sweetheart-“
“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”
Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.
“Dean-“
“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”
You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-
“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.
“What’d you mean, are we dating?”
“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”
“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“
“What the fuck is necking?”
Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”
Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.
“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”
You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.
He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.
“Did you… Not think we were dating?”
You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.
“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”
“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.
“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“
“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.
“’Bout three months.”
“Three months?!”
“That’s what I said, baby-“
“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”
Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”
“How would I have known-“
“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”
“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.
“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“
“Sam was there-“
“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.
“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.
“Yes, it was-“
“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”
He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”
“Friends do that-“
“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.
“Um- Maybe?”
Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“
“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“
“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.
“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”
“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”
Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”
You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.
“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”
You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re nice to me-“
“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“
“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”
You swallow. “Help you?”
“Yeah.”
“With what-“
“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”
You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.
Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.
You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.
“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”
His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.
“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“
Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.
And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.
You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.
But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.
Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.
You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.
“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”
That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.
“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“
“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.
Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“
“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”
And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.
You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.
“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”
“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“
You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.
“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.
You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“
Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”
“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“
“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”
You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.
“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”
“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.
His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.
“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“
“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”
You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.
“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”
You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.
“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“
“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”
Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“
“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”
Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.
Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”
He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.
Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.
“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”
“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.
“Isn’t it?”
You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.
But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.
“De- Dean-“
“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.
“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“
You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”
That’s what does it. My girl.
The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.
Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.
“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”
“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”
“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.
“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”
He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.
You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.
“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.
“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“
“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“
“Dean-“
“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”
You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.
Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.
You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.
And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.
Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.
He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.
“I’m serious, baby-“
“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.
And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.
You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.
“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“
You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.
“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“
You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.
And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.
Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.
“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”
You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.
“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“
“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”
You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.
“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”
Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.
He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.
“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.
“’M sorry-“
“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“
He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.
“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”
You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.
Dean is going to take care of you.
He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.
“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.
“N- No.”
“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”
You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.
“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”
“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”
You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”
Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.
His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“
He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.
But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“
He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“
He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.
Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.
You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-
You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.
But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.
“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”
Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.
“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“
He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.
Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.
You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.
Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.
“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.
“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”
“It- It’s your stupid rule-“
“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”
You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.
“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”
You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.
“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”
You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.
“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”
You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.
“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”
And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.
“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.”
You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.
He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.
Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.
“Sorry-“
“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”
A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.
“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.
“You’re big.”
He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”
You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“
He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.
“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“
You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.
But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.
“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”
You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.
“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”
“Fu- Fuck you-“
“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”
Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.
“Please-“
The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.
“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”
You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.
You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.
Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.
“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”
Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.
The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.
It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.
“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“
You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“
Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.
“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.
You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.
“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.
Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."
✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
cw: post pinv, mentions of multiple rounds, bruising, soft ben/soldier boy
Soldierboy who cums a lot, more than the average man. He loves fucking without a condom because he likes seeing his cum drip out of your hole as you lie on your back, all fucked out, hair sticking to your forehead, chest rising and falling as you catch your breath.
"You look so pretty, baby." He hums, running his thumb across your flushed cheek.
You can't find it in yourself to respond after he fucked the shit out of you, making you cum once on his fingers and two times on his cock, so you just give him a dazed smile in response.
He rubs his calloused hands along your waist and stomach, placing soft kisses on the parts that are red. You both know those spots are going to leave harsh bruises.
Then he gets down to your limp thighs. He lays his head along the inside of your right thigh so he can have a direct view of your cunt dripping of him as you scratch his scalp and play with his hair.
Summary: When Frank shows up at your apartment bloody and in need of patching up, you help him out. But it's a little more than that...and maybe it always was. Requested; see request here! word count: 4.4k
Warnings; mentions of blood, sexual tension and scenes but no full on smut.
You've just had the longest shift of your life, a shift so long that despite the fact you hate your rundown hells kitchen apartment you're grateful to be home. You fumble with your keys, turning them the wrong way in the lock out of pure exhaustion, and then the right way when your brain kicks back to life. The door creaks with protest that you ignore. You've been told to oil the hinges to stop the squeaking, but you like the sound being there. You live in Hell's Kitchen after all, and if anyone were to break in, you would like to hear them coming.
You close the door behind you and it cries out again as you push it shut and turn the lock. But the hairs on your neck rise before you can turn back to the foyer, and you know out of pure instinct that someone's in here with you. I guess the creaking door does nothing to warn you if you're not home when someone comes knocking.
You reach into your purse for the gun you keep there, just as a voice, gruff and quiet, calls out from behind you.
"just me, sweetheart."
Frank. You would recognize that voice anywhere, and you slide your hand out of your purse and turn around. Sure enough, his figure is there, obscured by the dark apartment. You reach over to the wall and flick the lamp on, only to come face to face with the reason Frank is in your home.
"Jesus,"
"No, just me." he mutters absolutely deadpan, as he leans against the wall. He's got blood all over him, and a hand pressed to his right side. There's red seeping out from between his fingers, and when he pushes away from the wall, you can see blood he's left behind on the wallpaper.
You take a step toward him, dropping your purse to the floor as you close the distance. "How much of this blood is yours?" you say, lifting a hand to his face. You grab his chin and tilt his face from side to side, assessing the damage.
"You don't wanna know." despite the fact he's torn to shreds in front of you, he reaches out and runs a finger over the collar of your uniform. "How was work?"
The roll of your eyes tells him everything he needs to know.
"That bad, huh?"
You nod, and move past him, despite the way his affection makes you shiver. "Don't get me started."
"Okay then," he follows you through the apartment, a strong limp in his step that he doesn't try to hide. He doesn't bother hiding those things from you anymore. You see right through him. Plus, it hurts like a bitch too much to care.
"Stop following me and sit down." you snap, without looking back at him. He halts his pursuit of you, and moves back toward the living room.
"yes ma'am." he listens to you, he can't help himself. A pretty lady tells him to do something and he obeys like a dog.
When you return to the living room after five minutes, you're in new clothes, an old grey t-shirt, already stained from the previous times you've had to do this, and light blue pajama shorts. The last thing you need is to get blood on your work uniform, so whenever you're tasked to clean him up you have to change.
"I like the shorts." Frank says as you make your way over to him, pulling a stool close to his chair so you can begin. You've got your first aid kit in one hand, and a bottle of scotch in the other.
"You say that every time, Frank." you unzip the first aid kit, which is a lot more serious than the regular household one. It's got a lot more in it than one would expect, considering you're packing wounds and stitching up holes in the man before you more often than you would like.
"Because I really like 'em." You try to avoid his gaze as he speaks, pretending to be interested in the contents of the kit you so don't have to look up and feel the burn of his eyes on you. The situationship you have with Frank is a complicated one. You know he likes you, and you would dig your teeth into him if given the time, but nothing ever seems to come of it.
"What happened this time?" You pass him the bottle of scotch and he pops it open, taking a swig as you reach toward his shirt, pulling it up to observe the injury on his ribs. It's a large gash, probably from a knife, and it's bleeding like crazy.
"Just a little conversation that went south." He grunts as you press some gauze to the wound and hold it there.
"Seems like more than a conversation." you press harder onto the wound just to scold him, and then grab his hand and place it over the gauze. "Hold it there, keep the pressure." He knows the drill, but you tell him anyway just for the sake of it.
"Okay, your turn. What happened today?" Frank's brows are furrowed, and it's clear he can tell your frustration isn't just at having to patch him up again. You stand, and take the few steps to move between his legs, now examining the wound on his shoulder.
"Nathan," you say the name of your coworker with distain, "took credit for my work again." Your hands move over Frank's skin, gentle and caring as you wipe away blood from his other wounds. This one isn't as serious as the one on his abdomen, but you still want to treat it anyway.
"Did you tell him to stick it where the sun don't shine?" Franks asks, his free hand coming up to your hip, holding you gently in place as you work on him. He likes you this close, you can tell by the way his breaths deepen. In and out, intentionally slowed, as if he has to keep himself cool.
"Tried to, didn't do much." you begin disinfecting the wound on his shoulder, and Frank lets out a sharp breath that brushes against your torso. He shifts his grip from your hip, to the back of your thigh and you try not to startle at the gentle squeeze he places there.
"If you want, I can go ask him to apologize."
You know what he means by that statement, and while it's tempting you're not sure you want your coworker to come back to the office black and blue.
"You'll have a conversation with him, I bet. A conversation like you had tonight?"
Frank shrugs, looking up at you with those deep brown eyes, so dark they're almost black.
"No thank you, I can handle Nathan myself." You tape some more gauze to the wound on his shoulder, and let your eyes fall to his, taking in the expression he holds. It's full of affection, and you watch a small smile slide itself onto his lips, gentle and not often seen.
"I know you can, but if you ever need me I'll be there."
Your stomach does a little flip at the words, and you know he means it more than anything else he's said tonight. You don't want to give into him so easily, but you know if he asked you, you would do anything.
"Thank you," you manage to murmur, and his thumb runs up and down the back of your thigh, a soothing gesture. He still hasn't taken his eyes away from your face, as if there's nothing else in the world he would rather lay his eyes on.
You pick up the bottle of scotch he placed down a while back and shove it at his chest. "Drink this." he has to take his hand away from your thigh to grab the bottle. "You're going to need it."
He chuckles, but does as he's told, bringing the bottle to his spilt lip. You'll sort that lip out later, but right now you've got to sort out the wound he's been putting pressure on for the last few minutes.
You sit back down on your stool, and place your hand over his on the wound, giving him permission to let go. He lets you take the lead, like a good little solider, and removes his hand so you can get to work. He keeps on drinking as you disinfect, and stitch him up, only wincing or hissing occasionally at the pain. You're not sure if it's because he's used to it or if the scotch really is helping.
"Thank you." Frank says, voice rough and tired once you're done with his abdomen. You stop rummaging through the first aid kit for a second to analyze him, his face, littered with cuts and bruises.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, we're not done yet."
He chuckles, low and quiet as you stand again and take the steps between his legs once more. You lift his chin with a finger, though it's not nessacary really, since he's already looking right at you. His eye contact is strong, and it makes your knees weak as you examine the cuts on his face.
"I've never seen someone get this many hits on you." you note, counting each cut and bruise. "Did you give them a head start?"
"You know me," he gently knocks your hand away as you touch a bruise on his eyebrow "gotta make it a fair fight."
He watches you closely as you reach into the first aid bag for more supplies, but stops you before you can pull anything out. "Hey, just wait a sec." he reaches out and grabs your free hand, tugging you closer between his legs. "Just be here with me a minute."
His hand is calloused and rough around your own as you take a moment to stand and look at him, really look at him, without just seeing the blood and bruises. He looks content, and more relaxed than you've ever seen him.
"Did you want some clean clothes?" your voice comes out as barely a whisper, Frank's hands coming up to hold your hips. His hands hold warmth that you can feel through the fabric of your clothes, his touch heating every inch of skin as his fingers flex.
"I really like these shorts." he mumbles again, ignoring your question completely.
"well these shorts won't fit you," you run a hand through his hair, watching as his eyes close when you do so. "Do you want clean clothes or not, Frankie?"
He practically purrs at the nickname, and at the fact you run your fingers through his hair again. As soon as you touch him he becomes shamelessly pliable, his head going wherever you push it.
"Yeah, I'll take clothes if you got 'em." the words come out as an afterthought, Frank's mind preoccupied. He's respectful, has always tried to be, but he can't deny that he's getting attached to you.
"If you want the clothes you're going to have to let me go get them." you mumble after a minute, and Frank opens his eyes to find you looking down at him. He feels the weight of your hands on his shoulders, and his own hands pressed to your hips. He feels the fabric, wishes he could touch just a sliver of what was underneath. He rubs his thumb up and down over your hip to get just that, pushing up the hem of your shirt just enough for him to feel the smallest piece of skin. Then, as quick as he had done it, he lets go, and watches as you walk off to the other end of the apartment to find him a change of clothes.
His hands clasp themselves together as he waits, nothing for them to hold while he sits here alone. When you return you have one of his shirts from the previous time he visited all bloodied and bruised, except it's been washed, dried and folded. Blood no longer curses the fabric, and you hold it out to him with a smile, unknowing just how much this makes his stomach twist. The subtle act of care for him, has his mind reeling.
He takes the shirt from your hands, his eyes flicking between it and you with a frown.
"If you don't want that one, I think I have another somewhere that you left a few weeks ago. I couldn't get all the blood out of it though, so it's still a little stained."
Frank shakes his head, "No, this one is fine. Thank you." he puts the shirt on the arm of the chair and attempts to pull his torn up shirt over his head.
"Fuck, you're gonna pull your stitches out Frank." you scold, halting his movements. "Let me help, Jesus." Frank wants to protest, but he can't find the words to do so when he feels your hands on him. Again, you make him shamelessly pliable.
You take the hem of his shirt in your hands and usher him to lift his arms, slowly as to not put all the work you'd done bandaging him up at risk. "Good," you say, as you lift the shirt over his head, freeing him of the fabric. Frank almost caves completely at the loosely given praise but holds himself together as you look him over.
"hold on, let me get a cloth." you vanish toward the bathroom before Frank can respond, leaving him shirtless in your living room and obeying like a dog once more. When you return with a damp cloth in your hand you mumble under your breath, "remind me to clean you up in the bathroom next time, that's much more efficient." Your words go in one ear and out the other for Frank, his eyes on the cloth in your hand.
"What're you doing with that?"
You look at the damp fabric between your fingers and back at him. "have you looked down at yourself? You're filthy, but you're not going in the shower and dampening your bandages after I've spent all this time putting them on."
"You're not giving me a sponge bath like I'm some old man." Frank snaps, making to stand, but you push him back down into his seat without hesitation.
"Calm down, I'm just wiping some of the blood off of you, you look like a stuck pig."
Frank shuffles in his seat, "I can do that later." his words don't carry any weight though, because you settle yourself between his legs again and he's lost looking up at you like a lovestruck teenager.
You run the damp cloth over his shoulder, the white fabric coming away red as you clean his skin of all the darkness. His hands find the back of your thighs like earlier, and he holds you there, warm fingers burning against your skin. You wipe away at his chest, and his neck, but as you move to clean his face, Frank halts you.
"Why is it you're so gentle with me, huh?" his hands begin to move, absentmindedly up and down the backs of your legs as he speaks, but never higher than is polite.
You frown, and bring the corner of the cloth underneath his eye, wiping away at the red splattered there. "Because who else is gonna be?"
The words hang between you for a moment, and Frank tilts his head to the side, looking at you a little differently now.
"C'mere," He takes his time moving you forward, and you take the two steps he ushers you to, before climbing into his lap. By the time you're still, you've got a leg on either side of his hips, straddling him in your living room chair.
As if nothing happened, you bring the cloth back up to other side of his face, and continue your work from before. You wipe over his cheek, and under his jaw before Frank grabs your wrist in a large hand. "Can you stop that for a second?" he releases your wrist, and moves a hand to your face, cupping your cheek in his large palm. "please?" He adds as an afterthought.
Frank damn near melts as you press your cheek further into his palm, taking the cloth from you and throwing it onto the table beside the chair without so much as looking. You're trying hard not to lean on him or his wounds too much, even breathing softer as to not cause him pain, but of course, Frank notices that too.
"I'm not made of glass, honey. A beautiful lady in my lap won't break me."
He watches as you duck your head, shy for a moment in the quiet apartment. Frank has been here more times than he can count over the past few months, and almost every night he spends here ends up like this. Him holding you close in some capacity, but never straying further than that. He's enjoyed it for the most part, keeping you close, feeling something other than anger and resentment. But now, Frank feels something different stirring within him, in his chest, his stomach.
When you look back up at him, so close now, the world stops moving. The clock on the wall doesn't seem to tick, and the little light on the fire alarm above him doesn't seem to blink.
"Can you please let me finish cleaning you up?" you ask, and despite the fact he could sit here with you doing nothing forever, how can he ever say no to you?
He nods, "Yeah, do what you gotta do." you lean toward the table to fetch the cloth, Frank's hand on your back steadying you so you don't fall away from him. He lets you wipe the rest of the blood away, gentle, caring and cautious, watching every movement with a marine's eye. And when your hands start to slow, the job coming to a close, Frank turns his head to the side, kissing your wrist as your hand comes up to wipe his brow. When you don't pull away he places another kiss on the heel of your hand. The affection is a 'thank you' an 'I'm sorry' and something else he's not ready to think about just yet.
"Was that an apology for smearing blood on my walls?" you joke, though it's barely a whisper. You're deadly still, waiting for his next move.
"I'll clean that up." Frank says, leaning forward to brush his nose against the side of your neck. He's crossing a line he drew for himself long ago, but maybe it's time he lets go of some rules.
"Does that mean you're staying the night?"
Your invitation brings him pause, and it sprawls itself over the both of you like a blanket. You're on the same page it seems, but you're walking on broken glass just the same. If you go through with this, things won't ever be the same. Frank runs the risk of making you a target for his enemies with every touch and embrace. But maybe he's long past that point already.
He lifts his head, his face now so close to yours that your noses touch with each exhale. "If you'll have me."
You do nothing but nod, and Frank somehow manages to pull you closer, arms wrapping around you like barriers, protecting you from the outside elements. He closes the distance in a few slow breaths, and for the first time, his lips meet yours.
The kiss is tentative, and he takes his time getting to know this new piece of you. The part of you he hasn't got to meet yet.
"You doing okay?" his lips brush yours as he speaks, pulling back from the kiss just enough to say the words. To check on you.
You nod, eyes closed but Frank grumbles in disapproval, squeezing you gently in his arms. "I need to hear you say it."
He breathes in the touch of your hands as they move across his shoulders, your eyes opening at last to look at him. "I'm okay."
Your fingers slide up the nape of his neck, and that feeling that tugs at his chest starts again. He knows what it is, but he hasn't felt that way for someone in so long that can't bring himself to acknowledge it just yet. This time, you lean in for the next kiss, and your initiation of it drives him wild. His hands find your hips, grinding you down onto his lap just as a shrill sound fills the apartment. Your nose bumps with his awkwardly as you startle to attention, looking toward the source of the sound. It's the doorbell, though you have no idea who would be ringing it at this hour. Frank groans as you shift on top of him and you can't help but notice that he's very solid beneath you.
"Should we go see who that is?" you say as he turns your head back to face him with an eager hand. His fingers trace down your jaw, marking out a path for his lips later on.
"Probably just some kids." Frank mutters, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth. He's tense in the shoulders now though, and you can tell he wants to know who has interrupted your night just as much as you do. He's weighing up whether or not to let it go, running his warm hands up your legs, teasing the fabric of your shorts with his fingers, when the doorbell rings again.
"Maybe if we ignore them, they'll go away?" you offer, kissing Frank's shoulder. He bucks his hips up slightly, an almost involuntary movement to relieve some tension, and you chuckle against his skin. He could get used to this if given the chance.
The doorbell rings a third time, and it's becoming apparent that whoever it is, is not going away. "Fuck's sake." Frank throws his head back in frustration, both sexual and otherwise, grabbing the fresh shirt you got him off the arm of the chair. He pulls it over his head with a little help from you just as a voice calls out from behind your front door.
"I know you're in there, Frank."
The voice is one you don't recognize but clearly Frank does, because he mutters under his breath, "Fucking Lieberman," before lifting you effortlessly off his lap. Your feet touch the carpet as Frank stands and heads toward your door. It's strange to see him like this, moving to answer your door in an almost domestic manner, even though you know it's anything but. You can almost imagine being with him in a home you share, though you don't have time to dwell on it before Frank pulls open the door and you rush to make yourself semi presentable to whoever it is. You run a hand through you hair, and pull your shorts a little lower, straightening them out from where Frank's hands have roamed.
You move toward the door but keep a fair distance back, waiting for Frank's assessment of the man he knows.
"What'd you want?" Frank's rough voice sends a shiver down your spine, the outside air cold and fresh coming in through the open door.
"Why weren't you answering your phone?" the so called Lieberman asks, avoiding Frank's question as if he's used to it by now.
"I'm busy,"
Frank's response gets Lieberman looking past him and into the apartment. His gaze finds you as the words come together in his mind. He takes in the sight of you, and then looks back at Frank, and down a little to the tent in Frank's black cargo pants—a reminder of the sort of busy Frank was.
"Oh shit, I uh—" Lieberman fumbles over his words, taking a breath to compose himself. "we've got a situation, and I hate to interrupt but this is a little more important."
Frank is struggling to think of something more important than what's in the room behind him right now, but he nods. "Can you give me a minute?"
Lieberman doesn't object, and Frank closes the door in his face after a few seconds of silence. When he turns back to face you, he heaves a sigh that makes you laugh.
"Raincheck?" you say, even though that's the last thing you want to do. He makes his way toward you, reaching out those hot hands to hold you again.
"I'm sorry," he presses a kiss to your forehead, and it's extremely clear that your relationship with him has changed in to something far more serious than before.
"S'okay, just make sure you come back and finish what you started another time." You can feel him smile into your hair, and he pulls you into him one last time before he leaves for the night. He's all patched up and clean, thanks to you, but he wishes he had the time to repay you for it.
"I'll be back before you know I'm gone." his voice is a deep rumble that you can feel in your chest and you pull back to look at him. He's still got the split lip you forgot to attend to in favor of kissing it, and a cut on his brow left untreated as well. But he's more than capable to doing that himself.
You push yourself up onto your tiptoes and kiss him, and his hands tighten their grip on you momentarily in order to savor it. He tastes like blood and spearmint, something you note as he pulls away and the taste of his lips lingers. You push him toward the door, gently so as not to bruise him more than he already is, and though it's not common, he smiles. He really smiles, before opening the door to the apartment and putting back on his facade. He slips outside without anymore words, but you know everything that went without saying.
I'll be back soon. Wait for me.
I love you.
-
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words: 1.7k
warnings: MINORS DNI. off-page sexual and physical abuse, blood, suicidal ideation, alcohol, drugs, angst, hurt/comfort
description: You’re the Capitol’s plaything. All he can do is clean you up after a particularly terrible night.
I just finished Sunrise on the Reaping and had to get out some Haymitch brainrot.
A knock on his door is never a good sign. When Haymitch is in the Capitol for the Games, he keeps to himself when he can, lost in the fog of drink where he can convince himself that nothing can touch him.
But there’s one exception. You.
You’re the only reason he opens the door at all. A fresh victor of District 12, it’s been your turn to serve the Capitol over the last couple of years. Last Games, they still had that thing in your ear, keeping you drugged and controlled to establish you as the Capitol’s docile little darling. This year, you’ve spent every party either in a cage or satisfying potential sponsors behind closed doors. It makes him sick, so he drinks more and more and more, but it never makes it easier.
Now, in the hallway, you’re more gaunt than ever. Barely there at all. There are cuts all over your skin, blood dribbling down your temple, your neck, even your damn legs.
“I need…” you whisper, and the words are slurred. Unlike him, it isn’t a choice. Your clients like you better when you’re inebriated, not able to fight back. You’re theirs to do with what they want.
You frown as though you’ve already forgotten what you need, but he knows.
“Come in, sweetheart.”
When you step forward on buckling legs, he has to catch you, just barely holding you up. His white liquor breath mingles with your sour one as, somehow, this quest for stability becomes something more. He’s holding you tight while your head lolls against his shoulder, because it’s the least he can do and it isn’t nearly enough. He feels responsible. He helped you win those games. After years of following the rules, learning the hard way that rebellion got people killed, he’d seen a spark in you. A spark that could have destroyed the games if he was just smart enough to figure out how.
Snow had seen the flame. Snuffed it out. It pains Haymitch to think it, but he would have been better off letting you starve without sponsors. Letting you die in the arena. This… This is his fault. He cared for something again, somebody, and now it’s killing you both.
“What’d they do to you?” he whispers when he’s shut the door behind you. A stupid question, born from horror rather than a genuine need to know. With the bite marks, bruises, and slashes across your skin, he can imagine. The Capitol are almost as genetically mutated as Mutts these days, so many of them resembling animals with sharp-filed teeth among other hideous implants.
“Got one… with fangs n’claws,” you mutter.
He looses a jagged breath, half-rage, half-despair, and guides you carefully over to his couch. The apartment is still in darkness, lights too bright for his ever-pounding head. Besides, the view of the Capitol illuminated under the stars yawns outside his window, a beast not quite slumbering. Never does. The city never stops; night just casts a blanket over their depravities, but there are holes in the velvet that keep the place lit dim.
Curtains aren’t allowed. He already asked.
With you slumped on his pillows, he can get a better view of your state. Regrets looking immediately. Glittering dress the colour of grey doves has been torn by greedy hands. Where your skin isn’t bloody, it’s black, blue, green, your very own kaleidoscope of pain. It’ll be worse in the morning, but right now, you at least have the detachment the drugs grant you. Not like him, who feels every fucking mark on you.
He rubs a hand over his unkempt stubble. Tries to figure out where the fuck he should start. If you were cognisant, he’d have led you straight to the shower, knows how unclean you feel after a night like this. But you’re not, and he’s not going to be another monster who strips you bare without you knowing.
“Gonna clean you up best I can, okay?” he finally decides. “You rest now.”
Your mumble is unintelligible, but it still pierces another needle through his chest. How can the two of you keep going like this? How can you mentor more tributes, knowing that an arena death would be kinder than this slow torture?
Turns out his liquor comes in handy for more than just getting wasted. He grabs a cloth and his half-drained bottle from the kitchen along with a bowl of warm water, then returns to you, kneeling on the carpet at your feet.
“I got you now,” he whispers, then starts on your sprawled legs. You whimper when he reaches the first gash, right below your knee. “‘M sorry, sweetheart. Know it stings.”
You bite your lip, fingers curling into the velvet arm of the couch as he keeps going. “Haymitch.” It’s a croaked whisper, barely audible at all, but he hears it like an alarm bell.
“I’m here,” is all he can reply as he wrings the blood from the cloth. Goes again. Where your dress is bunched towards your hips, he sees bite marks on your inner thighs and feels nauseous. He sucks in a sharp breath. Leans back to press his fist into his mouth so that he doesn’t yell, or sob, or do something. He’s had his time, his punishment. It’s your turn now, and all he can do is be there at the end of the night. He takes a swig of the liquor in his hand, but it just makes the burn in his throat worse. So bad he has to step away, just for a minute, to collect himself.
He doesn’t know your lazy gaze is watching his back, waiting for him to return. The only person who keeps you safe in all this, or at least rides out the devastation with you. Without him, you wouldn’t be here. You don’t know if that makes him a blessing or a curse.
“Gonna get you some water,” he decides.
Don’t go, you think, but you don’t dare say it. Even now, you’re afraid the Capitol will see just how much you rely on him and take that from you, too.
He comes back quickly, helps sit you up with a gentle hand on your shoulder as he tips the cool glass to your cracked lips. “That’s it,” he coaxes. “Thatta girl.”
Your face crumples as though it tastes foul, and he draws it back to dry the excess from your chin. “When’s… it gon’ end?” you ask.
“When we’re dead and buried,” he replies softly. “Till then, you try to stay with me, okay?”
Your hooded eyes glisten as you finally look at him. It isn’t easy, being this vulnerable. You’ve been used and abused all night by evil, depraved men. Men with weapons on their fingers, in their mouths, everywhere, not because they like to fight, but because they like to bleed people like you dry. You shouldn’t want to be anywhere near him now, but where else can you go?
He’s all you’ve got. Some nights, it just isn’t enough. “Don’t w’na do this anymore.”
“I know.”
“Could end it.”
“They wouldn’t let you. You know that.” His voice is gravel; pain. You hate you put it there with your dreams of death, but they feel closer now than ever. What if he didn’t tend to your wounds, didn’t keep your hydrated and fed and awake? What if he let you drift off the way he hadn’t been able to in the arena?
And he’s right. Even if he could let you go, the Capitol would find some way to get you back, whether they’d use your sickly corpse or find somebody to masquerade as you to keep up appearances. You’d just be making it worse, even if not for yourself.
And he needs you. He’d never say it, but he does. The only other victor here, all you have is each other. Back in District 12, you sit in your grand house in the Victor Village for hours, listening to him shuffling on the other side of the wall. His presence always a frayed thread to grasp onto with both hands. You clean him up when he’s passed out on his doorstep, or sometimes, you get drunk together on your couch. Only then do your bodies intertwine the way you want, both of you too past consciousness to care whether somebody sees. You don’t know what he’d do without you. Choke on his own vomit, maybe. Drink until he drowned. You rely on each other — and it’s the most dangerous thing in the world. But also the only thing that keeps you going.
Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, and his face is fading in and out of the blackness now as he tends to some of the scratches on your face and neck.
“Haymitch,” you whisper again, because if anybody can save you, it’s him.
“Right here, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.” He’s so gentle against your raw skin you barely feel it at all, only moaning when he reaches tender spots. Finally, it stops.
“Couch or bed?” he asks just as you’re sinking into the dark.
“Couch.” Beds are where terrible things happen. Beds are where this happened.
“Lie down then, sweet. That’s it.” He guides you down to the cushions of the couch, a hand brushing the matted hair off your cheeks. You can’t tell if it’s comfortable or not. Your body isn’t yours to decide that, these days. He drapes a blanket over you, and it eases your shuddering limbs. Had you been shaking like that the whole time? You barely noticed.
“You’ll stay?” If you were capable of it, it would have been a plea.
He gives you the same answer as ever: “Where else am I gonna go?” And then, when you don’t reply, he takes your hand and gets comfortable on the carpet. He’s never, not once, tried to do more than that after nights like this, knowing too much touch will bring it all back. “Gonna be right here till sunrise, okay? Always gonna be another sunrise.”
It should be a comfort, but it feels like a death sentence. Doing this all over again tomorrow…
But he’s here. He’ll always be here. The only good thing this world has ever given you.
notes; r is a hairdresser!! js some domestic frank fluff 🥹 haircuts and sleepiness
wc; <1k
the room is cooled by the softly whirring overhead fan, the skin of your thighs chilled by having kicked off all the blankets in your sleep. despite the room temperature, you awake quite warm; you just so happen to sleep next to a living furnace. Frank’s burly arm is thrown heavily over your midsection, his nose pressed against your bare shoulder as he sleeps soundly on his stomach. His beard scratches your skin, and the soft snuffle of his breath is warm.
Kind of like sleeping next to a big pitbull, you think fondly. You carefully shift to sit up, only slight adjusting his arm to weigh across your lap instead. Leaning against the headboard of the bed, you take him in. There’s that crease between his brows, a grumpy, perpetual frown on his features even in sleep. Maybe he was dreaming. A good one, you hoped.
The range of muscles across his back are relaxed, but prominent. You trace the ridges of them over his warm skin with your nails, gently, and watch the creases in his face relax as some consciousness bleeds into his dormancy.
Frank wasn’t a very heavy sleeper. You’d worn him down, over the years together. He was a man trained to stir at the slightest bump in the night; the upstairs neighbor stepping onto the fire escape, the AC whirring to life after a preprogrammed period. A man whose nightmares steered him away from falling asleep at all. It’s taken thousands of weekday mornings snoozing his alarm to get to the worksite, weekends turning them off altogether (who chooses to wake up at eight on a Saturday?) to turn Frank into a homebody. To convince him to spend weekend mornings pliant, limbs heavy and warm under a duvet like his were now.
So, he doesn’t rouse immediately when you touch him. It’s only when your fingers thread into his dark hair that he lets out a low sound, some mix of a heavy sigh and a grumble. Like a pitbull, you think again.
Frank only shifts slightly, his arm remaining anchored over your legs, but his face moving back to nose against your skin; this time, your hip, a move the hem of your underwear. The heatwave has you ditching your matching pajama sets, the ones Frank claimed made you look like a little Grandma. You’d given his shoulder a smack for that one.
“Morning, sleepy.” You mutter, gently scraping your nails across his scalp. He grunts in reply, cracking one almond eye open to peer up at you.
You smile down at him. He manages a lazier, more crooked one at you, and drops a kiss to your hip. His eyes close at the contact, and don’t reopen. When Frank finally opens his mouth, his voice is gravelly, slow to start. “..What time’s’it.”
Giving the clock on his nightstand a glance, you hum. “About eleven.” A longer, more sustained grumble from him. Much time passes like that, your fingers against his scalp, him making little effort to resist falling right back asleep, periodically making quiet and involuntary noises, grunts.
“Your hair’s getting long, Frankie.” You murmur eventually, with a tilt of your head. Another one of those old man sounds in reply. “Maybe you need a trim.”
“Y’think so?”
“Mm. We can get it done before breakfast,” you push the hair from his temple, internally considering the exact cuts needed.
“Sounds good.” But, he doesn’t move an inch. A minute passes, you in your own thoughts, before you catch his breathing evening again, and the subtle part of his lips.
“..Frank.”
“Uh.” He grunts, a muscle in his cheek jumping. You bite back a laugh.
With your fingers in the hair at his forehead, you gently tug his face away from your hip. “You’re falling asleep again.”
Frank cracks an eye, mumbling. “..m’awake.”
“Oh, are you?” You can’t hide a grin now. He makes an affirmative sound. Looking up now, you look around the bedroom. Morning light infiltrates through the thin white curtains, one of your many additions to his previously barren apartment before you. Where the sheets once only smelled like his cologne and faint musk, there’s a hint of your favorite linen spray and traces of the nightstand candle you like to burn in the evenings.
Well. That’s all what a deep breath of the space tells you, before you shuffle out from under the trap of Frank’s arm and stand with a small sigh. You stretch your arms above your head, twisting slightly to relieve the sleep-stiffness, and glance over your shoulder at Frank. Still in bed, laying in about the same position, though your absence made him shift further onto his stomach. The difference is that his eyes are open, only slightly bleary from sleep, and free of any hard creases or hardness. The only lines around his face now are the perpetual ones, from half a lifetime spent squinting and grimacing. There’s a softness, a near reverence to the way he watches you, bearded cheek against the fitted sheet that’s still bearing the impression of where your body was.
“You getting up, or what?” You hum, dropping your arms to your sides and turning slightly.
Frank nods simply, eyes not leaving you as he props a bent arm under his head, tucks his chin into the crook of his elbow. “Yeah, yeah.” A pause, where you grin and he huffs through the nostrils. He finally moves to lift himself up. “..Yeah. Getting up.”
—
“don’t leave it too long,” Frank reminds.
“I know!” You snip, both in tone and, well, wielding scissors.
He sits backwards on the closed toilet lid, his bare back to you. You’ve laid a dish towel over his shoulders, catching some of the brown strands of hair that fall as you cut. Being a hairdresser comes with exponential benefits; one being that you get to do your man’s hair exactly how you want it. He doesn’t complain too much.
It’s wet as you cut, you comb up sections to trim layers into with the shears you keep in the apartment. Your shared bathroom is quiet, save for sparse, unforced conversation and the sound of hair being snipped.
“Curt wants me to go back to one of those veterans.. group circle, things.” Frank mentions, offhandedly. He knows better than to give into instinct and bob his head as he speaks; with how long you’ve been together, he’s been reprimanded enough to learn.
“Yeah?” The subject would be touchy, if it were anyone but you.
“I think I might.”
“That would be good for you.” You agree. The conversation doesn’t die, but pauses for a good time. You move around him, taking more sections of hair with the comb. When you begin to trim the hair that falls around his temple, he turns his face to give you easier access.
You can feel his eyes on you, breaking through your concentration. You spare him a brief look. Sure enough, there’s that unreadable stare. “What?”
Frank shrugs, eyes averting to the far wall, you, who forgot that you were supposed to be giving him a brief look. “Nothin’.” You squint at him, then back to the task at hand. Stepping around him, you dust some hair off the skin of his back and reach for the other side of his forehead. He turns his face again for you.
Still staring. It’s practically tangible. You try to bite back a smile by the inside of your cheeks, cutting away as he speaks, “Damn gorgeous woman.”
You let out an easy laugh. Everything felt easy, when it was just the two of you. “Trying to compliment your way into a free haircut?”
Frank huffs at that, the corners of his lips turning up. “I thought livin’ together covered that.”
“Nope. Gotta pay the bills, y’know.”
“.. I pay those.”
“Whatever- turn around.” Frank shakes his head at you, but is unmistakably smiling as he turns on the lid to face you. He tips his chin up. That look hasn’t left his eyes; sweet content. Comfort. Some kind of quiet love, that couldn’t be louder to someone who knows how to read it on his features.
“Y’think I should shave it?” Frank mumbles, trying not to work his jaw too much as you bring the scissors to his beard. You scoff in disbelief.
“I’d kill you.” He laughs from the chest, brief and real. It’s a well known fact that you adored his gruff look. You only trim the facial hair, and you’re done in a minute. Carefully lifting the towel from his shoulders, you shake out the loose hair into the small trash bin beside the toilet as he stands to full height.
You can’t, and can never, resist raking your eyes down Frank’s chest, to his shoulders and arms; the movement of well-earned muscle under scarred skin as he makes his way to stand in front of the sink mirror.
He squints at his reflection, rubbing a large paw of a hand down his beard and turning his head this way and that. Coming to stand on tiptoes behind him, you reach up and shake out the freshly cut hair. He grumbles in interest, though there’s a crease between his brows.
“Left it kind of long, huh, sweetheart?”
You rest your hands on his shoulders, tipping your face up to peer at him through the mirror despite the height difference. “It looks better like this.” He grunts, noncommittally, his eyes moving from the haircut to you. “I’m the one who has to look at you, Frankie.”
A smile, toothy and lopsided, creases Frank’s features at that. He crosses his arms around his chest, covering your hands on his shoulders and muttering with a slight squint at you through the glass; “Well, you’re the boss, mama.”
SUMMARY : after a few rounds, soldier boy takes a blunt break and you discover a fetish you didn't know existed.
WARNINGS : strong language. lust. smut. unprotected p in v. under-the-influence sex. getting high during sex. creampies. cowgirling. cockwarming. shotgunning. weed consumption. second hand smoke. smoking kink. breeding kink (if you squint).
A/N : can't get soldier boy out of my mind 😩 also him offering his weed—what a generous daddy.
Soldier Boy grunts over your body violently, the tendons in his neck visible as he finishes in you yet again. You feel his condomless dick pulse against your gummy walls and spew hot cum onto your cervix. Not that he cared before with the guarantee of abortion, but now, with modernized medicine, with his hips flush against your ass, he could fill your cunt to the brim without the promise of having to father another kid. Round after round, Soldier Boy sprayed his heavy load into your abused pussy, using you like he was a teenage boy and you were his ‘special’ sock. You don’t mind, just hoping that one of his swimmers makes it through to crown you the mother of his unborn child.
The mattress is drenched in your mixed juices from hours of fucking, and though you’re swollen and deserving of a break, you don’t want one. He rolls off of you anyway, taking a beat as you catch your breath and come down from your high. You press your thighs together when his seed threatens to escape your spent hole. It doesn’t matter; gravity still pushes it out, down your crack, and onto his silky sheets. He reaches over and grabs the tools to enhance his pleasure. With your eyes closed, you hear the lighter ignite before the metal case shuts. And that's when you smell the cannabis.
His puff fills your nostrils, and when your eyes open after turning toward him, you watch as he takes a drag of the blunt. He holds it in his lungs, letting it circulate before releasing it into the sex-filled air. Fuck, he looks sexy. You aren’t sure if he makes smoking look sexy or if he looks sexier smoking. Whichever it is, you’re thankful for his addiction.
He catches your stare and holds out his joint, offering you a hit. You shake your head, imagining taking it a different way. He shrugs, then brings his fingers back to his lips. The end of the stick glows a bright red as he inhales the marijuana before it returns dull once he stops. You move the covers, and he watches with curiosity as you ignore your shaky legs and climb on top of him, straddling his hips.
“More already? Can’t get enough of my hog?” His deep voice cuts through the silence before taking another drag.
You don’t answer. Instead, you place your hands on his bearded, chiseled cheeks and kiss him. Your tongue swipes his bottom lip, begging for entry as you grind down on his lap. Without wasting a beat, he opens his mouth, and the smoke floods in yours. You shut your eyes and inhale it slowly, doing your best not to choke and make yourself look like a pussy. The cannabis swirls in your head, making you delightfully dizzy, but that, too, could’ve been the lack of oxygen. You lean away and exhale what remains. With a flutter, your eyes open to find a huge and amused smile plastered on his face.
“Fuck, doll, just when I thought you couldn’t get any hotter.”
He sets the mug on the nightstand and grabs the back of your neck, pulling you down and smashing his lips against yours. You’re a bit taken aback, but you kiss him just as feverishly. His lips taste like weed, and his beard painfully rubs against your smooth face, but you endure it all for him. Your fingers intertwine with his long hair, and you tug him closer, deepening the kiss. His tongue shoves past your lips and wrestles with yours, but it doesn't last long.
With a moan, you give in and submit to the infamous supe. The hand that was once wrapped around the back of your neck now shifts to your jaw. His thumb rests on your chin, holding your mouth open as he pushes you away, just enough to bring the tightly rolled grass to his lips. He takes a quick puff, aligns his mouth with yours, and blows a line of smoke into it. You feel the fast effects of the soul diesel take control.
Shotgunning wasn’t something you had done before; Now you can't help but question why you hadn’t tried it sooner. He takes another draw, his gaze unwavering from yours. You feel him grow beneath you, and your body responds. Wetness coats his awakening member, and if he didn’t have the blunt between his lips, he’d bite his lower. His hand leaves your face and travels between your bodies, clutching his thick and lengthy cock. He swipes at your folds like his dick was a card, and your lips were the reader. Just like his money, his sex was endless: everything a girl could ever want. His teasing elicits a whimper, and without warning, he sticks his (rather large) chip in your machine.
A heavy gasp falls from your mouth, and he takes the opportunity to blow into it. Your throat burns with delight as he slides further into your spent cunt. The stretch tosses your eyes to the back of your head, and just when you think the smoke nearly suffocates you, Soldier Boy connects his mouth to yours and shoots more fumes down your esophagus. You breathe in sharply through your nose, desperate for air, but it’s no use; The room is filled with hefty clouds of smoke.
Your body squirms, grinding your hips in a circle, needing the friction while also needing oxygen. He shows you mercy and unlatches his lips from yours. Your heart races and your chest heaves, lungs feeling like they’re on fire. It isn’t a resolution, it isn’t even a fix, but it sure is one hell of a distraction when his strong hand squeezes your hip as he begins to move underneath you. Your grip gets tighter, but the pull to his hair doesn’t faze him. His hips rock up into yours, causing your mouth to fall open wider.
Your body arches into him, your breasts smushing against his toned chest. He takes another drag of his spliff, and when he doesn’t share, your eyes land on him. You catch a glimpse of wariness, of vulnerability, of second-guessing. He saw your moment of weakness, when the reefer hit you a little too hard all at once. If it were any other girl, any other time, he wouldn’t have cared. Hell, he would’ve kept going, but not with you. So, to assure him that you’re fine, you place both hands back on his cheeks, inching your face closer to his before nodding gently. The second he parts his lips, the smoke floods out of the gates, and with a little push, he directs the vapor toward you.
Just like him, Mary Jane had you by the throat, making you bend at will. Man, oh man, was it fucking you as hard as Soldier Boy was. Your body moves with each thrust, his angle hitting your g-spot perfectly. Between his revitalizing blow and the invigorating effects of the soul diesel, you’re no longer tired. The blend sets you on a high you hadn’t felt before, and you want more—you crave more.
This specific ganja lifts you up, giving your energy a much-needed boost after the last few rounds, and you can’t be more grateful. You push yourself into the cowgirl position, your hands now behind you, resting on his knees for support. He retracts half his cock from your body as you lift yourself higher, his tip threatening to leave its domain. You slam down just as he bucks into you, both of you shouting from the immense pleasure of deeper. If you had any moisture left in your body that wasn’t designated between your thighs, you would’ve teared at how far in your guts he was buried. A rhythm was quickly set, screwing harder than you ever had before. You weren’t a supe; Both of you were aware there was always a limit you hit before breaking, but this time was different. This time, the cannabis numbed the pain you’ll surely feel tomorrow.
It isn't long after you begin that you cease to meet him halfway. No, it soon becomes out of your control. Your body thrashes, like you were riding a bull, and you try your best to stay on. He watches your breasts bounce with every thrust, your nipples so sharp they cut the puff of smoke he continues to blow your way. Your head spins, and your hands move to his abdomen, bracing to catch yourself if he bucks you off. Moans pour from your lungs and echo throughout his penthouse, accompanied by the pornographic sound your bodies so naturally created. Surely if he were any other supe, there would’ve been a knock at his door, urging him to keep it down.
You feel your orgasm approaching, and the weed seems to intensify your pleasure. The knot in your belly tightens, and you know it’ll be any second before the tension snaps. He sees the once white, now red, of your eyes, and he knows you’re on the cusp of euphoria. The fucking pro that he is, sets the blunt between his lips towards the corner of his mouth, leaving a gap big enough to in and exhale, before finally gripping your other hip. With his feet already horizontal with the mattress, he stabs himself deeper. One, two, and on the third jab, you’re convulsing on his dick like you were possessed. You cry out in both pain and overwhelming pleasure as you fly higher than you ever thought possible. He grunts out louder than all the times before, and he sprays your insides white.
His face twists as he empties his sack, almost forgetting to balance the bud between his lips as you shudder above him, milking him of every drop. The moment his hips touch the bed, you collapse on top of him, resting your head on his chest. Your heart races at a dangerous pace, but listening to his slower beat helps you find your way back. He tosses the nickel-sized joint into the cup he was using earlier, but not before taking the last hit. He lifts your chin, and your droopy eyelids barely open to see his handsome face. His thumb parts your lips, and you accept his final shotgun. One arm wraps around your body, and his opposite hand holds your jaw, pulling you closer once you exhale. His mouth devours yours, and though you do your best to kiss back just as eagerly, his power of stamina proves to be a lot stronger than the drug you took to enhance yours. Once it begins to wear off and it feels like you scooted across a rug floor long enough to get a harsh burn, he lets you break for air.
“Ever get fucked over the ledge of a 100-foot story building before?”
SOLDIER BOY MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST | JOIN THE TAG LIST
Thinking about spnAU!Dean Winchester being reader's bf who wants her literally all the time, no matter where!
Warnings: unprotected sex (wrap it up), car sex, quickie, semi-public, penetrative sex, creampies<3 BOTTOM DEAN!
(wc: ≈ 1.4k) (genre: smut)
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
| It could be everywhere; after a long day in a motel room, during a hunt in an abandoned house, or at a gas station in some disgusting bathroom.
Today was one of those days again. Dean found himself worked up after a—way too long—drive across the country. Not only haven’t they reached the motel where they were supposed to stay at, but the weather was absolutely unbearable too. Mid July, the hottest of all the months.
Sam was complaining. You were complaining. Dean was already in a grumpy mood to begin with! He refused wearing shorts since he insisted they weren’t manly enough and the Impala he loved so much didn’t really have any sort of AC.
With the windows down and his dad-rock playing from the cassettes he kept in the glovebox, you three eventually did reach some lonely-looking diner. It wasn’t exactly luxury, but hunting didn’t come with a paycheck. In other words; you were too broke for any fancy restaurants.
————————————————————
"Sam, you go and check what’s on the menu— Get me extra fries while you’re at it." Dean called over his shoulder to his brother.
Sam glanced between the two of you from the front seat, catching the shift in Dean's mood.
"I’m just gonna… go order food before I see something I don't wanna see.." He mumbled, as he slammed the car door shut.
"Take your time, Sammy! No need to hurry—" Dean shouted after him, looking way too smug.
As soon as Sam was gone, Dean turned to his girlfriend; you.
Currently, you were sitting in the backseat, trying to get your shoes back on, in order to get out of the car and stretch your limbs. Maybe get some ice cream yourself.
"What're you doin', babe?" Dean's voice was raspy, a twinge of that boyish tone still shining through, despite his best efforts to sound composed.
"What does it look like, De? I'm starving—" You'd complain. He expected nothing less.
"You really wanna go in there with Sammy? C'mon, can’t the food wait? For a moment? Don’t you wanna spend time with your boyfriend?"
"Dean, what—" You'd look up from your shoe laces, only to meet his green eyes, his sickly long lashes, looking at you like he’s starving too. Just.. not for food.
"Baby, please— Sammy’s gone. He’ll be gone for at least twenty minutes. I've been.. I couldn’t stop thinking about you today. Don’t be cruel.." He pleaded. Actually. His voice turned much whinier than before, still slightly cocky nonetheless.
"Seriously?! We fucked last night—" You were cut off by his frame already climbing into the backseat, already pressed against you.
"C'mon, please.. Whatever you want. Let me taste you— Or.. use your mouth on me. Your hands. Ride me, I don’t care—" The way he said it made you feel pretty sure he was about to cry if you didn’t give in.
"You’re such a loser, Dean, like.. you’re worse than a teenager!" You’d laugh, while simultaneously climbing on top of his lap, your arms lazily wrapped around his neck, before you press your lips against his plush ones.
The kiss quickly turned into a makeout session, his tongue swiping along your bottom lip, claiming it’s way into your month, just to intertwine with yours. It was a moment full of tongue and teeth, his hands roaming all over your body, already pulling your tank top over your head, leaving your in your bra.
When he unclasped it single-handedly, his lips were still glued to yours. You could feel the sliver ring he wore, cold metal against your searing skin, leaving goosebumps in it's wake.
You were forced to be the one breaking away from the kiss, since Dean was ready to asphyxiate on your lips and die a happy man. You could tell by his panting, his parted, wet lips, as you looked over his flushed, freckled face.
At this point, neither of you really cared about the people that may walk by and catch a glimpse of the heated moment anymore. The diner's parking lot was pretty much empty anyway.
"Please, baby.. don’t make me wait. I can’t—" He begged. His eyes looking up at you, as you smile to yourself and trail your hands down his chest.
"Patience, De.." You'd scold, although his hands were already palming at your tits, squishing the soft flesh, and trying to drink in the sight. His cock was already hard and leaking in his pants, pleading to be noticed.
His shirt was lost soon enough too. Leaving his amulet to dangle across his freckled muscles. It was a delicious sight, made you almost forget that Sam would be back in ten minutes. That said, you quickly lost your shorts as well.
With this new determination to finish before you got caught, you undid his belt, unzipped his jeans, pulling the fabric down to his meaty thighs, revealing his ratty, grey boxers.
"Can’t wait— wanna taste.. wanna look at you all day.. every day—" Dean had to stop himself from drooling over you, when you finally pulled his precum-stained boxers down and freed his aching cock.
The tip was already flushed in a deep shade of pink, clear pre running down the veins along his shaft, soaking his dark blonde pubes.
Usually, you’d give him a blowjob first, but honestly? You weren’t sure if he could handle that right now, given that he almost came untouched.
You moved your lace panties aside, revealing your already glistening cunt, as your grabbed a hold of his cock, sliding him along your slit to gather the mixed lube of both of your arousal.
Once you finally slid down his length, his eyes fluttered shut and his head tipped back, sweat already beading at his short dirty blonde spikes of hair. His mouth fell slightly open, breathy moans leaving his throat immediately.
"Oh— fuck, Dean.. It’s big—" You should be used to it by now.. but every now and then, you still need a moment to get used to his size.
"You got it, baby— It’s okay. It’s fine— Just move. C'mon.." He urged you on, his hands squeezing and pulling at the flesh of your hips.
Dean was entirely blinded by the pleasure of your warm walls around him, dismissing the fact that you might have needed some time to adjust, because he was just that desperate.
When you did begin riding his cock with a steady rhythm, his face buried against your shoulder, his forehead tipping onto your collarbones, as his arms hugged tightly around your body.
The lewd sounds of skin on skin and the slick between your bodies now started to combine with Dean's whines. He was no longer moaning, no, his sounds bordered on whimpers.
"Baby— I'm not gonna last— I can’t.. feels too good—" He forced those words out, while his body was unconsciously trying to merge with you, his face now smooshed against your chest. His mouth was left slightly agape, his eyes squeezed shut, and his eyebrows furrowed.
He clumsily tried to slide one of his hands down towards your clit, giving it uncoordinated circles. Though, he missed the spot with his thumb about five times, before he gave up and just wrapped both his arms around you.
"Come, De— Fuck, just— come inside." You'd moan, as your hands were clawing at his chiseled shoulders and the back of his head. Fingers tugging at hair that was too short to really pull at.
The scratching of your fingertips against his scalp and the warm, wet pleasure of your walls tightening and pulsing around his swollen cock eventually overwhelmed him, pushing him to a mind-blowing orgasm, that had him moaning and whining high pitched gasps against your damp skin.
His cock pulsed thick hot ropes of cum inside you, leaving your cunt so full, it caused the sticky mess to drip down against his own lap, soaking his thighs.
"Oh— shit, that was—" He breathed out, trying to regain his consciousness, even though he was still seeing stars from the orgasm.
Then it washed over him like cold sweat; Sammy was about to come back! His eyes shot wide, as he looked at you.
"Fuck, baby. You gotta clean up. You’re dripping—"
"Yeah, and whose fault is that, smartass?" You laughed, before quickly pulling both your panties and your shorts back up, not minding the literal cum that was leaking out of you.
"Can’t blame a man for wanting his girl, baby.." There was that cocky attitude seeping back into his tone, as if he hadn’t just whimpered and pleaded for you.
With surprising efficiency, he was dressed again, climbing back behind the wheel, as he made sure to open the doors to his beloved car, wanting to get rid of the smell of sex before his brother suspected anything.
As for the dubious stains on the leather seats; he just threw his jacket over them, hoping he wouldn’t forget to clean the car tomorrow.
You were in the bathroom of the diner, trying to freshen up, as Sammy finally came back with the food. Greasy fries and burgers.
Weirdly enough, Dean was flushed, trying to look unbothered, as his brother got back into the car.
"Dean, you okay? Where’s reader?" Sam asked innocently, frowning in confusion.
"Yeah— sure. Just fine. She’s— she said she had to freshen up. Heat must be getting to her."
Dean was such a liar. His dick was still twitching in his boxers from his earlier high.
ᥫ᭡ writers note: I'm literally so sorry for disappearing for like a month omg ! There was so much shit going on in my life. But anyway, here’s this! If you guys have any other requests or ideas, lmk! xoxo —ℳ ᥫ᭡
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Summary: Loving Soldier Boy was never easy—but tonight, he’s just Ben. Stripped of bravado, weighed down by the world, he lets you see the cracks. In quiet touches and unspoken confessions, he leans into you, searching for something he’s not sure he deserves. And for once, he lets himself rest—just with you.
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: FLUFF
Word Count: 3245
A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 💙
You didn’t think tonight would turn out like this. Not that dating Soldier Boy ever came with a sense of predictability, but this… this was something you hadn’t expected.
When he walked into your apartment, it was the same as usual—kicking the door shut with his boot, leaving streaks of dirt on the rug you’d told him a dozen times not to ruin. His shield, that ever-present symbol of his ego, clattered against the wall where he left it leaning. He looked exhausted, his hair matted to his forehead with sweat, his movements slower, heavier than you were used to.
“Rough day?”, you asked, already heading to grab him a beer from the fridge. It was part of the routine now. He’d come in, drop some snarky comment about how the world sucked, down half the beer in one go, and grumble until he either passed out or decided he wanted you in bed.
But today, he didn’t answer. When you turned around, beer in hand, he was just standing there, watching you.
There was something in his eyes—something you hadn’t seen before. He looked… unsure. And Soldier Boy wasn’t someone who did “unsure”. He was all swagger and bravado, always walking into a room like he owned it. But now? He looked smaller somehow, like the weight of the day—or maybe the weight of being him—was too much to carry.
“You good?”, you asked, your voice softer this time. Setting the beer on the counter, you stepped closer, unsure of what to say. He didn’t reach for it. Instead, he let out a long, heavy sigh and dropped onto the couch, his head falling back against the cushion.
“Yeah”, he muttered, though it didn’t sound convincing. “Just… tired”.
That was new. He never admitted to being tired. Not the Soldier Boy you knew. He was supposed to be bulletproof, invincible—at least, that’s how he saw himself. But tonight, it felt like all that armor he wore—literal and figurative—was starting to crack.
You sat down beside him cautiously, unsure if he’d push you away. He didn’t even glance at you, just stared at the ceiling like it might offer him some kind of answer. When his hand brushed against yours, it wasn’t the cocky, teasing touch you were used to. It was hesitant. Tentative.
“Ben?”, you asked quietly. “What’s going on?”.
His jaw tightened, and he closed his eyes, like he was fighting something inside himself. “I just—”. He stopped, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Forget it”.
You didn’t let him off the hook that easily. “Talk to me”, you urged, resting your hand gently on his arm. “What do you need?”.
His eyes opened, and when they met yours, they weren’t the arrogant, confident eyes you were used to. There was something raw there, something that made your chest tighten. For a second, you thought he’d get up and leave, maybe throw out some asshole comment to deflect like he always did when things got too real. But he didn’t.
Instead, he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His voice was so quiet you almost didn’t catch it when he said, “I just need… you. Okay?”.
It wasn’t a demand, like you’d come to expect from him. It wasn’t gruff or commanding. It was soft. Almost pleading.
You blinked, caught off guard. This wasn’t the Soldier Boy you knew—the man who had to be in control of everything, who couldn’t let anyone else take charge. But tonight, something was different. He was different. And even if he’d never say the words out loud, you could see it in the way his hand reached for yours again, the way he clung to it like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
He didn’t want to be the unbreakable superhero right now. He didn’t want to fight, argue, or take the lead. Tonight, he just wanted to let go.
He wanted you.
For a moment, you didn’t move. You weren’t sure how to react—this wasn’t the man you’d grown used to, the one who always walked through life with an unshakable ego. But as you looked at him now, slumped forward, waiting for your response like he didn’t know what to expect, you realized how fragile he seemed beneath it all.
“Okay”, you murmured, your voice steady despite the odd knot forming in your chest.
His shoulders eased, just slightly, like that single word was enough to let him breathe again. You reached out, resting your hand gently against his back. He didn’t flinch or shrug you off, and you could feel the tension knotted there, his muscles taut beneath your fingers.
For a moment, the two of you stayed like that—his head bowed, your hand resting on his back, a quiet stillness settling over the room. You could feel the weight of the day on him, not sadness exactly, but something heavier. He wasn’t broken, but he was worn, like he was just… done. Done with all of it.
“Wanna take a shower?”, you murmured, your lips brushing against his bicep. It was a small gesture, but one you knew he wouldn’t resist. The tension in his shoulders shifted at your words, and though he didn’t respond right away, you could tell he was considering it.
Finally, he let out a low hum, more a grunt than an answer. “Yeah”, he said, his voice rough but softer than you expected.
You stood first, tugging lightly at his arm until he followed. He didn’t protest, letting you lead him through the familiar path to the bathroom. It wasn’t like him to give up control so easily—normally, he’d be making some quip about how lucky you were to get him out of his clothes, or joking about how he didn’t need to wash off because “dirt doesn’t stick to perfection”. But tonight, there was none of that. Just quiet compliance, a rare and fragile thing.
The bathroom light was soft, warm, and it reflected in his tired eyes as you turned the shower on. Steam began to rise, curling in the air, and you glanced over at him as he leaned against the sink, his arms crossed, watching you. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t putting on a show. He was just… waiting.
“You need help, big guy?”, you teased gently, trying to lighten the mood.
He huffed, the faintest flicker of his usual smirk appearing for just a second. “I’m not that far gone”, he muttered, but there was no edge to his voice.
Still, you stepped closer, your fingers reaching for the heavy buckle of his supe suit. It was scratched and battered, the once-pristine metal dulled by years of wear and tear. As you started to undo it, you could feel his eyes on you—not in the usual cocky, flirtatious way, but softer, more curious, like he was trying to understand why you were doing this for him.
The belt clicked open, and you carefully slid it free, letting it drop to the floor with a dull thud. Your hands moved to the fastening of his suit, your fingers deft as you worked it loose. The fabric was thick, stiff with grime and the scent of smoke and sweat lingering in the material. It was a stark reminder of what his life was—a never-ending cycle of fights, missions, and expectations.
“You’re quiet”, you murmured as you worked, glancing up at him.
“Just… tired”, he admitted, his voice low, barely above a whisper. His gaze softened, and for a moment, he almost looked like he might say something more. But then he fell silent again, letting you continue without interruption.
As the top of his suit came loose, you slid it down his arms, revealing his broad chest and the scars that marked his skin. They told the story of a man who had been through hell and back—a story he rarely let anyone see. Your eyes lingered on a particularly deep scar over his ribs, one you’d traced with your fingers before in quieter moments.
You didn’t say anything about it now. You knew better.
“You’re a mess”, you teased gently, trying to bring some levity to the moment. Your hand brushed over his chest briefly, more out of instinct than anything else, and you felt the way he leaned into the touch—subtle, but there.
“Yeah, well”, he muttered, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “You knew what you were signing up for”.
That was more like him, and the familiar quip made you smile. “Sure did”, you said, pulling the rest of his suit down until it pooled at his feet. He stepped out of it without a word, standing before you naked now, the steam from the shower curling around his frame.
For a moment, you just looked at him. Right now, he was just Ben, tired and worn, standing in your bathroom like he didn’t know what to do next.
“Come on”, you said softly, taking his hand and guiding him toward the shower.
The water hit him first, soaking his hair and trailing down his body, washing away the grime and tension he’d carried in with him. He tilted his head back under the spray, his eyes closing as he let out a low, contented sigh.
You stepped in with him, the warmth of the water cascading over both of you. His hands found your waist instinctively, steadying himself more than anything else, and you stayed close, your fingers running gently along his arms, his chest, wherever you felt he needed the comfort.
The water poured over both of you, the steady rhythm of the droplets filling the silence. He wasn’t saying much—wasn’t saying anything, really—but his hands lingered at your waist, not gripping, just holding. Like he needed to know you were there, solid and steady.
Eventually, as the steam enveloped you both, you felt him shift slightly. His shoulders sagged, and then, slowly, his head dipped forward until it came to rest against your collarbone. The unexpected weight of it was grounding, and you instinctively raised your hand, threading your fingers through his damp hair.
You let him stay there.
You didn’t say anything—didn’t tease him about the rare vulnerability or push him to talk. You just let him be, standing in the warmth of the shower, your hand gently stroking through his hair, the other tracing soft patterns along his back.
His breathing slowed against you, the rise and fall of his chest evening out. The tension he carried, the tight coil of pressure always wound so deeply inside him, seemed to ease just a little. He wasn’t completely relaxed—he never could be—but this was close enough.
After a while, he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin, “You’re… too good at this”.
You smiled faintly, letting out a soft chuckle. “At what?”.
“Letting me… I don’t know”. He paused, shifting slightly but not pulling away. “Letting me stop. Even just for a second”.
Your hand stilled in his hair for a moment before continuing. “You don’t always have to keep moving, Ben”, you said softly. “You don’t always have to be… that guy. You can just be you with me”.
He didn’t respond right away, but you felt the way his arms tightened slightly around your waist. It wasn’t a thank you, not in words. Soldier Boy didn’t do thank yous. But it was enough.
“I don’t know who the hell ‘me’ even is anymore”, he said after a long pause, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it.
You pressed a soft kiss to his temple, your lips lingering there. “Then let’s figure it out together”.
For the first time that night, you felt him exhale fully, the kind of breath that carried the weight of everything he wasn’t saying. His head stayed resting against you, the water continuing to wash over both of you as the world outside faded further and further away.
And for now, that was enough.
After the shower, the two of you moved quietly through the motions of getting ready for bed. Ben didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. The air between you was calm, steady, the kind of quiet that spoke more than words could.
When he finally slid into bed beside you, you expected him to turn back into the Soldier Boy you knew, trying to get you tangled up beneath him. But tonight was different.
He simply lay back, his body sinking into the mattress like he was letting himself rest for the first time in years. He turned onto his side, his back to you, and for a moment, you just stared at him, unsure of what to do. It wasn’t like him to pull away, and yet here he was, retreating in a way that didn’t feel like rejection, but something else entirely.
You scooted closer, the mattress shifting under your weight as you moved toward him. Your hand reached out tentatively at first, brushing over his back lightly, testing the waters. His body was warm under your touch, his muscles taut but not as tense as they’d been earlier.
When he didn’t pull away, you let your hand settle more firmly, wrapping your arm around his torso. He let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh at the contact, his shoulders relaxing just a little more.
You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to the curve of his back, just between his shoulder blades. The faint salt of his skin mingled with the lingering scent of soap from the shower, grounding you in the quiet intimacy of the moment.
His hand moved, covering yours where it rested against his chest. The warmth of his palm settled over your fingers, holding them in place like he needed the reassurance of your touch. Neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable; it felt heavy with meaning, with emotions too raw to voice.
After a while, though, you felt him shift. Slowly, he turned in your arms, rolling onto his back and then to his side, facing you. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, like he was gathering the courage for something.
Your breath hitched slightly as his gaze locked onto yours. Those green eyes, usually sharp and full of mischief or arrogance, were softer now, vulnerable in a way that made your chest tighten. You bit your lip instinctively, unsure of what he was searching for as his eyes traced your face.
Your hand, still resting on his chest, moved on its own accord, brushing upward to the scruff of his beard. Your fingertips traced the coarse texture, lingering along his jawline, and you couldn’t help but let a small, almost shy smile tug at your lips.
“What?”, you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze shifted, moving from your eyes to your lips and back again, like he was debating something in his head. His hand lifted, resting lightly against your side, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your shirt.
“You”, he finally murmured, the word low and rough. “You’re just… different”.
“Different how?”, you asked, your fingers still absently stroking along his beard.
His lips twitched faintly, like he was fighting a smile. “Not like anyone else”, he said. “You don’t… expect anything from me. You don’t need me to be anything I’m not”.
You tilted your head slightly, your smile softening. “Maybe because I like who you are. Not who the world thinks you have to be”.
For a moment, he just stared at you like he didn’t know how to respond. Then, unexpectedly, his hand moved, brushing over yours where it still rested against his beard. He caught your fingers lightly, holding them for a moment before pressing them to his lips in a gesture so tender it made your heart ache.
“You make it sound so fucking simple”, he said, his voice quieter now, almost vulnerable.
“Maybe it is”, you whispered back.
He didn’t say anything else, but the way his hand lingered against yours, the way his gaze stayed locked on yours as if he was afraid to look away, spoke volumes.
For a man who had always carried the world on his shoulders, tonight he let himself lean on you.
His gaze softened even more as you whispered the words, “I love you, Ben”, against his lips, the confession slipping out like it had been waiting there all along. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t even breathe.
Then you kissed him, gentle and unhurried, your lips brushing against his like you were sealing the words between you. He didn’t respond at first, almost frozen, but then his hand tightened against your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer. The kiss wasn’t demanding or hungry; it was tender, the kind of intimacy that came with trust.
When you pulled back, you kept your eyes on his, watching for his reaction. For once, he wasn’t guarded. He wasn’t hiding behind his usual cocky smirk or sarcastic quip. Instead, he just stared at you, something unreadable flickering in his green eyes.
“You don’t have to say it back”, you whispered, sensing the hesitation in him. “I just wanted you to know”.
He let out a exhale, his free hand coming up to rest on your cheek. His thumb brushed along your skin, and you could feel the tension in him, the struggle between the man he was and the man he wanted to be with you.
“I don’t deserve you”, he muttered, his voice barely audible.
“Maybe not”, you teased softly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “But I love you anyway”.
That drew a quiet laugh from him, and you felt his chest shake slightly beneath your hand. He didn’t say anything else, but the way he held you, his arms tightening around you as you shifted to rest your head against his chest, told you everything you needed to know.
The steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear was calming, the rise and fall of his chest lulling you into a quiet peace. His hand stayed at your waist, his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles against your skin, grounding you both in the moment.
As sleep began to tug at the edges of your mind, you heard him murmur something, so low you almost missed it.
“Love you too, doll”.
Your lips curved into a sleepy smile, but you didn’t respond, letting his words settle in the quiet between you. The world outside didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was the man holding you, the man who, for the first time, was letting himself be held.
And in his arms, you drifted off, the soft sound of his breathing the last thing you heard before sleep claimed you.
———————————
A/N: Well, this was something else. Please let me know what you think.🥰
lowdown ☆ after homelander names you the seventh member of the seven, soldier boy learns exactly what your pretty little party trick can do.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x supe!reader ( f )
miles ☆ 9335 ride style ☆ smut !!!
danger on the trail ☆ explicit sexual content, rough sex, dirty talk, soldier boy being soldier boy, power dynamics, canon-typical toxicity, vought/the seven toxicity, homelander being unsettling, emotional manipulation/power use, public humiliation, manhandling, thigh grabbing, light choking, mirror sex, semi-public risk/vought surveillance implications, praise/degradation, possessive behavior, no actual romance.
liv's log ☆ a little self indulgent because i couldn't get this scenario out of my head after doing my compound v manifestation report .ᐟ 𐚁
the elevator climbs so smoothly, you almost don’t feel it move.
it’s intentional. vought doesn’t let important people feel machinery. it hides all the ugly effort behind glass, gold trim, soft lighting, clean mirrors, polished metals that do not dare show a fingerprint unless someone very rich has approved it. even the elevator is expensive—sterile and floral, some corporate interpretation fo calm sprayed into the vents so no one has a panic attack on the way to meet america’s most unstable collection of national assets.
sage stands behind you with her hands folded in front of her, perfectly still, perfectly bored.
she hasn’t looked at you once since the doors shut. you watch her reflection instead.
“homelander likes symbols,” she says. her voice is flat enough that it could mean nothing. but she is the smartest woman on the planet, so it doesn’t.
you tilt your head slightly, watching the numbers climb. “does he?”
“he likes completion. loyalty. visible gratitude. people who understand their place before he has to explain it to them.”
you smile a little, because the cameras in the elevator don’t even pretend to be hidden. “good thing i’m very grateful.”
sage’s reflection looks at you then. her posture doesn’t move entirely, just her eyes. “are you?”
“i’m here, aren’t i?”
that’s not the same thing. you know it. she knows it. somewhere above you, homelander probably knows that too. he chose you. that matters. not in the sweet way vought will sell it tomorrow morning, with your face lit gold on every screen in the lobby and some expensive headline about a new dawn for the seven. it matters because homelander is not making choices as a leader right now—he’s making them as a man trying to build a room where no one can leave him.
that makes you useful. that makes you dangerous. that makes you careful.
“he wants the seven to have seven members,” sage continues. “the joke got old.”
“must’ve been a very painful time for branding.”
“branding survives pain better than people do.”
you almost laugh, but you don’t. the elevator keeps climbing, and for a second, in the reflection of the doors, you catch yourself the way the world is going to catch you: clean hair, warm skin, mouth soft enough to trust, eyes bright enough to make people nervous if they look too long.
the suit helps. vought has never met a woman it didn’t want to turn into a product first and a person never. yours is golden and cream and fitted close to the body without tipping into firecracker’s cheap little flag-bikini theater. elegant, they called it. aspirational. high-necked but not modest, with a sculpted bodice that catches the light when you breathe and a deep, curved line across the chest that makes a point without begging for one. the fabric hugs the waist, your hips, the tops of your thighs, tailored and expensive and just armored enough to pretend it’s practical.
sage notices you looking at yourself. “don’t overplay it.”
you drag your gaze back to the doors. “my face?”
“your devotion.”
that one lands. the bitch is smart. her words aren’t a warning, but they don’t land cruel, either. they’re just enough to remind you she didn’t get her place here by missing things.
you turn your smile into something smaller, sweeter, easier to swallow. “i would never.”
“everyoen says that before they do.”
the elevator dings and sage steps forward first. you follow.
the hallway outside is colder, brighter—the kind of white that makes everyone look a little guilty. the seven’s meeting room waits at the end of it behind massive doors.
homelander stands when you enter. that’s the first thing everyone notices. not you. not the suit. not sage’s hand gesturing lazily in your direction as if she’s presenting a weather update instead of the newest member of the most powerful team on earth.
homelander stands, and the room changes around him. firecracker’s smile sharpens in a way that shows she’s trying to decide whether she hates you or wants to be photographed next to you. black noir says nothing, which makes ridiculous contrast with whatever the deep is thinking while his eyes briefly dip below your face. you let him look. then you meet his eyes. he looks away immediately, straightening up in his seat.
soldier boy, seated with one boot braced against the base of the table, doesn’t move at all. he just looks you over with the bored entitlement of a man who has survived too many decades of being told he’s the prize.
he’s bigger in person. uglier too—but not in the face. the face is unfortunately good. it’s the rest of him that’s ugly: the easy arrogance, the bored set of his mouth, the old-world confidence sitting on his shoulders like a coat he has never had to take off.
homelander smiles warmly at you.
“there she is,” he says, and the room listens because he says it like a benediction. “halo fever.”
you dip your chin just enough. not a bow. not submission. appreciation wrapped humbly. “sir.”
his smile deepens. “no, no, none of that.” he gestures you closer, palm open, inviting. “we’re family here.”
you walk further into the room, heels quiet against the floor, and stop near the empty chair at the end of the table. the seventh seat. the one vought has probably been polishing for a press release before they knew what name would be attached to it.
“everyone knows who you are,” homelander continues, still watching with that bright, hungry pride. “but i wanted to do this properly. after all the betrayal… after all the instability… after people treating this team like some kind of revolving door…” his jaw tightens for half a second—there and gone. “we are moving forward. together.”
firecracker nods vigorously. “amen.”
the deep nods a beat too late.
sage continues watching the entire room.
and soldier boy snorts. not loud, exactly. it doesn’t need to be; in a room trained around homelander’s breathing, even disrespect has a spotlight.
everyone looks. homelander’s smile doesn’t drop, but something behind it tightens. so many daddy issues.
soldier boy is either too stupid or too committed to being himself to care. his eyes remain on you, amused, unimpressed, dragging over the gold of your suit before landing on your face with a little curl of his mouth.
“sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “just thought the seven was supposed to be superheroes, not a beauty pageant.”
the room goes quiet. it honestly wasn’t the worst thing he could’ve said. and no one in the room is innocent enough for shock. but there is that pause people take around a loaded gun when someone taps the barrel for fun.
you feel homelander’s attention shift to soldier boy first. then to you. waiting. measuring. the situation just turned into a fucking test.
you could be offended. maybe you are, somewhere under the polished surface. maybe some part of you recoils at how casually he spits in your face—how easily men from his century and yours dress contempt up as charm and expect you to laugh because they smiled while cutting. but offense is not useful unless you know where to put it.
so you smile. soft. lovely. almost forgiving. “that’s okay. i know it’s hard when new things happen.”
the deep makes a noise that dies instantly when soldier boy’s eyes flick toward him.
the cheaper version of captain america’s grin widens, meaner now. “new? sweetheart, i’ve seen plenty of girls with pretty lights.”
“oh, i’m sure.”
“most of ‘em didn’t need a cape to get attention.”
firecracker’s mouth twitches. sage’s face doesn’t move.
homelander is simply enjoying the spectacle. “halo fever,” he calls you.
it’s not a warning, yet you turn immediately. you don’t ignore him. you don’t make him repeat himself. you look at him the second he calls; almost like his voice has weight in your body. here, it does. it has to.
“yes, sir?”
his eyes search your face, pleased by your attention, curious about your restraint. “you alright?”
“of course.” you let the warmth enter your expression before the room can mistake your calm for weakness. “i just think soldier boy might benefit from a demonstration. if you think that’s appropriate.”
you ask. not because you need permission from a man to defend yourself, but because this room doesn’t belong to you. not yet. and because homelander chose you, and that means every public move you make in front of him has to confirm his choice—not compete with it.
homelander’s gaze flicks between you and soldier boy. for one thin second, he looks almost boyish. a little kid, pocking with a wooden stick at the weird gooey thing he found on the floor.
“a demonstration,” he repeats, tasting the idea.
soldier boy scoffs and leans back in his chair. “oh, please.”
homelander turns his smile on him now. “scared?”
the word barely changes soldier boy’s face. it would be easy to miss if you weren’t already looking for the seam. you are always looking for the seam.
“of her pretty party trick?” soldier boy laughs once.
homelander looks back at you, lifting a hand in invitation. “go ahead.”
your pulse answers before you do. the power awakes under your skin, golden and warm, sliding up through your chest, your throat, the backs of your hands. you keep it low.
the room brightens by half a shade, as if the sun has shifted closer to the windows, and the deep blinks too many times. noir tilts his head. firecracker’s fingers curl around the armrest of her chair. and soldier boy doesn’t move.
his mistake.
you take one step toward him.
“that’s close enough,” he says.
“is it?”
his mouth opens, probably to say something filthy and outdated and deeply impressed with itself. you touch the air between you instead. not him. not his body. not even the edge of his chair. just the feeling sitting behind his ribs.
it’s almost embarrassingly easy to find.
soldier boy has been exposed in public too many times now. america knows his face, his legacy, his son, his failures. vought can polish the story all they want, but the wounds are not buried—they are barely even covered. a father returned to a world that no longer bends for him. a legend introduced as someone else’s bloodline. a weapon thawed out and placed beside the thing that replaced him. he has so much pride packed over the damage that all you have to do is press where it shines.
the gold under your skin flares.
soldier boy’s breath catches. it’s small… but oh, it’s everything. his boot drops from the table with a dull thud, one hand clamps around the armrest; the other curls into a fist so tight the leather of his glove creaks. for half a second, his face stays locked in that arrogant mask, jaw set, eyes hard, mouth ready to sneer.
then his chest starts to glow. not the violent red everyone has seen on shaky footage and classified clips. not the nuclear burn. this is different. gold, faint at first, spreading beneath the dark green of his suit from the center of his sternum, warm and pulsing, like something inside him has been caught answering you before he could stop it. this is the party trick—the glow. the real show is about to present itself.
his pupils widen. you feel it spill up in him: anger first; humiliation right after it, sour and hot; then the thing underneath, the old bruised need to matter so badly it almost feels young. it hits the air between you in a rush he cannot hide from anyone in the room—not with your power wrapped gently around the truth and pulling.
his chair scrapes back an inch. “cut it out!” his voice is lower now, strained.
you tilt your head, still smiling, still sweet enough for every camera in the room. “i thought it was a party trick.”
his lips part. nothing comes out. that is it. not the glow. not the heat. not the way the deep stares with his mouth slightly open or the way firecracker’s expression flattens into something sharper, threatened despite herself. it’s soldier boy, america’s first great brute, suddenly silent because his body has betrayed him before his mouth can save him.
you could push harder. that’s the ugly truth. you could make him choke on the rest of it. make him feel every scrap of envy, want, loneliness, resentment, make him burn gold from the inside out until the whole room understands exactly how much of his swagger is just exposed scar tissue. you could make him look at homelander and feel it—the son, the mirror, the replacement.
your fingers twitch once. then you stop. the warmth snaps back into you so cleanly it almost hurts.
soldier boy inhales hard through his nose. the glow in his chest fades under the suit, leaving nothing but the brutal rise and fall of his breathing and the furious look he pins to your face.
You give him your prettiest smile. “cute party trick, huh?”
no one laughs except for homelander. just a pleased little breath, this private sound of satisfaction, and somehow it’s worse than the whole room mocking soldier boy.
homelander looks around the table as if waiting for everyone else to understand what he already has: you’re not starlight. you’re not a trembling moral lesson in a white cape. you’re not here to cry under fluorescent lights and beg the machine to become kind. you are the machine’s newest favorite blade.
“see?” homelander says, spreading his arms slightly. “that. that is what i’m talking about.”
soldier boy says nothing. his stare promises several forms of retaliation. you look away first because you can afford it.
homelander moves to the head of the table, energized now, shining with the glow of a man who has mistaken control for love and found a room willing to play along. “this is the team,” he says. “this is what we were missing. strength. loyalty. purpose.”
sages watches him with the faintest turn of her mouth. firecracker nods again, but this time her eyes cut toward you with something new in them. wariness.
soldier boy leans back slowly, recovering inch by inch, but you can still see it in the tightness around his mouth. he felt it. he knows you felt him feeling it. that is worse than pain for a man like him.
homelander places a hand on the back of your chair. “sit.” he commands, gently enough for the word to sound like a gift.
and you do. the seventh seat is cold beneath you.
homelander keeps his hand there a second longer than necessary before pulling away, and you keep your face open, grateful and bright. you play the part because the part keeps you alive. because this whole building runs on performance and fear and the kind of devotion people offer when they’re smart enough to know worship is safer than honesty.
“now,” homelander continues, smiling wide enough to make the room obey. “no more empty seats. no more betrayal. no more jokes.”
his eyes land on you again. chosen. that is what he wants ypu to feel. so you let the gold warm under your skin, just enough to make the room soften around him, just enough to make his smile stay beautiful and terrible.
“the seven,” homelander murmurs. “is complete.”
the room empties in pieces.
firecracker is the first to stand, heels clicking against the floor as she collects herself with that too-bright smile still stuck to her face, all gloss and teeth and badly disguised insecurity. she gives you one last look before she leaves—not hatred, not yet. this is thinner. something that says she understands attention as a limited resource, and you have just made a show of stealing some of hers.
“welcome to the family,” she says, syrupy sweet.
you smile back. “thank you.”
her eyes flick toward homelander, then away again. “you’ll fit right in.” that one is not sweet.
noir passes behind her without a word. the deep almost trips over his own chair because he’s still trying not to look at you and somehow making the effort more obvious than just looking would have been. homelander notices—he notices everything here. his mouth twitches with something between amusement and disdain before his attention returns to you.
that’s the thing about homelander—when he looks at you, it feels less like being seen andn more like being selected from a shelf. “big day,” he says.
you stand beside the seventh seat because staying seated after he rises feels stupid. “yes, sir.”
his expression warms again at the title. he pretends to dislike it. you’re beginning to understand he likes pretending almost as much as he likes obedience.
“you did well.” not good. not great. well. a measured thing. a reward, not a compliment.
you lower your eyes just enough to make the gratitude visible without making it pathetic. “i’m glad you think so.”
“i do.” he steps closer, and the whole room seems to tighten around the movement. “what you did with him—” his eyes cut toward soldier boy, who hasn’t moved from his chair. “that was impressive.”
soldier boy gives a humorless little breath through his nose.
homelander hearts it and lets it live. “controlled,” homelander looks back at you. “tasteful. strong.”
“i didn’t want to overstep.”
“no.” his smile brightens. “you didn’t.”
and he shows it again—the pleasure. not because you were kind or harmless. because you understood the order of the room and acted inside it. because the show happened under his hand, with his blessing. because you asked.
homelander likes loyalty, sage had said. you disagree. homelander likes proof.
“your suite is already prepared,” he says. “sage will show you. anything you need, you can ask. we take care of our own here.”
our own. you know better than to buy into the fantasy.
“thank you. that means a lot.”
“it should.”
and then he smiles like he has given you something sacred—a place in the seven, a family, a new beginning. like you are supposed to feel reborn because he decided you are useful enough to keep close.
you let yourself glow. only a touch beneath the skin, a warmth that softens the air around him, gentle enough that it can pass for admiration if anyone in the room is foolish enough to believe in clean things. homelander’s shoulders ease by a fraction and his smile steadies. some deep, hungry part of him accepts the warmth and calls it devotion because that is what he needs it to be.
sage watches from the doorway as homelander leaves, cape sweeping behind him in a ridiculous bright flash that would look stupid on anyone less terrifying. the room keeps his shape for a moment after he’s gone. then, sage speaks:
“this way.”
you turn from soldier boy without looking like you’re turning from soldier boy. he has been watching you since the glow faded from his chest. not speaking during the rest of the meeting. not moving. just sitting there with his jaw tight and his eyes ugly, furious in a way that feels almost clean compared to everyone else’s careful performance. anger is easy to read. anger tells you what door to open.
you follow sage into the hallway. she doesn’t ask if you enjoyed yourself and you almost respect her for it.
the walk to your suite takes longer than it needs to. vought tower has always been designed to make distance feel ceremonial. halls that shine too much, walls lined with screens, employees who glance up, recognize the suit, recognize sage, and immediately learn the floor again.
your face is already on one of the monitors near the elevator bank, a still from an interview you gave, gold light washing across your cheekbones under the headline: halo fever joins the seven: a new dawn for america’s heroes.
you nearly laugh. they work fast.
sage notices without looking at the screen. “they had drafts prepared.”
“for me?”
“for everyone.” she presses her thumb against a private access panel beside a set of double doors. “you were just the first one homelander wanted this week.” honest. cruel. useful.
the lock clicks open.
your suite is beautiful. so much so that it becomes a problem—so beautiful that, for one second, your body wants to trust it completely. cream walls, gold accent, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city in glittering indifferent pieces. a pale sofa curved around a glass coffee table. fresh flowers on the sideboard. a vanity lit soft and warm, covered with unopened products in your colors, your shades, your approved scent profile. a garment rack waits near the bedroom door with press outfits steamed and arranged by occasion—daytime interviews, evening events, crisis appearances, charity softness, televised grief.
they have made you a home out of costumes.
your boxes sit near the far wall, ordinary and brown and almost embarrassing against all that glass.
sage stops beside you. “security is internal. external press access is controlled. household staff comes through twice a day unless you request otherwise. anything private should not be assumed private.”
your lips press together as you absorb the information. “sweet.”
“nothing about this is sweet.”
“i didn’t mean it literally.”
“i know.”
you look at her then. sage’s eyes move over the suite with the same bored precision she gives everything else, but there is something almost human in the corner of her mouth. not kindness. that would be pushing it. maybe recognition. maybe the dull amusement of watching another woman learn the shape of her cage.
“he’ll test you,” she says.
“homelander?”
sage’s gaze shifts toward the hall behind you. “both of them.”
you don’t answer, because nothing is private and she doesn’t look like someone you can trust fully.
she turns to leave, then pauses at the threshold. “soldier boy doesn’t like being made small.”
you glance toward her. “does anyone?”
“no. but most people don’t have decades of national mythology rotting under the skin.” her eyes settle on your face. “don’t confuse humiliation with victory. it’s noisy. victory is quieter.”
“is that advice?”
“it’s information.” then she leaves.
the doors shut behind her with a soft, expensive click.
for the first time since the elevator, you’re alone.
you exhale and let your shoulders drop. not all the way. never all the way. but enough to feel the ache under the suit, the pinch fo the bodice, the place where the fabric presses too perfectly at your ribs. your reflection catches in the dark window, all gold and cream and vought-approved radiance, and for a second you stare at yourself the way you stared in the elevator.
the world is going to love this version of you.
you start with the boxes. the first one has books, framed pictures wrapped in sweaters, a small ceramic dish you bought because it was pretty and useless and nobody at vought would have picked it for you. the second has clothes. actual clothes—soft ones; the kind no stylist has touched; folded shirts, worn jeans, a cardigan you have no business owning now that you are supposed to be a golden national asset; and three little perfume bottles stuffed inside socks so they wouldn’t break. you set one on the vanity and watch it look immediately out of place.
the door opens behind you. you don’t even need to turn around.
“didn’t hear a knock.”
soldier boy steps inside anyway. his reflection appears in the window first: broad shoulders, dark suit, mouth set in that tired cruel line, eyes moving across the room with open judgment. he doesn’t look ashamed to be there—men like him rarely do—shame would require manners.
“door was open.”
“no, it wasn’t.”
“it wasn’t locked.”
you glance back over your shoulder. “that’s not the same thing.”
he closes the door behind him. slowly. the soft click sounds louder with him in the room.
you go back to unpacking because reacting too fast would make him happy, and soldier boy looks like he has already had a difficult enough day without you handing him a present.
“nice place.”
he walks farther in, boots heavy against the polished floor. vought’s pretty little suite looks different with him inside it. he picks up the ceramic dish from the vanity, turns it over once in his hand, then puts it down in the wrong place. you correct it immediately.
his mouth twitches. “you always this particular?”
“you always this invasive?”
“usually worse.”
he moves to the garment rack next, flicking through the outfits with two fingers. cream dress. gold blazer. while silk blouse. fitted trousers. a gown with a slit cut high enough for vought to call it empowering in a press memo.
he gives that one a second look. “they dress you up nice.”
“that supposed to be a compliment?”
“depends on how sensitive you are.”
you fold a shirt and place it into a drawer. “you came all the way here to find out?”
he looks at you then. not the way deep had done—not at the suit, or boobs, or your mouth. at you. it’s the first quiet thing he’s done. for half a second, the air changes, and you understand sage’s warning differently.
he’s not here because he thinks you’re pretty—though, he does. he’s here because, in that meeting room, you reached into him and found something he didn’t give you permission to touch. for soldier boy that wasn’t intimacy—it was trespassing.
“what the hell did you do to me back there?” he asks.
you keep folding. “a demonstration.”
“don’t give me that shit,” he spits out.
“then don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”
he steps closer. “you think because homelander let you play with your little light show that means you can do it again?”
you smile down at the drawer. “let me?” you repeat.
“you heard me.”
“i asked because he enjoys being asked. not because i need him to hold my hand.”
his jaw shifts.
you slide the drawer shut and turn to face him fully. “and i didn’t play with anything. if i had, you would’ve known.”
soldier boy’s eyes narrow. he’s too close now. not touching yet—but close enough that you can smell him beneath the tower’s clean air: leather, smoke, whiskey buried under mint, something warm and metallic that might be his suit or his skin or the violence he carries without thinking. his anger has settled since the meeting, but not disappeared. it sits in him low and restless, circling the same bruised place you pressed.
you could touch it again. but you don’t.
that restraint seems to irritate him more than the threat would. “you like doing that? digging around in people’s heads?”
“it’s not mind control.” you scoff. “i’m not in anyone’s heads.”
“whatever.”
“and no.” you pause. “not always.”
“bullshit.”
you lean back against the dresser, crossing your arms. “you’re very committed to having a bad time in my room.”
“your room.” he looks around, unimpressed. “you been here five minutes.”
“still mine.”
he lets out a low laugh. “everything in this building belongs to vought.”
you smile. “careful. that includes you.”
his expression goes flat and it’s beautiful and dangerous. then, he looks away. he’s choosing not to reach, which is different and somehow more telling.
he walks past you, deeper into the bedroom area, where the boxes are messier, where the suite begins to lose its showroom shine. he looks at the framed pictures waiting on the bed, the small pile of personal jewelry, the open suitcase with soft cotton and lace peeking through.
“don’t touch my thing,” you warn. still, he picks up a framed photo. you sigh. “selective hearing. great.”
he studies the picture longer than you expect. not because he cares who’s in it, maybe. more because he’s looking for something he can use. something normal. something soft. proof that the woman who made his chest glow in a room full of monsters still has people in frames and old sweaters in boxes.
“this your boyfriend?” he asks.
you cross the room and take the frame from his hand. “no.”
he picks another one. “girlfriend?”
“no.”
“fan?”
“are you always this desperate for personal information?”
“are you always this defensive?” he argues back.
“only when strange men walk into my bedroom and start touching my things.”
his eyes drop briefly to your hand on the frame. then to your face. “strange?”
“would you prefer elderly?”
his mouth curls. there he is again. meaner when amused. easier to deal with when he’s trying to insult you than when he’s trying to understand you.
“you’ve got a mouth on you.”
“and yet you keep inviting it.”
the words land before you can decide whether you meant to say them exactly that way. soldier boy’s eyes darken a fraction. not much. but definitely enough.
you turn away first this time. heat is useful until it starts making decisions for you. then it’s just stupid. “i have things to unpack. you can go brood somewhere else.”
“brood?”
“sulk, then.”
“i don’t sulk.”
“you followed me across the tower because i embarrassed you in front of your son.”
the silence after that is immediate and ugly. you definitely reached too far. maybe not far enough. you feel the room tighten around his body with a violence that doesn’t require performance because everyone’s seen what he’s capable of.
when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “watch it.”
you look back slowly. this is the line—where a joke stopes being a joke and becomes a hand near a trigger.
you don’t apologize. you also don’t press. smart is knowing the difference between fear and timing.
“then stop acting like i chased you here,” you say, and there’s a drop in your tone—softer now, almost bored. “you came into my room, soldier boy. not the other way around.”
his stare holds yours. then, because he’s either incapable of leaving well enough alone or allergic to losing the last word, he turns and opens the nearest drawer.
you move instantly. “hey!” too late.
his hand disappears into lace. soldier boy looks down and then he smiles—slowly. “well.”
“put it back.”
he lifts a pair of panties from the drawer like he has discovered classified intelligence. they are pretty—pale gold with delicate lace at the edges, soft enough to look innocent if he wasn’t holding them in his big, careless hand. the sight of it does something irritating to your stomach—not embarrassment, exactly.
you refuse to name it.
“these vought-issued too?” he asks. fucker.
“put. them. back.”
he rubs the lace between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting it with the kind of obscene focus that makes your jaw tighten. “nah. i’m gonna keep ‘em.”
you step toward him. “i’m not joking.”
“neither am i.”
“soldier boy—”
he looks up at your voice. “ben.” the correction is sudden enough to catch.
you stop half a step away.
he watches you register it, and his smile changes. smug again, but not only that—there’s something underneath it, too, now. a hook thrown into the water just to see what bites.
“if you’re gonna threaten me in your underwear drawer,” he taunts, “you might as well use my name.”
you hate that your pulse reacts. you hate it more that it’s so visible he sees it.
“ben,” you say, clipped and sweet. “put them back.”
his gaze drops to your mouth for one heavy second. then, he lifts the panties higher. you reach for them, which only causes him to raise his arm above his head—easy, lazy, infuriating—using every inch of height and strength. you step closer without thinking, hand catching at his wrist, and suddenly there’s no polite distance left between you. just him—solid and warm and too close.
his chest is right there. no longer glowing now, but you remember how it looked. gold blooming under the green. his breath catching. his silence. the place beneath his ribs where pride turned soft and furious when you touched it.
he remembers, too. you can tell by the way his smile thins when your eyes flick down. “don’t you think about it.”
“what?”
“using that little power of yours.”
you look back up at him. “i’m not using it.”
“sure about that?” the question is quieter than the rest.
for all his arrogance, all his filthy little games, there is a piece of him that genuinely doesn’t know. not fully. he doesn’t know where your powers ends and his reaction begins. he doesn’t know whether the pull in the room belongs to you, to him, or to the ugly private thing you made visible in front of everyone.
good. let him wonder.
“i don’t need it for this.”
his eyes hold yours and you see something shift across his face, almost imperceptible, like he likes the answer and resents you for giving it to him.
your fingers tighten around his wrist. “last chance.”
“or what?”
you lift your chin. the move brings you closer—close enough that the front of his suit brushes the sculpted gold of yours; close enough that you feel his breath warm against your cheek when he laughs under his breath. not much of a laugh. more of a dare learning how to stand on its own two feet.
you keep your voice calm. “don’t make me ask again.”
soldier boy looks at your hand on his wrist; then at the lace dangling above your head. his smile comes slow as his eyes finally meet yours—mean, curious, hungry in a way he probably thinks he’s hiding.
“or what?” he asks again. “you gonna make glow, doll?”
you look at him for a second too long. his arm is still raised above your head, your panties caught in his fist, his body too close for this to be funny anymore. it stops being a game between his breath touching your cheek and your hand closing tighter around his wrist. the room is quiet around you, all cream walls and gold light and vought-approved luxury, but he has made the space feel less decorated.
“no,” you breathe out, gaze flickering down to his mouth then back up. “i want you to know this is you.”
his smile fades by a fraction.
you reach higher, fingers tightening on his wrist, not really trying to win anymore. you both know you can’t overpower him that way. that’s not the point—it’s the way his pulse kicks under your fingers. it’s the way his eyes don’t leave your face. it’s that his body has already started answering, and there is no glow in the room expect the faint warmth under your skin.
“put them down,” you tell him.
for once, he does. the lace drops to the floor between your feet, soft and forgotten immediately, because his freed hand comes to your jaw before you can breathe. his palm is rough against your cheek, thumb pressing under your chin to tilt your face up, and the touch is not gentle. it’s too sure of itself. too familiar for someone who has no right.
“tell me to leave,” his voice is lower now. still arrogant; still him—but stripped of the perfomance sitting around it before. no audience. no homelander smiling from the head of the table. no firecracker watching for weakness. no sage quietly filing away every reaction. just him. just you. just the bad idea already breathing between you.
you hold his stare. “if i wanted you gone, you’d be.”
his jaw flexes once. then he kisses you. his mouth hits yours hard enough to make your back brush the dresser, his hand still on your jaw while the other catches your waist and pulls you into him.
you make a sound against his mouth, sharp and surprised, and he swallows it before it can become anything useful and sane.
soldier boy kisses like he fights—direct, hungry, impatient with anything that isn’t surrender.
you don’t surrender. not in the way he’d want. you kiss him back with your fingers fisted in the front of his suit, dragging him closer even as every smart part of you starts listing reasons to why this is a terrible thing to let happen. he’s soldier boy. he’s homelander’s father. he’s angry because you exposed him, and you’re turned on because he came back anyway. there’s no soft moral angle to polish this with. no clean explanation. just his tongue in your mouth and your body going hot under his hands.
his hand slides from your waist to your hip, gripping hard, testing the give of you through the fitted gold fabric. the suit is too tight. it looks made for cameras, not for the way his thigh presses between yours, breaking your breath when he forces your stance open. the edge of the dresser bites lightly into the backs of your legs.
“all that control,” he murmurs against your mouth. “and this is all it takes?”
you bite his lower lip and he groans. you feel it in his chest where it presses against yours, and the sound goes straight through you, low and ugly and satisfying.
“don’t talk.”
his mouth drags to your jaw. “make me stop.”
you tug at his hair hard enough to pull his head back. his eyes flash—dark and bright—furious that he likes it. you can feel the heat coming off him now, the hard press of him against your stomach. no power needed. no trick. no excuse left for him to hide behind.
“you came to my room,” you remind him. “touched my things.”
“mhm.”
“you wanted this before i did.”
his grip tightens on your hip and the gold under your skin flickers. his eyes drop to it. “there she is…”
“i’m not using it.”
“you’re glowing.”
“because you’re pissing me off.”
he leans close enough that his mouth brushes your ear. “then you’re gonna light up the whole damn tower.”
your breath catches before you can stop it, and that gives him the opening he wants. his mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping over the sensitive place under your jaw, then lower—rough kisses pressed down the side of your neck while his hands start working at the back of your suit.
he finds the zipper too fast. his knuckles graze your spine as he pulls it down, and the sound is obscene in the quiet room, the slow parting of fabric, the private little surrender of something designed to make you untouchable.
cool air touches your back. then his mouth. you close your eyes.
“look at that,” he murmurs, voice rougher now.
you open them because there is a mirror above the dresser and he has turned you toward it, one hand spread against your stomach, the other peeling the suit down your shoulders. you see yourself flushed and bright-eyed, the gold fabric loosing over your body, your mouth swollen from him. you see him behind you—bigger, his face close to your neck, his eyes lifted to the reflection—watching you watch.
the suit slips lower, catching at your waist, and your breasts spill free into his hands.
his breath changes. that tiny break in him is better than a compliment.
his palms cover you, heavy and warm, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your body arches despite every ounce of pride you still have left.
“sensitive.”
“you like it.”
his hand closes more firmly around your breast—enough to make your head tip back against his shoulder. “i like this.”
his other hand slides down your stomach in a slow treacherous pace. you grip the edge of the dresser as his fingers move under the loosened suit, beneath the lace at your hips, and when he touches you, when the rough pad of his finger drags through the wet heat of you, both of you go still.
his forehead lowers briefly to your temple. “fuck.”
you part your thighs without meaning to, and his fingers follow the invitation immediately, stroking you with a confidence that makes your knees loosen. your glow pulses brighter in the mirror, gold threading over your collarbones, down your arms, blooming where his hands touch you.
“all this from a kiss?” he asks, but the arrogance is fraying at the edges.
“don’t flatter yourself.”
he pushes on finger into you. your answer breaks into a moan.
his hand tightens on your breast. “say that again.”
you can’t. not cleany.
his finger works into you slow, then curls, and the pleasure lands low and sharp enough that your hips press back into him on instinct. he makes a rough sound against your neck, then adds a second finger, stretching you open while his thumb circles your clit with dirty, unhurried pressure.
his name comes out before you can stop it, “ben—”
his mouth opens against your shoulder, teeth pressing there as if he needs somewhere to put the reaction. “again.”
you shake your head once, stubborn even with his fingers buried inside you. he trusts them deeper.
your fingers slip against the dresser. “ben.”
“there you go,” his voice drops, thick and pleased. “knew you could ask nice.”
“i’m not asking.”
“you will.”
you should hate him. you should shove him back, pull the suit over your chest, kick him out, and let him spend the rest of the night wondering if he imagined how close he came to losing himself in your room.
instead, you reach behind you an grab the back of his neck, pulling his mouth to yours. the kiss turns filthy, all tongue and teeth and broken breath. his fingers are still moving between your legs, your hips rocking into his hand now. he groans into your mouth when you grind back against him, when your ass presses against the hard length of him throuhg his suit.
he pulls his fingers out suddenly and you actually whine.
“pretty,” his eyes sharpen.
then he turns you around. your back hits the dresser again, and he’s on you before you can catch your balance, one hand gripping your thigh and hauling it up around his waist. his mouth drags down your chest—hot and rough—and when he takes one nipple into his mouth, you nearly unfold. his tongue works over you, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, while his hands keep your thigh high against his hip.
the suit hangs around your waist now, half-off, ruined. your vought-approved armor turned into a mess of gold fabric bunched between your body and his.
“this thing cost them a fortune,” you manage.
he lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes dark. “then they can buy you another.”
his hand moves between you, fingers finding you again, slickinmg through the wetness he already pulled from you. you bite your lip hard, but not fast enough. the sound slips out anyway, and soldier boy looks at you with a satisfaction that makes heat twist through your stomach.
“don’t hold back now,” he says. “room’s probably soundproof.”
“probably?”
his smile is brief and wicked. “guess we’ll find out.”
you pull at the front of his suit. “off.”
that’s all you say. it works better than any long, clever line would have.
something in him snaps into focus. he strips down only as much as he needs to—impatient and rough with the fastenings—his mouth finding yours between movements because apparently even underessing is too much distance. when his cock is finally in his hand, thick and hard and flushed at the head, your mouth goes dry.
he tears open a condom with his teeth, rolls it on, and steps back between your thighs. one hand settles at your waist; the other grips your thigh higher, opening you for him.
he pushes in slow enough that you feel every inch. the stretch is immediat and deep and almost too much—your body forced to open around him while your fingers dig into his shoulders. he curses under his breath, head dropping forward, mouth near yours but not kissing. not yet. he watches your face instead—watches the way your lips part, the way your brows pull together, the way your glow flares hot under your skin.
“fuck,” he groans. “you’re tight.”
you let out a shaky breath that turns into his name halfway through.
he stills when he’s fully inside you.
your leg tightens around his waist, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere closer to go. the dresser presses into your back. his hand presses into your hip. the room narrows to the heavy fullness of him inside you and the sound of both of you breathing.
“look at me,” he says.
you do. which is a mistake. his face is wrecked in the most brutal way—jaw clenched, eyes blown dark, sweat starting at his temple, control held together by spite and not much else. you can feel him trying not to move; the restraint in the tremor of his hand on you.
“ben,” you whisper.
his hips snap forward and your head falls back with a cry.
there's no gentle build after that. he fucks you hard agaisnt the dresser, one hand under your thigh, the other braced beside you, each thrust driving the air out of your lungs. bottles rattle behind you. the mirror shakes. your suit slides lower on your hips and he watches every inch of you come apart under him with a hunger that makes your skin burn.
“take it,” he manages.
you mean and his rhythm falters for half a second. enough for your power to answer. gold light spreads across your chest, down your stomach, over the hand he has on your thigh. his own chest flickers against yours, faint at first, hidden under the loosened suit, but you feel the heat of it.
so does he.
his mouth crashes back to yours before you can say anything.
you kiss him through it, messy and desperate—fingers in his hair, nails scraping the back of his neck. he groans into your mouth when you clench around him, and the sound does something vicious to you. makes you tighten again just to hear it.
“shit,” he breathes. “you feel that? squeezing me every time i make a noise.”
“i’m the one making you—”
he thrust deeper. you cry out. “me too, sweetheart.”
his mouth moves over your throat, your collarbone, the top of your breast, leaving heat wherever he touches. one of his hands slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and the pleasure spikes so sharply your nails bite into his shoulder.
“oh, god.”
he lifts his head, eyes on your face. “wrong guy.”
you almost laugh, but his thumb presses harder and the laugh breaks into a moan. he watches it solemnly; watches you lose the shape of the response; watches your mouth open and your eyes go unfocused, and something about that seems to hit him harder than the glow ever did.
“that’s it,” he murmurs. “that’s what you need.”
“don’t get smug.”
“too late.”
“ben—”
“i know,” his voice drops. “i can feel you.”
he can. there’s no hiding it now, your body is tightening around him, pleasure building fast and hot, your glow bright enough to wash the room in soft gold. his chest answers more strongly this time, pulsing against yours with every deep thrust, and you feel a vicious little thrill at the evidence of it. he’s not untouched. he’s not above this. he’s not standing outside the fire making jokes about it. he’s burning too.
“you’re glowing again,” you whisper.
his hand moves to your throat, applying just the right amount of pressure to hold your attention in place. “so are you.”
your lashes flutter. he feels that too.
“you like that?” he asks, voice darkening. “like my hand there?”
you don’t answer, holding onto the faintest shred of pride you’ve got left.
his thumb strokes once along the side of your throat, almost tender if not for the way his hips keep driving into yours. “tell me.”
“yes.”
his exhale is rough. “good girl.”
the words land low in your stomach.
he kisses you again, and this time there’s less fight in it. his mouth stays on yours while his thumb works you faster, while his cock drags deep and thick inside you, while your leg starts to tremble around his waist. you’re close. too close. embarrassingly fast, maybe, but there’s nothing neat about this. he has a hand at your throat, his body between your thighs, his chest glowing because of you, and the entire rooms feels fever-warm from the power spilling off your skin.
“come on,” he mutters against your mouth. “let me feel it.”
you shake your head, breathless. it’s not because you don’t want to—but because the edge comes too fast and too bright.
“yes,” he squeezes once. “don’t pull away from me now.”
your body obeys before your mouth agrees. pleasure snaps through you, sudden and blinding, your glow flaring so hard the mirror catches nothing but gold for one broken second. you come around him with a cry you can’t swallow, hips jerking, fingers locked in his hair, body clenching down until he curses and buries his face against your neck.
“fuck,” he groans. “that’s it. that’s it.”
he keeps moving through it, slower but deep, dragging the orgasm out until your legs shake and your breath turns thin.
his control is worse now. you can feel it slipping in the roughness of his thrusts, the way his hand tightens on your hip, the way his mouth presses hot and open to your shoulder because he has stopped pretending he doesn’t need somewhere to put the sound.
when your body softens, he pulls out just enough to turn you. you’re still half catching your breath when he spins you around with that same blunt strength that makes your pulse kick. your hands hit the dresser. the mirror steadies in front of you, reflecting your flushed face, your half-undone suit, the gold light still shimmering under your skin.
one hand spreads between your shoulder blades, easing you down until your elbows press to the dresser. the other grips your hip. you see him in the mirror, big and tense and behind you, jaw tight, chest glowing faintly beneath the open front of his suit.
“watch,” he commands before he pushes back inside.
the angle steals whatever breath you had left.
you moan, louder this time, fingers curling agains tthe polished surface as he fills you again from behind. he pauses when he bottoms out, just long enough for you to feel the full weight of him, the heat of his body curved over yours, his breath at your ear.
“look at you,” he growls. “taking me so good.”
your eyes close from please.
his hand catches your jaw immediately, turning your face toward the mirror. “no. watch.”
you do. you watch him start to move. you watch his hips snap into yours, your own body jolt forward with every thrust, breasts brushing the cool dresser, mouth falling open as the pleasure builds again too soon. it’s filthy seeing it this way—him behidn you, his hands on you, your gold suit shoved around your waist, his cock disappearing int you over and over while the room glows warmer with every broken sound you make.
“ben,” you gasp.
his eyes lift to yours in the mirror. that does something to him.
his rhythm roughens. “louder, doll.”
“ben.”
“again.”
you say it again, and he fucks you harder, one hand gripping your hip while the other slides around your waist and down between your thighs. your body jerks when his finger find your clit again, still sensitive.
“i can’t—”
“yes, you can.”
“fuck, no—”
“you can.” his voice is low at your ear. “give me another one.”
you push back against him, helplessly chasing and resisting at once—your body split between too much and not enough. he feels it. he feels everything. every clench. every tremble. every time your breath catches instead of becoming a moan. his hand works you through it, his thrusts deep and relentless, his mouth pressing against the side of your neck.
“that’s it. c’mon, baby. one more.”
the words hit before you can brace for them. your body clamps down around him. his hips stutter and you see it in the mirror—the way his mouth opens, the way his brows draw tight, the way the gold in his chest flares bright enough to paint the edges of your reflection.
he sees you seeing it and he doesn’t have the breath to deny it. “fuck.”
“there you are,” you taunt.
he grips your jaw tighter while he drives into you hard enough to make the dresser knock against the wall. “don’t start.”
he’s falling apart now. you feel it in the shape of his body over yours. in the rough drag of his breath. in the way his dirty mouth is actually loosing it’s stamina.
“so damn tight,” he mutters. “fuck. you feel so good. knew you would. knew you’d take it.”
your second orgasm builds meaner than the first—dragged out of an already-sensitive body. the gold under your skin pulses wildly. your reflection blurs with it. you’re glowing everywhere—chest, cheeks, throat, the backs of your hands braced on the dresser. he looks ruined behind you.
“come for me.”
it takes a couple more seconds before your body locks around him. the orgasm tears through you hot and hard, your cry spilling into the room with no attempt to soften it. soldier boy groans behind you, hips driving deep as you clench around him.
he comes with your name half-buried in a curse.
his body shudders over yours, one hand braced beside yours on the dresser. the other still grips your waist hard enough to leave memory if not bruises. you feel every pulse through the condom as he stays buried deep, breathing hot against your shoulder.
his forehead lowers to your shoulder for one heavy second after the worst of it passes. neither of you moves. the suite hums quietly around you.
your skin is damp. your thighs tremble. your suit is ruined around your hips, your hair mussed, your mouth swollen, your body still clenching faintly around him as the last waves roll through.
his glow fades before yours does.
he pulls out carefully. you straighten slowly, palms still on the dresser, trying to gather yourself into something that looks less thoroughly taken apart.
behind you, he deals with the condom, tucks himself away, closes his suit enough to look almost respectable if someone ignores the mouth and the hair.
you turn around.
your panties are still on the floor and you watch as he bends and picks them up.
for one stupid second, you think he’s going to hand them to you. then, he puts them in his pocket instead.
you stare at him, an incredulous laugh escaping you. “seriously?”
his eyes move over you, slower now, less performative. “yeah.”
“give them back.”
“no.”
your body is too tired for the argument, but your mouth is not. “you’re unbelievable.”
“you were saying my name a minute ago.”
you step closer, still half-dressed, still glowing softly where his hands had been. “next time you walk into my room without knocking, i’ll make you cry.”
his gaze drops to your mouth. then back to your eyes. “next time?”
you hate that your pulse reacts. so you smile, pretty and warm and mean enough to be useful. “get out, ben.”
he watches you for one more second, hand still in his pocket around stolen lace. then he turns toward the door.
at the threshold, he pauses. “i’m keeping these.”
you’re glad he didn’t turn around to face you. the smile is on your face, stupid and a little naive. as he keeps walking, the door shutting behind him with a heavy click. only then do you let the last of the gold fade from your skin.
summary. homelander is coming to talk to his father when he stumbles upon the two of you in bed.
contents. MDNI!!!!! f!reader, s5 spoilers, sub reader, pet names, dark content, ben/reader with homelander pov, voyeurism, dacryphilia, overstimulation, cunnilingus, typical homelander behavior & gross soldier boy behavior, weird family dynamics, homelander god talk, also ben is kinda softish and in love, reader isn't a supe — 2.5k words
notes. i started this like two weeks ago, so it's not exactly compliant with the plot anymore but i'm posting anyway. forgive me if i write homelander poorly </33 i am experimenting
It’s rare that Homelander considers his timing poor—even rarer that he believes his choices are anything but divine intervention, a cosmic hand nudging their worldly God in the right direction.
He’s getting off the elevator when he first questions that belief, wonders what message could possibly be received from the intimate act he’s stumbled upon. A sharp inhale is the first sound he hears; faint enough to be considered normal, but with an undertone of passion that he can’t write off.
He’d only been coming to talk to Soldier Boy—his father—about the V1, about everything that happened at Fort Harmony and the tensions that are spreading like a sickness between them, poisoning the path to Homelander’s destiny. His father is creating too much friction when he’s supposed to be helping, suppressing his hatred instead of being honest.
An apology is going to taste like bile on Homelander’s tongue, but he’s willing to extend something of an olive branch if it will placate Soldier Boy enough to help him find the key to immortality.
That had been his plan, anyway—try and smooth things over with Ben. He just hadn’t anticipated stumbling upon the two of you caught in the throes of passion.
Homelander hears your voice through the walls, high-pitched and loud, his father’s name spewed out like a prayer before ending on a sharp moan.
He knows, immediately, that it’s you on the other side of the door—his father’s sweet little pet, the human that worships Soldier Boy like a god, who has no regard for the heavenly power that Homelander has been gifted with.
You are also the only human in the world that’s getting away with such misplaced devotion.
Homelander licks his lips, tensing his jaw as his eyes itch to burn through the drywall, red flares that will your pretty little head off once his father spills his seed into you. It would be gratifying to knock Soldier Boy down a few pegs, to make him realize that Homelander is the god that humans are supposed to worship, not him. Ben does not have the upper-hand just because his poor, powerless lover has been allowed to live this long.
He considers it; that timeline of events plays out before Homelander’s eyes like a film reel. It would be gratifying, yes, but stupid—the life of one human isn’t worth risking his chance at eternity.
Homelander knows that his father would hate him if he killed you, would see him as something worse than a disappointment, and he’d track down any remaining V1 to destroy it himself.
Not that Homelander thinks he can’t succeed without his father. He can find the V1 on his own, but there’s no reason to create unnecessary obstacles.
Your death can wait a little longer.
“Please, Ben,” Homelander hears you say through the wall, your voice soft, far too gentle for someone like Soldier Boy to love. “Fuck.”
“Yeah? You like that, hm?” There’s a pause, a mocking laugh as his father’s voice deepens. “’Course you do, pretty cunt’s still squeezing my fingers so tightly. Can’t even count the number of times you’ve come, and she still wants more. Dirty girl.”
Homelander considers leaving, but the thought is brief, overshadowed by his growing desire to, somehow, get back at his father. Soldier Boy will be more sorry about what happened back at Fort Harmony if the real force of Homelander’s powers are used against him, if he can find a way to prove he’s misjudged his son yet again.
The desire to kill you erupts once more, but Homelander stays still, silent, assessing the scene from a shadowy advantage like a natural predator.
When another cry leaves your lips, curiosity wins out and Homelander peers through the wall, peeling back the layers with his super-powered vision.
The room is a mess, clothes strewn everywhere, and he grimaces at the bodily fluids he can detect on nearly every surface. His scan of the bedroom is quick, much more dismissive than studious, before he focuses his attention on you and Soldier Boy.
Your cheek is pressed into the bed, head tilted in Homelander’s direction, the view enough to see the pleasure, laced with a hint of pain, that is sketched into the lines of your expression. Exhaustion wears at you, spilled cum is drying on your stomach, but your body still radiates with heat, still beats with need as tears gather at your lashes.
His father’s face is deep in your cunt, fingers stretching your folds as he sucks your clit, hard enough to have your back arching up off the bed. With a gasp, your hands fly to Ben’s hair, lacing through the strands as you tug reactively.
To Homelander’s surprise, Ben doesn’t seem to mind your attempts at control, and he makes a sound in the back of his throat, every word raspy and salacious. “You taste so fucking good. Sweet as candy, aren’t you, doll?” Ben mutters against your skin, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder before diving deeper into your cunt.
He pins your other leg onto the mattress, spreading your thighs far enough that every inch of you is exposed to the man before it. It also gives Homelander the perfect view of his father’s tongue deep in your core, slurping up the juices with more passion than he’s ever seen him devote to anything.
Homelander feels himself growing hard, an erection forming steadily in his pants, straining against the tight material of his uniform. He grits his teeth, trying to ignore it, hoping that his hatred for you will cool the conflicting lust he feels.
A few of your nails have cracked, the tips bloody from the way you’d dug them into Ben’s back. Had he been a weaker man, a man without V1 and years of experimentation done on him, there would be long, red lines scratched into his taut muscles.
Instead, the skin is flawless, the dried blood there belonging to you alone. You’re not strong enough to harm him, but Ben doesn’t care, perhaps, even, derives pleasure from how easily he can handle you.
Homelander thinks it’s demeaning that his father is so devoted to you when you’re so weak, when you’re nothing compared to his otherworldly strength. It makes Homelander sick to look at you, to see the hazy affection that clouds Ben’s irises, because that’s his father, and it’s wrong that any love he’s able to muster up should go to such a pathetic creature.
Tears gather at your lashes, and you dig your nails deeper into Ben’s scalp, crying out painfully. “Too much, Ben,” you say, writhing on the bed beneath him, voice wracked with desperation.
No sympathy is spared from Soldier Boy. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t let you free even as the tears fall onto your cheeks, heavy from the overstimulation. Your lips are swollen and parted, saliva coating the corners of them as you take whatever Ben will give you.
For whatever reason, his father is infatuated with you. You aren't special; there’s nothing marginally interesting about you, except for, perhaps, the fact that you aren’t scared of anyone on the Seven, not even Homelander.
You’re still human, though, still sickeningly fragile, and Homelander is beginning to wonder if that’s why Ben is so determined to find the V1, if he has ulterior motives that don’t include giving his son the gift of immortality.
That lights him up with indignation that, for some reason, only goes between his legs. He can’t look away from the scene before him, can’t tear his eyes from the sickeningly sweet affection that has become tangible between the two of you. His father is many things, things that even Homelander can’t figure out, but he is just as starved for adoration and you give it to him tenfold.
He doesn’t understand—can’t understand why your love is so undying. Soldier Boy is no better than Homelander, he is no God, and yet, he has still earned the pure, innocent love of a human, the love that Vought had always promised was Homelander’s birthright.
Frustration rises in him and Homelander palms himself over the suit, suppressing a groan, the pressure relieving only a bit of his lust. He needs to be more careful, needs to find a way to get to the V1 before his father. There’s more room in his heart than Homelander initially believed, and while there’s a slim chance you’d even survive an injection of V1, his father might be foolish enough to try.
Homelander could kill you—he should kill you before it comes to that. He wants his father to see that you’re not worth anything, certainly not worth the world that could be built with their two forces combined. If he can just get you out of the picture, maybe things will be smoother.
Maybe you’re the reason his father keeps turning against him.
The thought flares his eyes red again, threatening and bright, but the color flickers, dies back down into their normal blue as he feels the repulsive want take control. Homelander is too intrigued by the way his father is fucking you, the way his tongue flicks into you, rendering you a mess. He’s never seen Soldier Boy so vulnerable, and though his walls are still high, there’s a softness about him that remains behind these doors.
“Come on, sweetheart, I know you’ve got one more in you.” Ben says, scoffing at the tears running down your cheeks. He is mocking, but gentle at the edges, careful to search for your breaking point. The stamina and strength of a supe is ten times that of a human, and ten times that for someone like Soldier Boy. If he doesn’t want his toy to break, he has to know its limits.
You whimper, closer to pain now than you were before. A choked sob escapes your lips, but your orgasm creeps up on you, your body shaking miserably as it tries to force another one through the painful stimulation.
That’s more gratifying to Homelander than anything—the pain on your face—and he presses his palm to his bulge harder, faster, resting one hand against the wall as he thrusts his hips into the other. He’s careful not to make a sound, though he’s certain Ben’s hearing is not as good as his, and he’s probably high enough to write it off as delusion.
“I-I can’t—” you say, and it would seem miserable if you weren’t breathless, if you didn’t want to come again so badly.
Soldier Boy groans into your cunt, his eyes commanding as he gazes up at you over your hips. The tears falling down your cheeks, onto the bed, are making him harder, his cock swollen between his legs, even though he’d come just minutes before. He drags a hand down the length of it, enough to give him some relief, but not enough to come quite yet.
“You can. You’re close I can feel it.” He traces a soothing, possessive circle on your thigh with his thumb, keeping you steady on the bed. “Touch those pretty tits for me. My girls aren’t getting enough attention.”
You obey without question, lazily dragging your hands up your stomach and onto your chest. The moment your fingertips graze your nipples, you come to the edge of a climax, your voice louder, body more pliant under Ben’s touch.
His father grins, face shiny with your slick as you grope yourself.
Homelander pulses with need, shaking with a silent moan as he watches you play with your breasts. He swallows back the sounds, suppresses the lasers that flick in his irises. You have a nice pair of tits, ones that would look even better swollen, leaking with milk, and briefly, he wonders if his father would share you. You’re just a human, after all, and you could serve a much greater purpose if you devoted yourself to two gods instead of one.
Or, maybe, his father will find a way to fix the mistake he’s made in his lab rat son, to create the child that Homelander apparently isn’t. A better version of him will never exist, and Soldier Boy would be stupid for ever thinking so, even though Homelander knows the thought has crossed his mind, knows that he is too much of a disappointment for Ben to ever try to build the kind of relationship with Homelander that he craves.
The hypotheticals don’t matter because Homelander knows you wouldn’t be a good mother, not to someone of their bloodline. You’d infect any super-abled child with your pathetic human morals, twist their minds until they suppress their powers and try to fit into a world that doesn’t want them.
That is, of course, if the child didn’t tear you apart from the inside-out first.
Homelander grits his teeth, a metallic taste flowing into his mouth as he thinks of it, of watching you grow a baby inside of you that will ultimately be your demise. His breath stutters; he’s pathetically close, but his orgasm doesn’t come until a moment later, when he realizes that his father isn’t half the man he thinks he is, and he’ll never be the God that Homelander is.
Soldier Boy a slave to your pleasure—a weak, measly being—even when he pretends everything he does is for himself. You’re crying, and though Soldier Boy is tugging at himself, he’s not focused on making sure he comes—he wants to break you down, build you back up with his mouth and his hands. Ben wants you to worship him, wants you to see him as a holy figure, wants you to praise him even as he degrades you.
He is controlled by his emotions, too swayed by a pretty face and a sultry tongue.
Unlike his father, Homelander is no longer focused on winning over people’s love, and certainly not the love of one person.
You release one more sob before you come, soaking his father’s face with whatever your body has left to give. His father works you through the orgasm, even though you can hardly move, your eyes shut, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.
“That’s my girl,” Soldier Boy says, and he’s so proud, so caring, that it has Homelander spilling into his pants right after you. It lasts for a few seconds, and then relief comes, then the disgusting sensation that settles as the cum dries in his suit.
The realization of what he’s done is not staggering, but it hits him just as his father presses a kiss to your forehead. You’re half passed-out already, eyes closed as your breathing evens out, thighs still sticky with bodily fluids, but you mutter something unintelligible under your breath anyway.
Even with his hearing, Homelander can’t catch the words, but Ben doesn’t seem to understand either. Still, his father gives you something of a smile before leaning over to pluck the joint off of his nightstand, keeping one hand possessively on your thigh. He’s still hard, but for a few minutes he sits there in the quiet of the evening, smoking, before he places the blunt back in the ash tray and moves to take care of the erection himself.
Homelander decides that’s his cue to leave. He can justify watching his father fuck you, but watching only him masturbate over your sleeping body feels like a line he shouldn’t cross.
Sparing one last exhale, Homelander slinks off the floor, hoping that neither of you hear the elevator ding.
thanks for reading, a kiss for all of you. reblog & comments are always appreciated <33 divider by cursed-carmine
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summary: in the two years you’ve been with morpheus, you’ve learned that when he’s upset the dreaming tends to follow his lead. after a particularly cruel argument, you decide to visit the dreaming to apologize, only to find your boyfriend sulking on a balcony in a see-through shirt while the realm drowns in sympathy. what follows is a rescue mission for both him and his realm… and a conversation about an old mistake he’d rather keep buried, if only the raven would stop talking.
word count: 6.1k
heavily inspired by @7-wonders (give me everything you've got)
˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞
The last thing you say to him before vanishing from his throne room is not your finest moment. It’s petty, it’s barbed, and it’s the sort of line that would be immortalized in a breakup playlist… if Endless had Spotify. “You don’t have a monopoly on misery, Morpheus.”
The words hang in the air like a curse, dark and heavy, even after you step through the obsidian archway and leave him behind. You feel them sticking to your ribs, not because you regret them, but because you know they’re going to ferment in his mind until they are pure, distilled self-pity.
Two years together, on and off… a goddess and an Endless, which in hindsight, is basically the same as dating a very powerful cat: beautiful, aloof, dramatic, and deeply offended when things don’t go their way. You’ve had arguments before, of course, and each time you go into your “off” period, you usually avoid the Dreaming entirely. It’s your secret little power move, you simply don’t sleep. Goddesses can do that, sleep is optional for you and you enjoy the way it probably frustrates him that he can’t get to you in dreams when you’ve decided he’s out of favor.
But this time… this time is different, because you can’t stop thinking about the way his face had flickered, just for a fraction of a second, like your words had hit somewhere you hadn’t intended. And because you know yourself too well, you start to wonder if maybe you went too far.
Which is why, hours later, you curl yourself onto your bed, close your eyes, and will yourself to sleep. You’re not going to apologize in person, or in the Waking. Oh no, you’ll do it in the Dreaming, you’ll show up looking incredible, deliver your peace offering, and maybe even make him grovel a little: it’s a solid plan.
Except when you open your eyes in the Dreaming… you’re standing ankle-deep in water. It’s raining, not a soft, melancholy drizzle, not even a moody little aesthetic rain for the background of a sad poem, this is the kind of rain that makes you want to check if someone has built an ark.
The sky is an endless sheet of black cloud, tearing open with lightning that forks down into the hills in the distance. Water pours from every possible surface: down the walls of buildings, cascading off the towers of the library, spilling from rooftops like a thousand waterfalls. The Dreaming itself seems to be sinking under it, and then you notice that the rain is… warm, almost feverish, like the Dreaming is crying, which is unsettling.
You stand there for a moment, completely still, thinking of your hair and your dress and how a goddess should not be arriving to apologize looking like a flustered shipwreck when a sodden black shape barrels toward you with frantic wingbeats and a voice already halfway to relief.
“Hey, hey, hey, do not move, do not panic, it is just a little biblical, you’re fine, you’re so fine, you are the exact person I wanted to see, oh my god your timing, I could cry, can ravens cry, do we cry, I think I am crying.” Matthew does not stop until he almost collides with your stomach, then makes a sound like a squeaky wiper blade and flaps backward.
“You have no idea how bad it’s been. Lucienne’s about to lose it, the library’s basically a water park, and don’t even get me started on the fields. The tulips are gone. Just… gone.” He glitters with rain and sadness in equal measure. You blink at him, startled. “Matthew? What in the,” You gesture at everything. “…is going on? Why is the Dreaming… leaking?”
The raven tilts his head at you like you’ve just asked him if the sun rises in the east. “Because you and the boss are fighting?” You stare at him, rain dripping from your lashes. “Excuse me?”
He starts to stammer. “Oh. Uh. I mean, uh, you know… sometimes he, uh, gets a little emotionally expressive?” You squint. “Matthew,” you say, because you have always liked him and because it is hard to be aloof with a bird that just confessed to crying, “why are you a soaked like a sponge?”
“It is a long story, okay, and the short version is that the boss is a weather system now,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Also, great to see you, really great, like wow, I could kiss your shoes, if that would not drown me. Do not move, Lucienne told me to run into you and then not to run into you, and I am doing both, which is impressive.”
You open your mouth to ask for more details, but the library doors open and Lucienne steps out with the dignity of a person who has decided she will be dignified or die trying. Her bun is pinned on by sheer force of will, her glasses are dotted with water and she is absolutely on the brink, and you can feel her relief the way one feels a sudden patch of warmth when the sun cuts through clouds. She says your name with such gentleness that you decide not to correct your bad entrance.
“Thank the realms,” she says. “Please, welcome, and forgive the mess. We have sustained a few structural inconveniences.” A shelf behind her chooses that moment to slip gently into the water like a tired cat lying down, taking thirty biographies with it. Lucienne looks at it, inhales through her nose, and then looks back to you. “A few,” she repeats.
You blink at the veils of rain drawing lines across the world. “Structural inconveniences,” you say. “Lucienne, the Dreaming is attempting to become an ocean.”
“Temporarily,” she says with a small tremor that might be a laugh and might be the beginning of a scream. “It is responsive to his state of mind. You know it is, you have always known it is.”
You glance around at the apocalyptic water-world situation. “You’re telling me the realm is like… mood lighting for his emotional state?” Lucienne blinks at you and adjusts her glasses. “I would… not put it that way. He is just not managing constructively,” she says gently, and you hear the ache in it, the affection, the bone deep familiarity that comes with keeping a world running while its king practices repression like an art. “He has been doing his best, but it turns out his best includes a tendency toward, ah, apocalyptic ambiance.”
Matthew edges closer to your knee. “On the bright side, the fish are very literary.” You look down and notice a school of tiny silver commas darting through the flood. One pauses by your ankle and becomes a semicolon as if gathering strength, then darts on. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Why is everything in this realm dramatic.”
“Because he is,” Lucienne says without malice. “The Dreaming and Dream are one. When he is unsettled, the realm is unsettled. This is not a failing. It is a link by design. The king is the land, and the land reflects the king.”
You roll your eyes, but it is not cruel. You are already aware of the way your heart is trying to get out of its own sulk and into something softer. “So, let me get this straight. We have biblical flooding because my boyfriend is sulking.” The corner of Lucienne’s mouth twitches, which you decide to take as confirmation. “It sounds ridiculous.”
“It is,” Matthew says cheerfully. “It is also happening. You are very lucky you are not in hell right now. I have heard stories. Turn up the thermostat a little and the whole place, whoosh, straight to glass. There was this woman and he loved her and then bam, basement level, not fun, very crispy vibes, really dire, I am not saying he would do that to you, because he would never, but like, historically, it is not impossible, there is precedent and everything.”
You freeze, you do not do dramatic freezes usually, your pauses are the poised kind that suggest a statue choosing not to move. This is the kind of freeze that comes with a slow tilt of the head and a temperature drop in a five meter radius. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “What do you mean hell?!”
Lucienne puts a very quick hand out toward Matthew as if she can physically stop words. She gives him a look so raw with please that even a raven understands it. “Matthew. Not. Another. Word.”
Matthew immediately looks like he wants to stuff his own beak full of feathers and fly into a window. “What?” he says, backpedaling on his own tongue. “I am just… providing context like a good coworker. She is a goddess, she likes to be informed.”
“Matthew.” Lucienne’s voice is small with warning. There is grief in it, and a lot of history, and a firm librarianly urge to not have to mop up more than one disaster per hour. Matthew collapses inward like a wet tent. “Okay. I will stop. I have stopped. This is me, stopping.”
It is almost funny, the way the whole realm seems to notice the way your spine straightens, it is almost funny, the way the rain changes tone like a song sliding into a minor key, it is almost funny until you hear it… a sound drifting through the air. It’s faint at first, like something you’re imagining, but it grows louder, echoing through the storm until you can recognize it… music.
Sad, mournful, rainy-day breakup music: the kind of playlist that only someone deeply committed to their own melodrama would choose. You’re pretty sure you hear a very slow, very depressing cover of a song that did not need a slow depressing cover.
“Of course,” you whisper, because you recognize it. Not the song itself but the gesture. He is doing this on purpose, he is trying to soundtrack his feelings. You pinch the bridge of your nose again, then remember you already did that. You consider pinching something else. “Is he playing sad music in his own realm?” Lucienne closes her eyes for a brief second as if to accept that yes, she is alive in this reality. “Yes, he has been playing it through the library for some time..”
“It is not just sad,” Matthew says with real scholarly interest. “It is niche. It is the kind of playlist that makes you ask if he discovered this band in a dream and then brought them to the waking world purely to suffer. It is the kind of thing where the album art is just fog.”
“Enough,” Lucienne says with an apologetic wince for you. “Please forgive him… forgive all of us, this has been a very trying few hours.”
“I am not offended,” you say, although you are in fact offended by the melodrama of the soundtrack, not by the gossip. You take a slow breath and try to pull your anger back into something articulate. Your departing words hit you again, the way you had thrown them like a stone at his ribs, the way you had watched him catch the stone and say nothing.
You had wanted him to flinch, you had wanted him to understand he is not the only god of control in the room. You are entirely too good at hurting what you value, which is a habit you thought you had shed. So you look at Lucienne and see the plea in her posture and you nod. “Where is he?”
Lucienne exhales like a very dignified kettle that has been finally removed from heat. “On the balcony. He has not moved much, save to change the weather to match each new thought.”
“Like a one man forecast,” Matthew says. “We had fog, lightning, a brief interlude of dramatic hail, everything was very symbolic.” Lucienne tips her head. “Would you go to him? I would go myself but I am only a librarian, and I am, as you can see, occupied with the continued existence of the archive.”
The library behind her coughs up a small geyser under a table and Matthew goes to stand on it, because he is a helper. You nod once, you do not promise to be kind because you do not believe in empty promises, but you are already moving.
You wade through a Dreaming that is doing its best impression of an ocean floor, you are not sure there is a dry path left anywhere in the Dreaming, but you try anyway. Your sandals vanish into water that is ankle deep, then calf deep, and by the time you reach the first marble stair that leads toward the palace, you are soaking from the neck down, and for a second you wonder if he has invented new kinds of precipitation just to spite you.
Rain falls sideways when you step under an arch and down your collar when you step out. It flings itself at your eyelashes with the devotion of a thousand tragic sonnets. Your hair clings in a way that would be funny if it were not also unflattering. Two sentry dreams kneel as you pass, which is sweet, and then slide off their knees because the marble is treacherous, which is realistic. You smile at them anyway, you can be many things and you decide you will be kind to everyone except him for at least five minutes.
Overhead the music shifts: the library playlist has either learned to follow you or Lucienne has leaned into the bit because you can hear slow piano threaded with low strings. A voice that sounds like a century outside in the rain sighs about lost chances and the cruelty of fate. You pause, roll your eyes up at the sky, and speak clearly to the storm: you do not shout, you pitch your tone perfectly, the way you would for a cat that is pretending not to understand. “Okay, sweetheart we get it. You feel things.”
The storm increases by ten percent out of principle, a wave makes a sincere attempt to knock you over. You plant your feet and let it break around your calves. Water drags at your skirt, the fabric clinging to your thighs. You have always known he has a flair for the theatrical but today he has no ceiling on it.
You breathe out slowly, you had thought coming here would let you apologize on your terms. You had not considered how the realm would make you wear his temper like weather.
You find him exactly where Lucienne said you would, because of course he is not subtle: he has chosen the most cinematic corner of the balcony and he stands with his hands on the railing, head bowed. The storm clings to him like worship, his hair is blacker than the clouds, a storm of its own, flattened to his cheeks and neck.
His shirt is black and so soaked that it has become transparent in a way that feels less like a shirt and more like a suggestion of one. When he turns at the sound of your step he does not smile, and he does not move, and he does not attempt a line about how he was just thinking of you, which is a small mercy.
You stop a few paces away and look at him because you have earned the right, he is beautiful and he knows it in the way a storm knows it. He is also ridiculous, and you love him, and you are furious. “So,” you say, with the controlled neutrality of a diplomat who just swam to a meeting. “You flooded your realm.”
He looks past you for a full second, as if deciding whether the world deserves an answer, then says, with profound gravity, “It rained.”
“It rained because you are sulking,” you say. He is too proud to say yes but he is also too proud to lie directly, the corner of his mouth shifts a fraction of a millimeter toward something sheepish. “The weather reflects the mood of the king.”
“Yes, Lucienne gave me the brochure,” you say. “It is very wet.” The music shifts again, like a sigh you can hear, something piano heavy: a slow ache of notes that rise and fall like breath under a blanket. It is a little on the nose and it is very him.
He looks at your hair and a small shot of guilt goes through his posture. “You should not have come into this. It is not your burden.” You fold your arms. “It is literally my fault.”
“It is not,” he says carefully, which is almost nice. “I contain my storms.” You lift a hand and point behind you without looking: a thunder wave unrolls over the library roof like a grand curtain. He glances past you and his jaw sets in the way that means he knows he is being theatrical and resents being told so. He looks back at you, something raw under the immortal calm.
“You think I do not try,” he says, quiet and slowly intense. “You think I do not notice the first drop and press my thumb to the sky.”
“I think you stand in it and decide to match,” you say. “Because it is easier to stand here and brood than to speak.” His eyes do a traitor thing where they show you a flash of real hurt. You feel it in your own throat. Somewhere, in the library, a cello section sighs under an imaginary conductor. The rain doubles down and you have the foolish thought that the weather pities you both.
“Those words,” he says, very low. “What you said.” You cannot pretend you forgot, you cannot pretend you were clever instead of cruel. You take a step closer, the balcony tile almost becomes smaller between you, his shirt is so wet it is almost not a shirt. You try not to notice the line of his collarbone because you did not come to enjoy him, you came to put him back together, sometimes both are the same job.
“I am sorry,” you say, and it is not ornate and not legendary, it is a simple offering in the rain. “I was trying to hurt you because I was afraid you would hurt me first, it was childish.” He blinks as if you have performed a magic trick, he is an Endless who can dream up geographies by thinking, and still he looks stunned by a direct apology.
The music in the realm hiccups between tracks, as if a hidden hand just hit shuffle in a panic. A low female voice starts singing in French about the soft collapse of yearning, which is not helping. You take another step and he looks at you like he’s afraid you are a figment of his imagination.
“You do not need to apologize,” he says stiffly, which is half chivalry and half fear. “You have your realm and your rules, I have my realm and mine. We collide, it is not always graceful.”
“We collide because you clench,” you say, softer. “And because I do not like begging for tenderness, even when I want it.” He swallows and the rain takes a breath with him. You see it then, the exhausted tension in his shoulders, the fragility hidden in the set of his jaw. He has not slept, obviously. He cannot sleep like mortals sleep and yet he can be exhausted. He is tired of being the precise shape of himself, you understand that too well.
“Lucienne asked me to come,” you add, because truth loves company. “She loves you, but she is very close to telling you to stop being so dramatic.” One corner of his mouth moves slightly. “I do not think she would phrase it so.”
“She would, actually,” you say. “She is two ruined books away from mutiny.” That is what wins you a very small smile, and it is the kind that makes your throat ache. He tilts his head and water falls from his lashes in a perfect measured line. “You are wet.”
“I am aware,” you say. “The whole realm is a giant bath. You, however, are wearing a shirt that forgot what fabric is. Did you do that on purpose?” He looks down as if surprised to find himself clothed, then back at you with a seriousness that would be unendurable in any other person. “No.”
“You are impossible,” you say, but it is affectionate, and he hears it, and the rain loses a fraction of its intensity as if the cloud heart is listening in.
You move again before you can talk yourself out of it, this is your apology. You step close enough that the heat of him cuts through the chill of the storm. He looks at you the way he looks at the moment before a dream becomes lucid, wary and hungry and braced. You lift your hands to his face, and they fit there like you have a right. He stills and the Dreaming holds its breath, you kiss him.
It is not a dramatic kiss, it is gentle and slow and exact and it is more difficult than any battle you have fought because you hold back nothing and demand nothing. For a heartbeat he does not respond, then he makes a sound like a page turning in a quiet room and his mouth is soft under yours, and his hands are on your hips with the caution of a man who is very strong and very afraid of doing harm.
The rain hesitates, the music swells like a triumphant idea trying to pretend it is not happy to be here. Somewhere, very far away, an orchestra of wingbeats changes direction and you kiss him until the storm realizes it has an exit.
The rain ends so suddenly the silence thumps, you feel the drop of it like a coat taken off your shoulders. The clouds open, and the sun does not rise so much as slide into the room, light arriving in sheets that melt the slick shine off stone and set his wet shirt to steaming in a way that is frankly illegal.
The realm exhales, the moat around the library becomes puddle, then mirror, then memory. Pages uncrumple themselves with little sighs, the umbrellas fall asleep in a neat stack and stop arguing.
You stand with your hands on his face and his on your hips and look at each other like people who have made it across a rope bridge that was on fire only to discover the view on the other side is embarrassing in its beauty.
He looks so soft in the new light that you have to laugh, because if you do not laugh you might fall apart. He blinks at the sound as if laughter is a creature he has to remember how to name, and then he smiles properly, which is an eclipse turned inside out. “It appears,” he says with immense gravity, “that the weather has improved.”
“It appears,” you say, and then kiss him again because gravity is for other people. You do not pull away quickly, you sink into a hug that feels like the first deep breath after a long dive. He rests his chin on your hair and you feel the precise way his body unknots against yours, the slow surrender of his posture to something like rest.
“I meant what I said a minute ago,” you murmur into his shoulder. “I am sorry.” He does not answer for a long moment, and when he does it is not with a line about forgiveness or a speech about fault. His arms just tighten, a slow quieting circle. “I know.”
You stay like that, the sun rubs light into you both as if trying to dry you with its gentle hands. The sea of the Dreaming becomes a chain of lagoons. A dragonfly lands on your shoulder, then looks up at him, decides this is too intimate, and leaves.
You breathe, he breathes, and for a king of dreams he has a very mortal breath, you can feel the human of it in your chest. You let yourself imagine, just for the indulgent length of a heartbeat, a future where he learns to say what he feels before he drowns the architecture.
You imagine teaching him the trick of saying ‘I am sad’ in a room with the windows shut, not through thirty thousand gallons of symbolism: it is a warm thought, so you keep it.
After a time he draws back enough to look at you and his hands stay on your waist because he is not a fool. “Will you come inside,” he asks, at once courtly and hopeful. “We have towels, and tea.”
“I will,” you say. “But first, there is something I need to ask.” His expression changes in the way a sea changes when a wind shifts. You see the exact instant he hears the hinge of your tone.
Somewhere behind you the library hums as the playlists reconfigure themselves nervously, you watch his gaze flicker to your mouth and then to the horizon and then back again, as if he is choosing among escape routes he refuses to take. You have him, and it almost feels unfair, but also feels necessary.
“Matthew said I am lucky I am not in hell,” you say lightly, and the word hell has the taste of iron when you speak it. “He said there was a woman, he mentioned there was precedent.”
The breeze stops pretending to be casual, a single bead of water falls from the tip of a gargoyle and hits the stone with the ring of a bell. His hands go still on you, completely still, as if the world has dared him to blink. You feel the Dreaming do that subtle thing it does when it senses that a king is about to be cornered by the truth.
Far away, down in the heart of the realm, there is a sound, it is small and muffled and unmistakable: a crash, like pottery that had no fault line until someone’s power twitched. You do not know what breaks and you do not need to, the way his jaw tightens tells you it is real.
You lift an eyebrow. “That sounded healthy.” He does not move, he looks like a man who has been asked to identify his own reflection in a lineup and is worried it will confess to something.
The pause is long enough for a tiny breeze to examine both of you and decide to return later. His mouth opens, closes, opens, and when he finally speaks he chooses a tone so perfectly neutral that it wraps around the word like gauze.
“What did Matthew say?” he asks, which is not an answer, and absolutely an answer, and you love him enough to let him try to dodge while you patiently take away every possible place to hide. “Enough,” you say. “Not everything.”
“I would prefer,” he says with great care, “that you do not discuss ancient history with a raven who has no context.”
“Ancient history,” you repeat, more to feel the shape of his defense than to mock it. “Is that what we are calling it?” He meets your eyes, and there is so much in his that you could build a house with it: guilt and stubbornness and a weary honesty that aches to be allowed into the room.
He tries for a small crooked smile, it is not his best work. “Perhaps we might discuss it later, after tea… after you are warm. After I am… less soaking wet.”
You look pointedly down at the place in the distance where the sound came from and for a moment you simply let the silence grow a little thorny around you both, not to wound, but to mark the boundary.
He has the grace to wince, just at the corner of his mouth, as if he can feel the Dreaming tensing again in small places and is trying to relax every muscle in his magic by brute force.
“Might have been the pottery,” he says with airy innocence that fools absolutely no one. “A shelf, a minor tremor, Cain and Abel have very sturdy crockery, however, so it is likely fine.”
From far away you hear Abel call out that he is fine in the exact voice of a person who just witnessed an attempted flood. Cain replies with something that sounds like a lecture about shelf brackets, you do not smile.
“Might have been,” you echo. “Or it might have been the king flinching when he heard the word hell.” He inhales and you feel the realm go absolutely attentive, like a theater crowd leaning forward. He is deciding whether to be brave or to be himself.
You wait, you have learned that waiting is sometimes the fiercest way to love a difficult man. “Inside,” he says finally, with a carefully measured humility that tries to be charming and almost succeeds. “Please… let me attempt to explain without drowning every dream and nightmare in my realm.”
You consider him, just long enough that his shoulders go from rigid to resigned, then you nod, because the conversation you are about to have deserves chairs and a fireplace and a door he cannot run through without looking silly.
“Fine,” you say, falling into step with him. “But we are circling back to the part where you used your realm like a weather diary.” He gives you a look that is half apology, half helpless artistry, and all him. “I will endeavor to adopt a less theatrical barometer.”
“We will see,” you say, and let him lead you into the dry. The palace has decided to dry itself in a hurry, as if embarrassed you have to wade through its mood swings. Hallways that were waterfalls are now corridors lined with damp silk banners, which cling a little too close to your arms as you walk. The marble under your feet is warm in patches where the sun has reached it, cool in others, like stepping across a memory that can’t make up its mind. The air smells faintly of lavander and whatever cologne he uses that seems to exist only in this realm, all deep shadow and just enough sweetness to make you suspicious.
He is walking slightly ahead of you, which is deliberate. He knows you cannot interrogate a man as easily if you are forced to admire the line of his shoulders while he speaks. Unfortunately for him, you are entirely capable of interrogating while distracted, and also capable of noting that the black shirt is now drying into a kind of second skin situation that would fluster a lesser goddess.
He makes the mistake of speaking first. “There are matters from my past,” he says in the careful tone of a man picking his way through a minefield while also reciting a poem, “that are… fraught. I would prefer not to have them intrude upon our…”
“Relationship,” you supply when he hesitates, because you are not going to let him off with a vague noun. He clears his throat, which is adorable given he does not need to. “…our present, nor upon your peace of mind.”
“That,” you say lightly, “sounds like a very poetic way of saying you don’t want to tell me what Matthew meant.”
“It is a way of saying,” he counters, “that the details are both complex and irrelevant to…” You stop in the middle of the hallway. “Irrelevant?”
He turns to you, which is a mistake, because you have stopped and he hasn’t yet learned that you can hold still with the same intensity he uses to loom. “I mean,” he says, his hands opening slightly in a rare gesture of uncertainty, “that they are events far removed from…”
“From what?” you ask. “From the part where you maybe threw an ex into hell?” His mouth flattens and that tells you more than anything else could.
There’s a little pulse in the air, subtle but unmistakable: the Dreaming likes drama almost as much as its king does, and you can feel the corridors listening, all their corners leaning in. He takes a slow breath. “It was… different.”
“Different,” you repeat, and start walking again, past him. “Go on, then, explain to me how exactly it was different.” He falls into step beside you, long strides measured. “The circumstances were… complicated. She and I… there was a betrayal.”
“There usually is,” you say. “Go on.” His jaw works once, twice. “I acted in anger.” You glance sideways at him. “And sent her to hell.” He hesitates, which is an answer.
You stop again, which makes him stop, and there’s that subtle tension in the air again, like the entire realm is balancing on one foot. “So Matthew was right,” you say. “There is precedent.”
He looks at you then with something raw and sharp in his eyes, something that makes the light in the corridor flicker as if even the architecture is wary. “I would not do that to you,” he says quietly, and there’s enough weight in it that you almost believe him… almost. “That,” you say, “is not the same thing as saying you regret it.”
He exhales through his nose. “Regret is… not simple for me.” You give him a look. “Oh, I know, that’s the problem.” The realm reacts the way a cat does when voices rise, not fleeing, but twitching in a way that says it might bolt if this gets any louder. Somewhere in the distance, a pane of glass hums like it’s considering shattering just to break the tension.
He moves, closing the space between you with the sort of controlled calm that’s only ever a thin disguise for emotion. “You are asking me to revisit a wound I have sealed for millennia.”
“I’m asking you,” you correct, “to tell me whether the next time we fight I should pack sunscreen or a parka.” The corner of his mouth twitches, he almost hides it, but not quite. You see the way the very air between you softens, just slightly.
And that’s when Lucienne appears at the far end of the hallway, the click of her boots brisk and perfectly measured even though her expression says she’s already calculating how many years of vacation she’s owed.
She stops just shy of the line where propriety would have her eavesdropping, folds her hands, and offers you both the kind of perfectly neutral smile that could be printed on official stationery. “Forgive the intrusion,” she says, though her eyes flick toward the nearest tapestry like she’s reminding the Dreaming itself to mind its own business.
“Lucienne,” he says with an incline of his head, the exact same way a mortal king would acknowledge a general bringing bad news.
“I’m afraid,” she says with that apologetic grace of hers, “that the library has… expressed itself again.” You blink. “Expressed itself?”
Lucienne’s mouth does the smallest, most dignified little twitch. “Yes, in the form of a small but insistent earthquake, which began precisely thirty-seven seconds ago. I’m told Cain and Abel’s residence survived intact, though the gardens are another matter.”
You don’t even try to hide the look you give him, he doesn’t meet your eyes. Lucienne clears her throat softly. “I thought, given the… delicate nature of your conversation, I might request your presence before the library takes further liberties.”
“That,” you say under your breath, “is the politest way I’ve ever heard someone say ‘stop making the furniture nervous.’” Lucienne absolutely hears you but pretends she doesn’t, because she is a saint.
He exhales, that tiny muscle in his jaw jumping. “We will attend to it,” he says to her, and it’s the royal we, which makes you smirk despite yourself. Lucienne bows her head slightly. “Thank you. And again, my apologies for interrupting.”
You wave it off. “You might have saved us from redecorating the hallway via an Endless temper tantrum.” There’s a pause where Lucienne very clearly wants to agree but chooses the high road instead. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
When she’s gone, the silence between you isn’t as sharp as it was, but it’s not exactly comfortable either. You look at him, and he looks back, and you both know the conversation isn’t over. “Tea,” you say finally. “Then the truth.”
He inclines his head, and if you didn’t know him so well you’d think it was compliance instead of tactical retreat. “Tea,” he agrees.
"C'mere sweetheart!" Frank calls from the front hall.
"Yeah?" you ask, already padding over to him. He'd been tidying up the front hall closet for the past hour and you assumed he wanted to show you his work.
"What is it Frankie? Done?" you ask when you find.
"Yeah, almost doll," he says a little distracted. "Do me a favor, stand here and reach your hand up sweetheart," he adds, positioning you by the hips squarely in front of the closet.
"Huh?" you ask, looking back at him like he'd lost his mind.
"Just reach up baby. Stretch your arm, wanna see somethin'" he vaguely explains. You do as you're asked, reaching your arm into the air and extending it, instinctively going to your tip toes.
"No toes," he murmurs, pushing you gently down by the shoulders. You comply and go flat-footed. Once you do, he takes the pencil from behind his ear and makes a quick mark on the wall just below the height of your fingertips. "Good job sweetheart, back to the couch alright?" he says, patting your ass to send you on your way.
"Wait wait, what the hell was that for?!" you ask, your face scrunched in confusion.
"Huh?" he asks distractedly, "oh uh, the shelf. Ain't gonna put your purses up there if you can't reach it doll."
"You're lowering the whole shelf?" you ask, slightly astonished.
"Yeah, how we gonna organize your pretty purses in there if you can't reach 'em baby?" he scoffs, shaking his head like you're the crazy one.
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