insensiblelimerence

[insensiblelimerence]

!! HI GORGEOUS !!

sorry….go back to sleep now shhh

🥰🤭😍☺️

[insensiblelimerence]

do it for me?

Soldier Boy (Ben) x handler!Reader | Payback Era

NOTES: very much inspired by @easytiger-xo‘s AMAZING handler!reader story (absolutely give it a read)!! This is loosely based on how stilwell was with homelander but not quite the same at all. Enjoy <3

TW: handler!reader, power imbalance, emotional control, weaponized softness and femininity, soft dominance, definitely leans toward sub!ben, weaponized tenderness, strategic caretaking, manipulation, aftercare (sorta), Ben in denial, subtle mind games, praise as means to manipulate, Ben w/ a praise kink to the max

“I said I’m not fuckin’ goin’.”

Ben doesn’t look at you when he says it. He’s sunk into the couch, shirtless—like always—and stone-heavy, legs spread wide like he owns the air between them. A half-burnt joint dangles from his fingers. The waistband of his sweats is loose, slouching low over his hips, exposing the soft trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband.

He looks like a man who’s made up his mind—and drugged himself into a state where no one can change it.

The TV is on. Loud. Something violent flickering across the screen. A bottle of whiskey sweats beside him on the table, next to a prescription bottle with no label. Just your handwriting, in Sharpie: PM ONLY. The cap’s off. You don’t ask how many he took. He’d probably lie anyway.

You watch him for a long moment. Quiet. Then you walk in.

Your heels whisper against the rug before you toe them off—soft and slow, the kind of movement you know he notices even when he pretends not to. You set the branded folder on the marble with a little click. Not loud. Not accusing. Just final.

He doesn’t move.

So you sink to your knees in between his widespread feet.

You do it delicately—like it’s second nature to fold down in front of him this way. Your skirt pools around your thighs, and your hands find his legs—warm, solid, stretched beneath old cotton that’s been worn soft. He still doesn’t look at you.

So you rest your cheek gently against the inside of his thigh.

That gets him.

Ben glances down, frowning like he’s just now realizing you’re there.

“What the hell’re you doin’?” he mumbles, voice raspy and tinged with smoke. “Tryin’ to guilt me now?”

You blink up at him slowly. Your lashes flutter. Your lips part like you’ve been holding your breath.

“No,” you say softly. “I’m just so tired.”

His eyes narrow. His jaw ticks. Not because he doesn’t believe you—but because he does.

“I fixed everything, just like you asked,” you murmur, your voice light, like it might float away if you speak too loud. “No press. New talking points. No Edgar. No Countess. You don’t even have to entertain, I made sure of it. You’ll be in and out in under an hour. I picked the scotch you like. Had the steak pre-ordered just how you like it so you wouldn’t have to wait.”

Ben exhales, slow and irritable. “Yeah? Still don’t care. Still not goin’.”

Your hand glides up his thigh. Just a little. Innocent.

“You said you liked my red dress,” you whisper—you sound pitiful and you know it. It’s exactly what you want. “So I picked that one. Did my hair the way you like it, too. Thought maybe, just this once, you’d come because I asked.”

He groans, throwing his head back against the cushions. The joint smolders out between his fingers. The remote clatters to the floor when he tosses it aside. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

You flinch. It’s small—subtle—but he sees it. Feels it. And then his hands are on your face.

“Hey. Hey.” His fingers cup your cheeks like he’s afraid you might shatter. “Don’t—fuck, don’t do that.”

You sniff. Just once. “I know it’s stupid,” you whisper. “It’s just—I try so hard, Ben. And you always push back. Even when I’m just—”

Your voice breaks. You press your lips together. Blink fast.

He curses under his breath and drags you up into his lap like you’re something soft and breakable and his.

You curl over him, legs folding on either side of his hips, your hands sliding around his neck as you tuck your face into his bare shoulder.

His skin is warm. Smells like sweat, weed, expensive leather. His hands press up under your skirt automatically—smoothing over your thighs, stroking along the backs of them like he’s trying to ground you.

“You’re not seriously crying over a steakhouse, are you,” he mutters, more annoyed with himself than you.

You don’t answer. You just sniff again, quietly. A little pout in your voice. “I thought maybe you’d want to be there,” you whisper. “For me.”

Ben’s groan is practically a growl. He presses his forehead into your shoulder like he’s trying to block out the world. His hands squeeze your waist. Hard.

“You say shit like that and I swear to God, I—” He pulls back and grabs your chin, makes you look at him. His thumb strokes along your jaw, his pupils blown wide. “You flash those fuckin’ eyes at me again, I’ll follow you to the moon. You make it hard for a man to say no, sweetheart.”

You blink at him, all wide-eyed and trembling. “Pretty please?” you murmur. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

His mouth drops open like he wants to argue. Yell. Tell you that you’re full of shit—even if he knows you’re not. Even if he knows you’re one of the very few people in this fucked up company who always follows through when you say something.

But his hands don’t let go. His hips are already pressing up beneath you. His breath is hot and a little labored and fucked.

“I’ll go,” he relents. “But if one of those uptight motherfuckers even look at me wrong, I’m putting ‘em through the table. And you stay by me the whole time or I walk.”

You smile against his mouth as you lean in to kiss him—soft and grateful and sweet. Like you hadn’t known he’d give into you from the moment your assistant told you he was refusing to go. It just took a little special attention to get him there.

“Deal. I knew you’d come through for me,” you whisper, brushing your nose against his.

He groans again, dragging his hand down your spine, cupping the back of your head like he can’t believe what he’s doing.

“Goddamn you, sweetheart,” he mutters into your skin.

You linger in his lap just a breath longer—arms looped around his neck, forehead tucked against his, like you have to soak up the moment. Like it’s something sacred.

But then, so softly he almost misses it: “We’ll need to leave by seven.”

Ben blinks.

You pull back just enough to kiss his cheek. “Which means you’ve got thirty minutes to shower and get dressed.”

He frowns, caught off guard by the shift. “Shower?”

You nod, lips still curved sweetly, fingers stroking his jaw. “Mhm. Your hair’s all flattened from the couch, baby. And you smell like weed and whiskey and… well, you.”

“I smell good,” he grunts, half-defensive, half-amused.

“You do,” you coo, giving him a little squeeze. “So good. But not like a man who’s about to charm a room full of billionaires.” You smooth your hands down his chest, then tug lightly at the waistband of his sweats. “And you’re obviously not wearing these.”

He groans—loud and dramatic, head tipping back like you just asked him to go back to war.

“You promised,” you sing-song gently, trailing your fingers under his chin. “You said you’d go.”

“Didn’t say I’d play dress-up.”

You gasp like he’s wounded you. “Benjamin.”

He groans again, dragging a hand down his face. “Christ on a cross, you are needy today.”

“Ten minutes in the shower,” you murmur, brushing your nose against his. “I’ll lay everything out for you. I had wardrobe clean up the suit for you, it was looking dingy. And I bought more of your favorite cologne so I don’t want to hear any complaints about putting it on.”

Ben blinks at you, torn between suspicion and arousal. “You tryin’ to get me laid at this dinner?”

You laugh, soft and honey-warm. “No. I’m trying to get you photographed. Looking strong. Powerful. Like America’s sexiest war machine.”

He narrows his eyes. “That’s not a compliment.”

“It’s totally a compliment,” you whisper, already easing off his lap with a quick kiss to the crown of his head. “Now up. Clock’s a’tickin, you’ve got exactly eight minutes left.”

Ben mutters something under his breath—probably about how he survived decades in warzones and now has to be manhandled into brushing his hair by his tiny PR handler—but he’s already pushing to his feet.

You brush a hand down his back as he passes, and murmur— “Thank you, baby. You’re gonna be amazing tonight.”

And just like that, he’s putty again.

Because he is going. And he’ll wear what you lay out. And he’ll smile when the cameras flash, not because he wants to—but because you asked.

And he always says yes to you eventually.

The second the penthouse door shuts behind you that night, Ben growls out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours.

“Never again,” he mutters, already tugging at the knot in his tie. “I mean it this time. You can drug me, shoot me, fuckin’ bribe me—I am not sittin’ through another two-hour circle jerk over beef tartare.”

You slip past him quietly, heels in hand, dress swishing just above your ankles as you move through the soft lighting of the living room. No arguments. No sarcasm. Just the gentle click of your shoes being placed neatly by the door.

“I know,” you murmur. “It was a lot.”

Ben tosses his tie on the couch. “Guy next to me spent ten straight minutes tellin’ me how he grew his own herbs. Fuckin’ herbs, sweetheart. I’ve fought wars for this country. More than once. The fuck do I care about herbs?”

He’s flushed and fuming, stinking of expensive cologne, even more expensive scotch and barely-restrained violence, but you don’t flinch. Don’t even blink.

You just glance up from the crystal tray you’re arranging—two fingers of bourbon already poured for him.

You don’t try to stop him.

You let him pace.

Let him wear himself out.

That’s the key.

Not control—never control.

Ben bristles at leashes.

But need?

He melts for need.

When he’s worked himself into a proper tantrum—shirt untucked, pacing barefoot on the Persian rug, ranting about assholes and photographers and whatever else pissed him off—you finally step into his space.

Quiet. Careful. Sweet.

Your touch lands light on his shoulder. “I was so proud of you tonight.”

Ben eyes you warily, like he’s waiting for the catch. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You reach for his collar, brushing it smooth. “I know how much you hate those dinners.”

“You mean I hate everyone at those dinners.”

“I know, baby.”

He grunts. “Only went ‘cause you asked.”

“I know that, too.” You smooth the front of his shirt, your fingers dragging low, just barely skimming over the trail of skin above his waistband. His hands catch your hips, rough and warm.

“Sit down,” you murmur, brushing a lock of hair off his brow. “You ran hot tonight, you need to cool down.”

He looks like he’s about to argue, but then his eyes catch the drink waiting for him on the end table. And the way you’re watching him—chin tilted, gaze soft, one hand smoothing up his chest like it’s muscle memory.

He sinks onto the couch without another word.

You ease into his lap a second later.

Just like always.

Your knees tuck on either side of his thighs, arms loop gently around his neck. His hands instinctively find your waist, and you press a soft kiss below his ear.

He growls into your shoulder. “Fuck. You keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m gonna think you like me.”

“Don't be silly.” You laugh—quiet and sweet, forehead tipping against his. “You know I do.”

He squeezes your waist, voice low and a little rough. “You gonna show me how much?”

You nod. Innocent. Eager. “I always do when you’re good.”

That makes him twitch beneath you. You feel it. His hands are already sliding down your back, under your thighs, like he can’t decide whether to manhandle you or hold you there.

But you just lean in, cupping his face in your hands. “You let them take their pictures with you,” you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“A few.”

“You didn’t threaten anyone.”

“Out loud.”

“You smiled.”

Ben snorts at that one. “I smiled because you were wearin’ that dress.”

Your own smile widens as you reach up, smoothing his collar like you’ve done it a thousand times. “That’s why I wore it.”

He blinks, caught off guard. The storm in his chest quiets just a little. “Yeah?”

You nod, tilting your head just slightly, fingers dragging down his chest. “I like looking for my favorite guy.”

You bit your lip—he loves when you do that. Playing coy, like you hadn’t been planning this since the beginning of dinner. “Especially because you did tonight for me.”

His jaw flexes. His eyes flick up to yours—hot and narrow and falling fast. “Yeah, I fuckin’ did,” he mutters.

You smile, slow and soft, brushing your nose against his. “I’m so lucky.”

Ben’s breath stutters. His hands tighten on you. And there it is—that tug in his chest.

That animal part of him that needs to feel big. Wanted. Relied on.

“You looked good,” he mutters, almost sheepish. “Real good. Kept forgettin’ what I was supposed to say.”

“You didn’t have to say anything,” you whisper. “Just sit there and look like the hero you are.”

He groans under his breath. “Fuck,” he says, voice thick. “You say shit like that and I forget why I’m pissed.”

You tilt your head and coo, fingers threading into his hair. “You made me so proud tonight.”

You kiss him then—soft, slow, syrupy—and pull back just enough to whisper: “So now you get what you want.”

Ben groans, kneading your ass with both hands. “And what’s that, sweetheart?”

You’re warm in his lap, lips still close, lashes lowered just enough to be devastating. And when you whisper it—

“Me.”

—his whole body twitches like you hit a nerve.

He groans, low and guttural, letting his head fall back against the couch, eyes squeezing shut like he’s in pain. “Fuck.”

You hum softly and kiss his throat. Once. Twice. Then drag your mouth up toward his ear.

“However you want,” you breathe, just barely grazing the shell of it. “You were perfect.”

His hands are everywhere at once—gripping your hips, stroking down your back, sliding under your thighs like he needs to feel all of you at once. There’s a beat of heavy silence where he just looks at you, blinking like he doesn’t believe you said it. “You mean that?”

You nod. Soft and sure. “Mhm, have I ever not?”

Ben’s voice drops into something rough and dangerous. “Say it again.”

You press your forehead to his, lips brushing his. “You did exactly what I asked you to do,” you whisper, slow and honey-sweet. “So you can fuck me any way you want, baby.”

He growls like it hits something feral in his chest. “Fuckin’ Christ on a goddamn cross.”

And then his mouth is on yours, hot and possessive, kissing you like he’s trying to make up for the hours he spent behaving. His hands grip you tighter, pulling you flush against him as he shifts under you, hard and hungry and already getting impatient.

You kiss him slow. Let him take. Let him think he’s taking. Let him feel like he’s in charge while your fingers sneak up into his hair, grounding him, guiding him, praising him between breaths.

“There you go,” you murmur when he bites at your lower lip. “Just like that. Take what you need, baby.”

He groans into your mouth like he’s never been given such glorious permission before.

Because that’s the trick, really.

You give him you—soft and warm and pliant—but on your terms. You give him everything, and he never even realizes that he’s the one being handled.

“You were so handsome at that dinner tonight,” you say, cupping his face in both hands. “My best guy. My hero.”

His breath shudders. “Yeah?” he mutters, hands tightening on your waist like he can’t help it. “That right?”

You nod, slow, sweet, letting your hips rock forward just enough to tease him. “You’re the reason I can walk into any room and keep my head up. They can talk all they want, but I know I’ve got the strongest man in the world in my corner.”

He groans, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. “Fuck, sweetheart—don’t say shit like that if you’re not ready to get railed into the goddamn couch.”

You just giggle softly, tracing your thumbs over his cheekbones. “I’m always ready for you.”

He’s panting now—eyes dark and hungry, cock straining hard against you. But he’s still not moving. Not yet.

So you lean in, press your lips to his ear. “You’ve been on your best behavior lately,” you murmur. “Haven’t scared anyone off. Haven’t put anyone through a wall. You’ve done everything I asked. You deserve a real reward.”

Ben swears under his breath, already fumbling to get himself free, to push your panties aside. You tilt your hips to help, fingers brushing his cheek the whole time, so loving. So grateful.

“You want me?” you whisper. “You want your girl right here, baby? Right now?”

“Fuckin’—always,” he rasps. “Don’t make me beg.”

You smile, guiding him to your entrance with soft fingers, already soaked for him.

“I like when you beg, you know that,” you whisper, sinking down slow.

Ben’s mouth falls open. His hands fly to your hips like it’s instinct, dragging you flush against him, groaning like it physically hurts to be inside you.

Your hand cradles the back of his head. Your voice stays soft. Always soft. “You fill me up so good,” you murmur against his ear. “No one makes me feel like this but you.”

“Jesus Christ,” he chokes.

You moan sweetly, rocking your hips in a slow, wet grind.

“You make me feel so full, Ben. So safe. You always take care of me.”

He growls—full-chested, feral.

You let him take over then—let him snap his hips up into you, wild and rough, mouth on your throat like he needs to claim you.

But you still murmur through every thrust.

“That’s it, my hero. My man. So big—so deep inside me. Feel so perfect for me, baby.”

He snarls against your neck. “You keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna fill you so fuckin’ full they’ll know you’re mine for a week.”

You gasp, clinging tighter. “I am yours. My whole world revolves around you.”

He’s close. You can feel it. So you coo in his ear one more time—quiet, breathless, wicked: “Come for me, baby. My strong, brave hero. You’ve been so good—give it to me. Please, Ben. For me?”

He loses it.

His grip bruises. His hips slam up hard and desperate. He groans like he’s been set on fire and buries himself deep inside you, cock twitching, spilling hot and thick and endless.

You hold him through it. Stroke his hair. Kiss his temple. Praise him through every shudder. “That’s it. That’s my man. You did so good, baby.”

He’s almost trembling, head buried against your chest.

And you just rock gently, purring into his ear like a lullaby.

“You’ll do the ribbon cutting next week, won’t you?” you whisper, soft as velvet. “Just for me?”

Ben groans—but you feel his head nod, slow and reluctant.

You smile.

You always get what you want.

You stay curled in his lap for a long time after.

Ben’s breath is still ragged against your neck, his chest hot and sticky beneath your palms. His arms stay locked around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear the second he loosens his grip.

And maybe he should be.

But for now—you let him have you.

You keep rocking him with soft touches, your fingers smoothing through his damp hair, your lips brushing his temple. You hum something under your breath—not a lullaby, not quite—but warm and familiar. Something only for him.

You stay curled over him just long enough for his heartbeat to settle.

He’s still warm and solid beneath you, one hand resting heavy on your hip, the other curled at the nape of your neck like he might not let you go.

He always says he doesn’t need it.

That he doesn’t need you—not like this.

But his body tells the truth.

And so does his silence.

That’s the part that makes your stomach flutter—not because it’s sweet, but because it’s true.

No one else can handle him. No one else wants to. But you?

You’ve made a career out of it.

You press a soft kiss to the hinge of his jaw, then shift, easing off of him slowly, adjusting your panties, smoothing your skirt back into place.

Ben makes a low noise of protest. Not a word—just a sound. Like something you’ve taken from him.

You don’t look at him just yet.

You keep moving.

You grab his pills, the ones you know he likes to take before bed. No questions asked. You drop them into his lap and you move across the room to adjust the thermostat lower. You settle in front of him, pull his boots off one at a time, placing them neatly by the door. You move into the bedroom through the large, opened sliding doors that separate the space.

Every movement gentle. Familiar. Doting.

You’re not staying. You never do.

But you take care of him all the same.

“You don’t have to do all that,” he mumbles, voice gone rough.

You finally glance over.

His hair’s a mess. His chest still rising like he’s chasing you through a dream.

You smile, soft and warm. “I know.”

You come back to the couch, sit beside him. Run a hand over his chest, slow and absent like you’re memorizing the shape of him.

“I just want you comfortable. And I think you sleep better when I do this for you.”

He huffs a breath through his nose, eyes heavy on yours.

“You could stay,” he says, voice rough with something heavier than tiredness. “Just for tonight.”

You smile sadly, smoothing his hair back. “You need to shower again and go to bed. You’ve got your meeting with Edgar first thing. If I stay, you’ll be late.”

“I don’t care.”

“I care.” You lean down and kiss him slow—sweet and lingering, fingers brushing the side of his jaw. “You’ll see me tomorrow, after the meeting.”

He makes a frustrated noise in his chest, but he doesn’t argue.

Instead, he catches your wrist and presses a kiss to the inside of it.

“Don’t let anyone talk shit about me,” he murmurs.

You smile, lean into the touch just enough, “I never do.”

You straighten, adjust your dress in the mirror one last time, and head for the door. But just before you leave, you glance back. You smile softly. “Goodnight, Ben.”

The door clicks shut behind you.

You left him satisfied and pliant but wanting more—just how you like him.

TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @suckitands33 @lunaleah @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @fratboychrisera @angelically-yours @dina-winchester @maneaterarabella @ralilda @claireyoucandobeddor @ilikw @lupinslibraries @ladykitana90 @kyleighsstuff @deans-yn @k-illdarlings @ohperiodtpoohhh @poisonivy2267 @scrmqwn @sadpods @mochminnie

Let me know if you’d like to be added to my taglist 🤍

[insensiblelimerence]

[insensiblelimerence]

Sam Winchester loves to use his hands 😄

In response…

summary ! basically the request and my thoughts.

cw ! Mentions of intimacy, mostly soft dom!sam, gn!reader implied, established relationship, size difference and size kink HEAVILY IMPLIED, just sweet, sweet sam

notes ! HELLOOOOO, I have a half written fic but I cooked this up by request of @immodestly-marina

wc ! 438

M.list

I just think whether they’re massages or even during intimacy: Sam Winchester does in fact love to use his hands.

We all know he’s big, he’s standing at a good 6’5 height, towering over practically anyone in a one mile radius. He’s aware of his size and while he’s careful, he knows how to use it to his advantage.

as his partner, you’re much smaller than him, obviously. Sometimes he’ll tease you for it, maybe crack a few jokes about how you can’t touch the doorframe or what not, but it’s all for fun. Sam does enjoy how small you are next to him and it’s safe to say he has a thing for it.

His hands always hold steady on your hips whenever he teaches you maybe bow-hunting or proper posture when using a firearm. He probably doesn’t realize how distracting it is with him pressed up so close behind you, fingers grazing your sides— so close you can feel the heat of his breath. Or maybe he does, it’s not like he’ll say anything. But he sure as hell will act a tad bit cocky about it.

During sex, whether you’re beneath him or on top of him, he would hold you close. Sam doesn’t go rough on you, when you guys are together, you make love - not pure, unadulterated lust. He kisses you like he loves you (and he does), puts every single bit of his soul into it. Every time, he does his best to make sure you know and can feel how he aches for you. How heavy his heart truly is.

Or if you’re releasing tension, he still keeps a firm grip on your hips. If not, sometimes bruising depending on how pent he really is. But he takes care of you, aftercare is the number one thing on his list mostly.

Massages aren’t that often due to the constant back-to-back hunts. As much as Sam loves receiving, he’s naturally a giver. If you’re researching or even just sitting down with him, he’ll do his best to destress. Lessen the tension on your shoulders and muscles.

Going back to the size difference, I firmly believe that during intimacy, he traces the outline of where he is. He’s big enough to cause at least a small bulge visible and he’s fascinated by the sight. Knowing that he’s so close to you, so connected. You’re practically merged together, reveling in each other's touch and comfort. It’s one of Sam’s favorite things, his hand is nearly the size next to half of your torso. How could he not be a teeny-tiny bit obsessed? Maybe not so small.

Taglist @laceyvelvetcake @mccartneyqp @ambiguous-avery @xoswiftieprincess @insensiblelimerence @samlou @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @wa1ks @bejeweledinterludes @samwinchesterisawhore @skutykocur @slowdancingalien @myceliumsunshine @zenoxl @hollyfranklin @sacr1ficialang3l @cherryresidence @deeranger @ohyouluckysaint @halsteadwichester

[insensiblelimerence]

also here’s dean moaning yw

[insensiblelimerence]

WET DREAMZ

pathetic sammy wet dream boo. surprise! warnings: doggy, praise from sam, size kink, finger stuff, idk fluff at the end. i love him. also tjis is straight up porn. this is a surprise for @sweeterthancandy i love you !!

༺☆༻

after a long day of smoke-thick motels, coffee that tasted like burnt air, and another grave dug somewhere off the highway, sam winchester didn’t know how he found himself here.

“you’re—fuck, being too loud, baby,” he murmured, voice soft against your ear. even with your face muffled in the pillow, the sounds you were making were way too loud for him to brush off as just him taking care of a hangover. if the people outside the motel paid enough attention, they would know exactly what was happening in here. “gotta… gotta keep it down a little.”

“m—m’trying,” you slurred into the pillow again, clamping your teeth into the fabric of the pillow, trying to bite back a soft cry at the sensation of him sitting idle inside you. he was stretching you out, due to his big size of 8 inches, and for a girl who was shorter than 6’4 and wasn’t 200 pounds of pure muscle? that was a lot to take.

sam’s hand came down to gently trace the arch of your back, pushing you further into the mattress for a better angle. “s’gotta be really... really hard for you,” he was blabbering now, still rocking into you. he was trying desperately not to let out any sounds of his own, which was very difficult when you were being so, good for him. “doing so... so good, baby.” he reminded.

slowly, his fingers that were curled around your hips tightened to an almost bruising grip, and he pushed himself—all eight inches inside. the sensation had you seeing stars, a loud gasp leaving your throat, eyes squeezing shut.

one of sam’s big hands quickly came to cover your mouth, desperate to keep you quiet now. his hips leaned back then thrusted forward, burying himself completely inside you as a soft, strained gasp left him. his fingers pressed against your lips, trying to contain the sounds that you tried to let out. “you... you’re gonna wake up the whole—fuck.” sam’s fingers pressed down more firmly, keeping you silent as he continued to move inside your tight heat.

“you gotta be... be so quiet,” he slurred, letting out a low groan at the feeling of you clenching around him. he started to speed up, just barely, still trying to keep you from being completely loud. you gasped as he sped up, biting his finger gently to keep yourself quiet—a sharp whine leaving him at the sensation.

“such a … fuck.. a good girl,” sam whispered, his fingers loosening a bit as your whimpers got higher. his hands moved to grab your ass, holding you to him as he began to thrust harder into you. his voice was becoming more strained. “takin’ it so well, yeah, that’s right, that’s—“

sam woke with a sharp hiss at the sound of your voice, startled out of an uneasy sleep that clung to him like sweat. his eyes fluttered open, unfocused and squinting against the dim motel light, and when he realized where he was—and that you were standing right there—he groaned softly and turned his face away, suddenly very invested in the peeling wallpaper beside the bed.

his fingers moved automatically to his chin, brushing over the tacky warmth that confirmed his embarrassment. a thin trail of drool. perfect.

“ugh, god,” he muttered, swiping it off quickly with the sleeve of his flannel. “i—I wasn’t even that tired.”

you raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “you were snoring.”

“was not,” he mumbled, still avoiding your eyes.

“you drooled, sam.”

“yeah, okay, i might’ve drooled,” he admitted, cheeks already starting to turn a light, bashful pink. “don’t act like it’s a crime.”

“it’s not,” you teased, fighting a grin. “it’s just gross. and weirdly… vulnerable of you.”

“glad to know my most humiliating moment brings you joy.”

he finally risked a glance at you, only to find you staring with that irritating mix of amusement and affection that made him want to both roll his eyes and hide under the covers.

“you were mumbling in your sleep, too,” you added. “sounded like a mix between an insane injury and a porno.”

sam groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “please stop talking.”

“what were you dreaming about?”

“you. shutting up,” he deadpanned.

you’d never know.

[insensiblelimerence]

gentle ⋆˚꩜｡

sam winchester x fem! reader

ꕤ summary: it’s your first time with sam. he’s nervous, you’re nervous, but you love each other so much it hurts. it’s slow, it’s soft, he’s hard (oops), and everything he does is full of love.

♯ warnings: mdni!! explicit content, lowkey sub! sam, honestly pretty realistic first time, me thinks, emotional intimacy, desperate praise, sam winchester fucking whimpers, body worship, extreme softboy behavior, p in v, sam’s big… yeah. just that.

♯ notes: idk what happened but i blacked out and suddenly sam winchester was soft and hard at the same time. this is very much written with stanford sam in mind. (sorry jess!! love you!! and so do ceilings!! ˚ˋঌ˖)

It was quiet in the bedroom, the kind of quiet that wrapped around you like a blanket. The only light came from the little lamp on the dresser, casting soft amber glows against the walls, and Sam’s shadow moved across it as he came back from the bathroom, freshly showered, wearing a worn gray t-shirt and sweatpants that hung just a little low on his hips.

He looked at you with that warm, boyish smile, the one that always made your chest ache. The kind that said I love you, even when he hadn’t said it out loud yet that day.

“You comfy?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed beside you, brushing his fingers lightly over your ankle.

You nodded, stretching a little under the blanket. “I am now.”

He chuckled softly, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Good.”

You watched him for a moment. The way his hair curled slightly behind his ears. The curve of his lips. His hands— big, careful, resting gently on your leg like he didn’t want to startle you. You’d been together for a while now, but something about tonight felt different. Softer. Slower. Like everything had paused just so you could feel it more.

You reached for him, and he came willingly, laying down beside you, head resting on his arm, his body warm against yours. He smelled like cedarwood and fresh air, like comfort and safety and everything good.

“I missed you today,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the edge of his jaw.

“I missed you too,” he said, turning his face slightly to kiss your palm. “All day. Kept thinkin’ about you.”

Your heart fluttered.

He looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. Like he could see straight through you and still wanted to hold every piece.

His hand found your waist, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt, but not moving further. Just resting there. His thumb stroked over the fabric, slow and soft.

“Can I hold you like this for a while?” he asked gently.

You nodded, cheeks warm.

He pulled you in, wrapping his arms around you completely, your face tucked under his chin, your legs tangled together. His hands moved slow— one at your lower back, the other cradling the back of your head like you were something fragile. He didn’t try anything else. He just held you.

“I love the way you feel in my arms,” he whispered after a moment, lips brushing your hair. “Like I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”

You sighed into his chest, your body melting into his. It wasn’t about heat or urgency. It was about being seen. About being wanted in the gentlest way.

He tilted your chin up, just a little, and kissed you— slow and sweet. Not deep, not rushed. Just enough to make your lips part and your breath catch.

His breath hitched the second your hips shifted under him, your thighs parting a little wider as he nestled between them. He was already hard, and god, you could feel it, the thick press of him against your core, even through the thin layer of fabric still between you.

“Sorry,” Sam whispered, his voice wrecked with need, his forehead pressing into your shoulder. “I didn’t mean to… it’s just…”

You reached up and cupped his cheek, heart thudding in your chest, “I want you to,” you said softly. “I want all of you.”

He shivered like the words physically hit him. His eyes fluttered shut, his hand brushing your cheek like he needed to ground himself.

“I’ve never wanted anything more,” he whispered. “But I just… I need to go slow. You’re so important to me.”

You nodded, lifting your hips toward him in a silent invitation, and that’s when he let out the softest, neediest little moan you’d ever heard from him, like he was trying so hard to hold back but couldn’t help the way his body was reacting.

He pulled back just enough to slide off his boxers, and when you looked down and saw him, your breath caught. Thick. Heavy. Hard in a way that made your thighs tremble just from imagining how it’d feel.

Sam blushed, actually blushed, cheeks pink, eyes darting away for a second like he was embarrassed.

“I-it’s okay if it’s too much,” he said gently, rubbing your side. “I’ll stop if you want. I just—” his breath caught again, “I wanna make love to you. Not just rush through it.”

Your hands slid down his stomach, slow, and wrapped around the base of him, and he groaned, hips jerking forward just slightly.

“You’re perfect,” you whispered. “Please, Sam… just go slow like you said.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, body pressing down against yours, as you quickly disregarded your shorts and panties. You could feel the head of him slipping through your folds, dragging through the slickness that had built between your thighs, and he gasped against your lips.

“You’re so warm,” he breathed. “So wet for me… I can’t believe I get to do this with you.”

When he finally pushed in, slowly, carefully, you felt the stretch immediately. He was thick, filling you inch by inch, and he kept stopping to make sure you were okay, brushing your hair back, whispering little praises.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Just a little more, almost there…”

He was trembling above you by the time he was all the way in, buried deep and still, his arms locked on either side of your head.

“Y-you feel so good,” he said, voice shaking. “I’ve never… it’s never felt like this.”

You clung to him, your body trying to adjust, and when he finally started to move, just barely rocking his hips, shallow little thrusts, it already felt like too much.

So slow. So deep. So full.

You gasped, eyes fluttering shut, and Sam kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your mouth. “Is that okay?” he asked between kisses, his voice rough but still so gentle. “I’m not hurting you, right?”

You shook your head, breathless. “No—feels so good, Sam.”

He let out this soft, desperate sound, hips rolling harder, deeper, grinding into you just enough to make your back arch and your fingers clutch at his shoulders.

“I’m sorry—I’m trying to go slow,” he mumbled against your skin, “but you’re just so tight… and warm… and I’m already so close, baby…”

His words made you clench around him, and he felt it, his whole body jolting, breath stuttering.

“Oh—just like that,” he gasped. “D-don’t move too much—I won’t last…”

His rhythm stuttered, hips grinding in deep, his forehead pressed to yours as he whimpered your name.

“I’m gonna—oh God—I’m gonna come already,” he whispered, voice broken. “You’re too perfect. You’re everything…”

And when he finally let go, it was messy. His whole body trembled, cock pulsing deep inside you as he filled you completely, his mouth never leaving yours. He moaned your name, soft and needy, like he was falling apart right there in your arms.

Afterward, he stayed buried inside you, breathing hard, fingers still brushing your cheek.

“I didn’t mean to finish that fast,” he mumbled, blushing. “You just… you felt like heaven.”

You smiled, pulling him closer. “It was perfect.”

And fuck, it couldn’t have been more perfect.

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @impala67rollingthroughtown @multiversefanfics @starzify @ladykitana90 @idontwannabehere78 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @pieandflannel @tendertulip @tinas111 @everythingisaspectrum @pennywatsonlafayette @lunaleah @anxiety-prime-max @amsliajskxkxkx @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @kimxwinchester @incubusimmolation @riteofpassage77 @ohangeleyes @kcundercover4 @southernimpala ⊹ ࣪ ˖

۶ৎ wanna be tagged too?.. don't be shy! @ taglist.

tysm for reading! read more of my works @ masterlist.

[insensiblelimerence]

ICEBREAKER three

pairing: stanford!hockey player!sam winchester x figure skater!female!reader

content: language, slightly ooc sam, so freaking sweet it makes me want to cry, smut (semi-public making out, sammy gets hard in a bookstore, grinding, dirty talk, fingering, finger sucking, protected piv sex)

word count: 7.8k

note: okay, i went a little crazy with this, but there was no way to break it all up. hope you love it <33

Sam couldn’t believe this. He had his dream girl standing in his favorite store holding a battered-but-beautiful edition of his favorite book. All of this after he had just discovered his new favorite cafe, a title given simply because it was her favorite.

Thank God Dean wasn’t here to bear witness to how down bad he was. Sam would never hear the end of it.

“Have you read this?” Your voice broke him from his thoughts, which was for the best because why the fuck was he thinking about Dean when he had you looking up at him like that?

“Hmm?” He hummed, looking down at the book in your hands. He already knew what it was – a third-edition hardcover copy of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit –, but he had to play it cool, act like he hadn’t noticed every book you’d even just brushed a finger over.

You held the book up for him, flipping it around in your hands so the cover was facing him. He smiled at the way your fingers curled around the edges, holding it delicately as if it was a glass vase.

“Oh, yeah, I’ve read it, once or twice.” Sam answered, casually. He thought for a moment, then decided he had to give you more. Why was he so nervous about your opinion of him? “Actually, that’s my favorite book. I can’t remember how many times I’ve read it.”

You raised an eyebrow, turning the cover back around so you could look at it again. You traced a finger over the illustrated mountains.

“I liked the movies.” You mumbled, looking up at him with those gorgeous eyes. “But my brain doesn’t like high fantasy. Too hard to read.”

“You once read Crime and Punishment.” Sam replied deadpan. He knew you were a smart girl, probably the smartest he knew – though he was a bit biased in his thinking.

“I can read just fine, Sam,” he didn’t think there was a lovelier sound than you saying his name, “it’s all the… elves and weird terminology. It pulls me out of it. I just want to close my eyes and imagine the world the entire time.” You shook your head dismissively, placing the book back into its display stand.

Sam breathed out a laugh. He was standing behind you, giving him the perfect opportunity to bend down to your level. His chin hovered over your shoulder.

“Maybe you just need someone to read it to you. Let you close your eyes and imagine the world.” He spoke straight into your ear. Something bloomed in him – lust? love? – when he caught the shiver that ran through you. His heart swelled when you turned your head to lock eyes with him.

“Are you offering?” You had that sexy smirk on your face again, the one that made Sam want to lean in and kiss you until your lips were indented into his forever.

“Maybe.” Playful innocence dripped from his tone. He watched your eyes flick down to his lips. Good, he thought. Let you make the first move, make sure this was something you actually wanted.

“Is this before or after the extraordinary sex I was promised?”

Fuck, Sam was in trouble. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hide his physical attraction toward you.

“I never said ‘extraordinary.’” Sam mumbled, leaning closer. Your noses bumped, lips brushing when either of you spoke.

“I may have embellished it a bit.” You whispered, eyes still locked on his. “You’ll just have to help me figure out if I was correct or not.”

Sam’s eyes slowly closed, squeezing shut as he tried to keep himself from taking you right up against the bookcases. When he opened them again, he caught the amusement on your face, corners of your eyes crinkling while you held back silent laughter.

“I’ll do more than help you.” Sam leaned in, connecting your lips. He melted into you when he felt you kiss back. He brought his hands up to your cheeks, cradling your face while he smoothly brought himself to stand in front of you.

You licked across his lip, silently asking for entrance into his mouth. He allowed it because he’d be crazy not to. Your tongue pressed against his, wet and sliding into his mouth. He loved it, maybe loved you, but it was too early to say.

He shuffled closer to you, letting your bodies press into each other. You clutched at his hoodie, holding him close like you were afraid he would run away. Sam groaned at the mental image of you doing that in the mornings, waking next to him with his shirt bunched in your hands.

Hesitantly, he pulled away, then, because he really couldn’t help himself, placed a few pecks on your lips before fully standing up straight.

“We-,” he took in a breath, trying to level out his heart rate. “We should-,” he groaned at the sight of your swollen lips and smiling eyes, “God, we need to go, now.” He finally growled out, grabbing at your hips.

“You don’t want to look at more books?” You asked with faux innocence, and he really would have found a way to hide his semi if he thought you were serious. He could see the hunger burning in your eyes, ready to pounce on him at any given point.

“I have books at my place you can look at all night long, if that’s what turns you on.” He panted out, squeezing your sides. You grinned at him. “But I really, really don’t want that old lady at the desk to overhear any noises you might make if we stay.”

“Noises I make? What about the ones you’ll be making?” You were really pushing his buttons now. He was sure he would absolutely lose it if you weren’t out of that store and into his bed in the next ten minutes. He threw his head back with a groan, gently walking backwards while tugging you toward the door.

“Come on, pretty girl, are you torturing me on purpose?” He kept his voice hushed, eyeing the rows of shelves for any occupants who may be offended by his desperation.

“Yeah, I am, actually.” You had no reason to talk low, confidence seeping out of your words. He mentally thanked you for your steps that matched his, making it much easier for him to drag you out.

“You enjoy this, huh? Making out with me in front of Carroll and Shelley then acting like it’s just another day?” Sam was going to burst with attraction at the wide grin that spread over your face. He watched you glance down, taking note of the way his jeans were just the slightest bit tighter around his crotch.

“You seem to enjoy it.” You teased, pulling your bottom lip in between your teeth. He hoped that within the next few moments, that lips would be in between his teeth instead. He rolled his eyes playfully, quickly spinning you two around so you were in front. He placed his hands on your shoulders, practically gluing himself to your backside.

“That’s why we have to go.” He urged quietly into your ear. He could feel your ass rubbing against him through his jeans, making him almost regret walking so close with you. He couldn’t make eye contact with the register attendant, not when she bore a resemblance far too close to his own grandmother.

“Have a good day!” You beamed at the woman. Sam didn’t know how you did it, not when he was growing harder against you by the second. He mumbled something that resembled your words, his fingers gently gripping onto you.

Sam guided you to the left, eyes trained on his apartment building. He saw the path in his mind – door, stairs, door, door, bed –, but before he could point out the direction he wanted you to head in, he was slammed against the side of a building.

His face contorted into confusion. One look at your face – at your blown pupils and flushed cheeks – had that confusion morphing into smug understanding. He took in a breath, meaning to speak, boast about you being the horny one. His words were snuffed out before they had a chance to get out, your lips locking onto his.

His curious thoughts as to how you were able to push his six-foot-four frame into this alleyway in the first place were replaced with a hurricane of you. He put those panic attack prevention techniques Dean had taught him to good use now, finding anxiety and love – or was it only lust? – to have similar effects on his heart.

Five things he could feel: your lips notching into his, your hands tugging his neck down, your hair tangling in his fingers, your thighs squeezing around his knee (he’d skillfully nudged it in between your legs just moments before), and your tongue pressing into his.

Were they all supposed to be about the same person?

Fine.

Five things he could hear: your his heartbeat thundering in his chest, your breaths heaving into his mouth, your little whimpers as he–

Fuck, he was in trouble. He could feel it, just as he had felt it freshman year in that damn psychology class when he first made eye contact with you.

You were going to create a whole lot of chaos in his life. One way or the other, his heart was yours, his entire being was yours.

What the hell? He didn’t do this. He didn’t act like such a fucking sap, no matter what Dean tried to give him shit for. It wasn’t as if he was against relationships. If he had it his way, he’d have been taken off the market in that first moment he’d seen you.

Instead, he gave hook ups a try. He’d left that to Dean in high school, letting his education take center stage even when he barely had to study for anything.

He didn’t fuck mindlessly. He gave those girls a good time, helping them come as many times as they pleased, and he always gave aftercare. No question about it, Sam was a giver more than he was a taker.

It was just… he didn’t really care about them.

Okay, shit, that sounded bad. He cared, but he didn’t… love them. Love. There it was again. He felt like a child for thinking that way, saying he loved you when he’d only just formally met you.

It was true, of course, because why would anything in his life be ‘normal.’ He loved you. He just wasn’t going to tell you that, not right now while making out next to a dusty-ass Honda.

“Stop.” Sam mumbled, immediately cursing himself for even uttering a mention of that word. He didn’t want to stop. In fact, it was the last thing he wanted to do.

You pulled away, lips peeling from his like they had a mind of their own and didn’t want to let go either. You settled down from your tiptoes, feet flat on the ground and pout set on your face.

“You want to stop?” Your voice purred out to him, tempting him like a siren song to a lonely sailor. He cursed under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut like it was all a dream.

He opened his eyes again and, guess what? Not a dream. There you were, standing beautiful as ever with those swollen lips and messy hair.

“No, God, of course I don’t want to stop.” Sam’s voice was hushed. He didn’t know why he felt the need to be so gentle with you. It wasn’t because you couldn’t handle tough. There was no doubt in his mind that you could fight a battle on your own and come out victorious. Maybe he just didn’t want to be the thing to hurt you.

He brought his thumb up to swipe across your bottom lip, smearing the shine of spit that lingered there. He tugged it down, letting your teeth peek through while you looked up at him, waiting for more.

“I saw this going a bit differently…,” he mumbled, gaze still trained on your lip as he pulled his hand away from your face.

“Less kissing?” You asked with a grin that told him you knew it wasn’t that.

“No,” he let out a soft chuckle, “more kissing, actually. Just… laying down, in my bed.” He thought for a moment. “Less clothes,” he added with a teasing smile.

He watched the words register in your mind, watched your hands curl into fists as if you were trying to control yourself just as much as he was. Your throat moved slightly when you swallowed, drawing his attention to your neck.

Your neck, which was already pretty enough on its own but – in Sam’s personal opinion – would look so much better with a few nibbles bruised into it.

“We can remedy that. The ‘less clothes’ thing.” Your eyes narrowed and he knew you were simply digging a deeper grave for his ability to have casual sex. “And all the rest of that. Maybe add some of how I thought tonight would go.”

“How you thought it would go?” He questioned with a raised brow.

He shouldn’t have asked that because the smirk it elicited had him holding back a groan of desperation.

“You know,” you shrugged, running your tongue across your teeth, “your head in between my thighs, getting that pretty face a little wet.”

Oh. My. God.

Sam was about to fucking bust and you’d barely touched him.

“You think I’m pretty?” He asked, avoiding replying to the other stuff because it would only end up with a public indecency charge. You scoffed, reaching out to clutch his hoodie.

“That’s what you got out of that?” Sam heard the annoyance, but he knew how to read through it. You were throwing it in there on purpose, using that attitude that would be the absolute death of him. He bent down, face level with yours now.

“I got a lot more out of it, trust me. Sounds like we need to pick things up and take them across the street.” He leaned his head forward to speak in your ear. “I’m hoping to get my face more than ‘a little’ wet.”

He smirked at the visible shiver that ran through you. He pulled back, kissed you one last time – because how could he not? –, and stood up straight, pulling you into his chest with one arm.

He swore you were about to sprint to the apartment building, but maybe that was just his ego talking.

—

You were actually about to sprint into this guy’s place. You held yourself back, somehow, forcing your legs to move at a quick but normal pace. Sam’s arm around your shoulders wasn’t helping your self-control and you had a feeling he knew that.

You didn’t know what was going on. This wasn’t you. Sure, you had said ‘no hook ups during competition season’, but it was more of ‘no hook ups ever.’ You’d had your casual flings and occasional one-night stands, of course.

They hadn’t felt like this. They weren’t horrible, you’d gotten off and left whoever’s bed satisfied. It was different with Sam.

Wild. Hungry. Desperate. Gasoline to fire.

You felt like he wanted you for you, not just another warm body in his bed. You tried to tell yourself it was stupid to be feeling this way. It didn’t work. Not when he was groaning your name and smashing his lips to yours the moment the door closed behind him.

You melted against him, letting your entire body fall into his. He caught you, because of course he did. It only added to your heart’s reach for him.

You felt his arms flex around you, holding you tight to his body. A whimper – oh, you were gone – vibrated from your throat, encouraging Sam to lift you. His hands slid down to the backs of your thighs, pulling them up to help you wrap your legs around his waist.

You arched into him, practically climbing his body now. He still had to bend his neck to kiss you, but now his face was angled up with you tugging on his hair to keep him like that. He grunted and you felt his fingers digging into your thighs.

You heard a few thuds, presumably things falling to the ground as Sam walked to his bedroom. Honestly, you couldn’t care less about whatever destruction was left in your wake. You wanted Sam, and you wanted him now.

Bump.

That was the back of your head against a bedroom – Sam’s bedroom – door. You cringed, ducking your head forward.

“Jesus Christ…” Sam mumbled, immediately cradling your head with one of his hands. His fingers weaved into your hair. You were about to pull back to ask him if he was always this clumsy when you felt him kiss your head. Repeatedly.

“What are you doing?” You giggled out, trying to twist away from the constant peppering of kisses into your hair. It only encouraged him to continue.

Eventually, you cupped his face in your hands, smushing his cheeks together and pushing his head back gently. You raised a brow at him, panting, half from the previous making out, half from your overabundance of laughter at Sam’s actions.

“I was ‘kissing it better,’” he explained, a goofy grin on his face. His words were muffled a bit due to your hold still on his face.

“You know that doesn’t actually work, right?”

“Does your head hurt?” He asked, adjusting his grip on your thighs. When you shook your head, his smile widened. “See?”

“It wasn’t from the kisses.” You argued. You couldn’t even pretend to be annoyed. It was too… sweet, too innocent of a gesture from him. It made your heart swell when he raised a brow and nodded confidently.

“It was totally from the kisses.” He told you. He didn’t give you a chance to argue back. His lips were back on yours, the door behind you finally opening to allow you passage inside.

Sam stepped into the room and slammed the door shut behind him. Apparently he hadn’t meant to do that because a second later he mumbled an ‘oops’ against your lips. You smiled into the kiss, dipping your hands under the neckline of his shirt to touch his bare skin.

Suddenly, your world was tilting, and not just in the metaphorical sense. He lowered you to the bed, slow, your hair falling back to hang behind you like you were falling. His lips were fervent on you, sucking on your bottom lip in a way that made you whimper for more.

Sam hovered over you, hand sliding from under your thigh to your ass. He squeezed softly, pulling a moan from the back of your throat, something you didn’t know was a thing. When was the last time you moaned from a simple squeeze?

You hadn’t noticed the shift of his lips, his kissing moving from the center of your lips to the corner, then your cheek, then your jaw, ultimately landing on that little spot on your neck that was the most sensitive. You whined low and long at the nip he gave it, somehow knowing that was the perfect place to do it.

“So sensitive,” he teased, words mumbled against your skin.

“I am not-,” you started to argue back when he nibbled at the spot again, proving his point to be accurate. You lifted your hips up, needing to meet his in an attempt to get some friction where you really needed it. His hand flew to your side, holding you down.

“Is this what you want?” Sam asked, eyes serious. You narrowed your eyes at him, lips curling in confusion. “Is this, the hooking up, the sex, actually what you want?” He clarified, thinking you were unclear about what he meant.

“What gave you the impression it wasn’t what I wanted?” You thought back on your reactions thus far. Moans, whimpers, and grinding? Were those not clear indicators that you wanted to fuck this man?

“You just-,” you watched him shake his head, “you said, before…,” he noticed the amused expression on your face as you took in his blustering. “Pretty girl,” he said, no stutter heard this time, “do you want to have sex with me, tonight, in this bed?”

You cracked a wide grin.

“Mmm, so the university did give you guys that consent talk last week.” You teased, remembering how irritated the hockey coach had looked coming out of a conference room, a crowd of boisterous hockey players behind him with handfuls of condoms. Sam groaned, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder.

You decided to put him out of his misery since, well, you were kind of getting desperate to take your clothes off, too.

“Yes, Sam Winchester, I want to have sex with you, tonight, in this bed.” You declared. Upon hearing this, he lifted his head, looking at you like a golden retriever that had just been offered a treat.

“Thank God,” he murmured with a grin, jumping straight into peppering kisses all over your face, much like that same golden retriever would have. You laughed, loud and unrestrained, shaking your head back and forth in an attempt to get him to let up on you, if only to let you breathe.

“Sam!” You squealed, hands clutching at his chest. He laughed with you, kissing lower until he was at your collarbone. His attack on you turned slower and sloppier, his tongue flattening against your skin with every kiss.

It was safe to say you weren’t laughing anymore.

Panting breaths left your lips, growing sharper as he touched you. Your eyes fluttered shut, making you focus solely on how good his mouth felt on you.

“Sam…,” you said again, this time slow and needy. You moaned as he moved lower, lips and tongue and teeth running over the tops of your breasts. You’d worn that v-neck shirt for a reason and it was paying off immensely now.

Sam’s hands held loose on your hips, not to hold you back from moving, more like he needed to just have you in his grasp. You found yourself needing the same thing, needing more than just touching him. You wanted to stay here forever, with his attention on you and only you, worshipping your body like a proper disciple.

You spread your legs wider to allow his shoulders through them, his head now hovering above your stomach. You looked down at him, eyes locking with his. He curled his fingers around the hem of your shirt and you prepared to help him rid you of the garment. Instead of pulling it up your body, he grinned mischievously and tucked his head under the fabric.

Your jaw dropped as he moved, part of you shocked that he was now trying to force his wide torso into your shirt, the other part forgetting what the hell was going on because he was licking up your abdomen. He wiggled up your body, peeking at you from under the neckline.

“You’re stretching it out!” You protested when you heard a pop. Sam smiled at you goofily, locking eyes as he kissed your sternum. You narrowed your eyes. “I’m never going to be able to wear this shirt again.” You grumbled.

“Take one of mine.” He mumbled, eyes closing as he kissed sloppily at the skin just above the cup of your bra.

“What?” You scoffed, using every bit of willpower you had to not whimper at the graze of his teeth. Take one of mine, he had said. If you were up for thinking of more than what position you wanted to put Sam in, you would have come up with a witty comeback instead of feigning confusion.

“One of my shirts. Take it, as a replacement.” His hazel eyes popped open again, a smirk growing on his face. “Or all of them, if you want. You’ll have your pick of them.”

“What about this one?” You questioned, tugging at the sleeve of his hoodie. He raised an eyebrow, the look in his eye telling you he knew exactly what you were playing at. He slithered out from under your shirt, sitting on his knees between your legs. He looked down at you as you instinctively checked yourself.

Sure enough, the fucking shirt was stretched out in the most unflattering way.

“Told you…,” you mumbled, glaring at him with only the slightest bit of irritation, which quickly dissipated to nothing when he started to pull his hoodie off, taking with it the t-shirt that had been underneath.

What you were left with was his bare upper body practically taunting you. Pecs, abs, and the most bite-worthy biceps you’d ever laid your eyes on. You met Sam’s eyes again, an open-mouthed smile taking over your face.

He dropped the hoodie-shirt bundle off the side of the bed just in time for you to pull him down onto you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, hands pawing at his shoulders, your lips smashing onto his in a sloppy mix of tongue and teeth.

“Mmm…,” you hummed appreciatively when he squeezed softly at your breast. Even with the cushion of your shirt and bra, you could feel his hand almost on your skin, making you want – no, need – more.

“Take it off,” you panted into his mouth. “Take it off, my shirt, take it off, now.” You were demanding and desperate, not able to find it in yourself to mask how you felt in that moment. To his credit, Sam listened well.

He dragged that useless garment over your head. His hands immediately went to your sides, fingers grazing over your ribs hungrily. You grinned up at him, pulling him back down, because what the fuck was he doing not kissing you?

Your tongues met before your lips did, twisting around each other in such a way that made you both groan. You arched your body up into him and he took the opportunity to slip his hands under you. You felt his calloused touch roaming against your spine, scraping on your skin in a heavenly fashion.

“You… feel so… good.” Sam groaned out that last word, tugging you closer to him. You let out a shuddering breath, not able to stop the whimper that followed it.

Fuck it, you thought. Let him see how badly he made you ache for more. It wasn’t as if it was one sided, that much was clear.

Sam knocked your legs apart, pressing his body into yours. He cupped a hand under your knee, bringing your leg up to hook around his body. You felt him through his jeans, straining in the denim and rubbing against your core just right. He was kissing you so intensely, with so much raw starvation, that his entire body rolled with the movements of his head, creating a steady nudge, nudge, nudge onto your clit.

Damn, he was right, you really were sensitive. That friction was creating a stew of whimpers in your throat, non-stop noise humming from you while you sucked on his tongue. Whimpers that quickly turned to gasping moans when his hand slithered into your pants, under those lacy panties you’d picked out specially for him and right onto your dripping heat, cupping over it to make you feel.

And, oh God, did you feel. You felt it all, every ridge of his fingers against your folds, the flex of his knuckles when he put on the slightest bit of pressure. You rocked into his hand, chasing more, more, more-

“More.” You moaned. Sam’s open-mouthed kisses on your cheek shifted up into another one of those grins that would have you smiling back if his thumb hadn’t started circling your clit. You sucked in a sharp breath.

“Oh, that’s good,” you nodded, still trying to play it casual, even with his fingers dipping in and out of your slick folds. “That’s,” you swallowed, “that’s so good!” On that last word, Sam had pressed his thumb flat on your clit, making you squeal in pleasure.

You felt his mouth go to your ear, breath hot against the side of your head.

“Let it go.” He whispered, not elaborating on what he meant. He didn’t have to. You knew what he meant, knew that he was aware of the fact that you were trying your hardest to fully control the situation.

Unfortunately for him, you were stubborn. You swallowed down another moan, tensing your jaw. You felt him toying with your entrance, dipping the tip of his index finger in and out. You bit your lip, hard, as you fought back a whine.

Sam noticed your struggle, feeling your muscles tense up under him from the struggle to not give in, not yet. You didn’t know why you felt the need to drag it out so far, to lie to both him and yourself about the effect he had on you. His response to your persistence was to slobber a kiss onto your quivering chin.

“Give it up already, pretty girl.” He mumbled, locking eyes with you. You narrowed yours at him, looking down at him through your lashes. You had a new dose of motivation to never give it up, making it your personal mission to keep full, total control of how you reacted to each and every one of his touches.

A personal mission that immediately failed the moment he plunged a finger into you.

You choked on your breath, your eyes falling shut. An embarrassingly animalistic sound vibrated in your chest.

“Mhm, there you go.” Sam chuckled when your thighs squeezed around his hand. He worked his finger slowly out, then right back in again.

“Feels so good…,” you whimpered, gasping like you couldn’t quite get enough air. You opened your eyes to find him smirking at you, a cocky sense of pride in his expression. Your gaze flitted down to his arm, where you watched his tendons flex under his skin while he moved his finger – oh, fingers, plural, he’d added another – inside of you.

“I know.” He nodded, lowering his mouth back onto yours. You groaned into him, rolling your hips down and down and-

Right there. Fuck, that was it, a mix of your clit getting swirled by his thumb and his fingers curling up inside you to hit the perfect spot, making for quite the perfect amount of pleasure to build up. You cried out a moan, sucking in breaths in between his sloppy kisses.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Sam murmured into your mouth, “I don’t know if I’ll fit.”

Even in your haze of pleasure, you couldn’t keep from replying to his cocky pride.

“Shut up and make me come.” You growled, grinding against his hand. He smirked, pressing down harder on your clit. You arched your back up with a sharp whine, clutching at his arm to hold onto something, anything to ground yourself to the moment. You were floating, not physically, but in every other way you possibly could.

“Come on, pretty girl, let me see that gorgeous face when you come.” He encouraged, voice deep and husky. “I want to see it again.” He shifted, pulling you in closer, eyes peering at you through lashes.

You couldn’t help but just… give in.

Your orgasm came to you with a flash of Heaven. Seriously, you swore you could hear angels singing to you. A soft, groaning noise fell from your lips, cut off by Sam kissing you with so much hunger you thought he would devour you.

He worked you through it, pumping his fingers with a sloppy rhythm that had you whimpering long after your release passed through. Once you had settled, body completely at ease, he pulled his digits from you, slipping them back out into the open air.

You saw the shine of yourself on them, the milky, slightly sticky liquid coating them. You dragged your eyes back to his face, catching the way his gaze was fixed on his own fingers. Your mouth parted as he guided them to his lips, taking them into his mouth with a guttural moan that had your need for more returning to your gut.

Wrapping your hand around his wrist, you tore his fingers from his mouth, replacing them with your lips. Your tongue pressed into his mouth, swiping through the spit that had accumulated within. There. You tasted yourself – your cum – mixing with what you knew was him.

A high moan reverberated through you. You clutched at his torso, pawing at whatever you could grab onto. You just needed him. There was something inside you, something deep and raw, that only he could satisfy.

You ripped away from him, panting. Your body trembled with the overwhelming urge to completely rip the rest of his clothes away.

“I knew you’d taste good.” Sam mumbled, fingers digging into your sides. You playfully rolled your eyes, absentmindedly running a finger down his abdomen.

“You know how to use your fingers well.” You pointed out with a shrug, eyes falling to his bare chest. With Sam’s rough chuckle, you looked back up to see a grin on his face.

“Are we just going to compliment each other all night?” He questioned. In response, you huffed out a sarcastic laugh.

“If you were to keep running your mouth, I wouldn’t be surprised.” You rolled your hips down, hard but measured. “Me? I think I’d rather talk less, touch more.” You watched Sam’s jaw flex, presumably with the effort to not completely moan like you knew he wanted to.

“I like your plan better,” was the last thing said before a flurry of grabbing and clothes flying ensued.

You swore all you’d done was blink and suddenly you both were naked, sitting on your knees across from each other on his bed. His eyes scraped over your bare skin, spending the most time focused on your now-bare breasts and what little he could see of your throbbing core.

Your attention? It was trained solely on his length. The tip was leaking with the ache to get inside of you, flared red and staring you straight in the eye. That wasn’t even the most mouthwatering part. It may not have been the thickest you’d ever seen, but for what he lacked in width he made up for in length. You weren’t the best with measuring things by eye alone, though you figured a ruler wouldn’t be too much longer than it.

Fuck, maybe he really wouldn’t fit in you.

It seemed Sam was reading your thoughts, because only moments after the words popped into your head, his smug reply made you glare up at him.

“Told ya, pretty girl.”

“You’re not that big.” Lie. You both knew it.

“Big enough for you to drool over.” He smirked at you, the tip of his tongue peeking through his teeth.

“I am not drooling.” You protested. It wasn’t a total lie this time. You really weren’t drooling, and the sudden overproduction of spit in your mouth had nothing to do with this god of a man in front of you. That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

“Mmm, totally drooling.” Sam mumbled. Your response was cut off by his large hands on your face, smashing his lips to yours. Tongues and teeth gnashed together, moans and whimpers mixing to echo off of the drywall of the room. You hoped these walls were thick. That thought, and every other, dripped away from your mind the moment Sam hoisted you onto his lap, his thick erection pressing against your dripping folds.

“Want… oh my God-,” you had to catch your breath when a slight shift in his position had your clit getting rubbed ever so nicely. “Do you want me to ride you, cowboy?” You’d added that last part in a purr after remembering the drawl of “darlin’” during your first meeting.

Sam’s grin tilted a bit, mouth parting as he looked at you as if you’d said something outrageous.

“What?” You were on the defensive, narrowing your eyes. You let out a shaky breath when he rocked his hips up, a deliberate motion, you realized a second later when his grin grew cockier.

“Cowboy?” He almost scoffed out, chuckling when you frowned at him. This time you rocked, making his eyes flutter softly. The break in his smug demeanor only egged you on.

“You-,” you swallowed down a whimper when Sam surreptitiously pressed your body down into his, earning him a glare that really would have been more annoyed if your skin wasn’t buzzing from the pleasure. “You have a slight accent.” You rushed the words out before they could be broken by a moan.

“I’m from Kansas.” He explained, giving you a boyish grin you were sure had wooed all the moms at school pickup. You let out a soft laugh at the image of a young-Sam – Sammy – getting out of trouble with a simple smile.

“Kansas?” You asked, tilting your head slightly. “Like Dorothy?” You hoped he’d get the reference, hoped the little joke wouldn’t fall flat.

“You’re so weird.” Sam chuckled out, swooping down to kiss you again. You, in response to his playful insult, ducked away, causing his kiss to land on the corner of your lips.

“You’re the one who barked at me!” You argued, looking at him like he was crazy. That moment, the playful banter that had happened only moments after he’d made you come for the first time, had been running through your mind on a loop, bringing a warm smile to your face even during practices. Practices, you know, the time you were usually the most disciplined and focused. God help you from this charming distraction.

“You called me a dog. How else was I supposed to respond, pretty girl?” Sam’s tone held a note of condescension that you couldn’t help but grin at. You shifted, moving your hips as a result, reminding you – in a particularly sinful way – what had been happening before this little spat.

“Are we going to argue about who’s weirder all night, or are you going to fuck me?” You raised a brow, challenge clear in your eyes. You watched a spark of playful determination cross Sam’s gaze. You felt two things: one, his fingers digging into the plush of your thighs, and two, his dick pressing against your folds, aching for more friction.

“I’m going with the latter.” Sam growled, smashing his lips to yours to cut off your giggle, quickly morphing your response into a moan. You panted into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut when he skillfully rocked your body down.

“Condom.” You breathed out, pushing on his shoulders to break the kiss. He grinned, leaning back and twisting to reach for his nightstand, causing those damn hips to lift up into yours. You bit back a whimper, refusing to entirely show Sam how desperate you were for another release.

He sat back up, a gold-foiled package in between two fingers – the same two fingers that had been inside of you earlier. You snatched it up, eager to get this thing going so you could finally feel that mind-numbing pleasure again.

“Just can’t wait to get me inside you, huh?” You weren’t looking at Sam, but you knew he was grinning from his tone alone.

“Shut up.” You grumbled, tearing open the packaging. The small groan that came from Sam when you slowly rolled the condom onto him made a smirk cross your face, giving you a sense of pride that you weren’t the only one who was going to be vocal tonight.

You looked up at him. His pupils were blown wide, crazy with a hunger only you could satisfy. You figured you looked similarly, if not more, needy, if the growing buzz in your body to just get his damn cock inside you was enough of an indicator.

Positioning him at your entrance was much more difficult than you had expected it to be. You would have gotten it, first try, if it wasn’t for the slip of his tip against your already sensitive clit, pulling a body-buckling moan from you. You let your pride step aside for a moment and allowed Sam to help guide himself to the correct spot, his large hand overtaking yours in the process. You tried – and failed – to not shiver at the size difference.

“I know you’re eager to feel me in there, but take it slow, okay?” Sam told you, raising a brow while he waited for your answer. You had half a mind to push away from him for talking to you with so much condescension. Unfortunately – or, rather, fortunately for your sex drive – the almost mocking tone of his voice sent a bloom of heat straight for your core.

You would hyper analyze that later. Right now, you were more focused on the first inch of his length sliding into you. Thanks to your previous orgasm mixed with the spasms of pleasure Sam’s words and body brought on, it was a reasonably smooth entrance.

“O-hhh…,” you let out with a shaky breath, eyes fluttering, but not closing, at the stretch. Sam’s fingers dug into your hips, helping you sink down.

“That’s it,” he mumbled, eyes glued to his quickly disappearing dick,“taking it so well.”

Once you were completely down, seated directly onto his hips, you just looked into his eyes, admiring the hazel hue of them. You kissed him soft and slow. It wasn’t hungry like the other kisses, though this would have been the time to do it. Those had sparked a flame of desire in you, making your body tingle. This one sparked something else. Maybe desire, but not in the same way.

Another thing to hyper analyze later.

You sucked in a breath after pulling away, hands still resting on his shoulders as you began to slide up and down. An occasional roll of your hips pulled groans from Sam, groans that, in turn, made you whimper in enjoyment.

“Fuck,” you both seemed to moan at the same time. You watched his face while you moved, eyes drifting over every expression and feature.

His brows furrowed in concentration. His lips parting to allow those enchanting noises to escape. His cheeks were flushed with a light pink brought on by the heat and passion emanating from you both.

All of it made you speed your pace, chasing more, more–

“More.” Sam whined so quiet you almost missed it. Whining? From the 6’4” hockey defenseman? You must have been hearing things.

“More.” Okay, this time it was less whine, more growl. It still stunned you, making your hips stutter to take in this new information.

Sam Winchester was a needy lover.

“Did you just-,” you started to ask, a grin spreading over your face.

“Shut up.” He growled, large hands splayed across your skin.

In a flash, you were on your back, Sam hovering over you. Oh, you liked this. Now he was doing all the work, thrusting into you at a quick but controlled pace.

“Oh my God,” you moaned, throwing your head back. He took this opportunity to latch onto your neck, teeth, tongue, and lips scraping over every inch of skin they could. Your body arched up into his. Your mind blurred with intense pleasure.

“Shit,” Sam groaned, “so good, pretty girl, so, so, fucking good.” He was panting into you.

Before tonight, you never understood the meaning of mind-blowing sex. Yeah, you almost always enjoyed yourself, but it was never so good you couldn’t think.

This? This was mind-blowing, breath-stealing, skin-tingling, out-of-this-world sex.

“You close again, pretty girl? You ready to come?” Sam asked in short, panted breaths.

Yes. Oh, God, you were so ready to come. It actually hurt a little to hold it back, but you weren’t eager to untangle from him this quickly. You couldn’t answer him. You had to stay laser-focused on not coming.

“Mmm, yeah, baby, I know you are. Stop fighting it.” He purred into your ear, lightly nibbling on your earlobe.

A whiny moan left your throat. It was getting very difficult to hold it back now, especially with the light curve of a smirk you felt brushing over your skin. You could do it. You just had to-

“Ah!” You gasped out.

All control in Sam’s pace was gone. He’d gone from steady, calculated thrusts to this animalistic speed. You heard the bedframe smacking against the wall in time with the push-and-pull pressure on your pelvis. Your nails scraped over his shoulder blades as you grappled for something, anything to hold onto.

There was no holding it back anymore. Your orgasm crashed over you, bathing your body in a numb ecstasy. Your panting breaths came out with a light whine attached. Then, as if he had been waiting for the feeling of you squeezing around him, Sam groaned with his release, shoving his hips as far as they could go into you.

Your trembling subsided, leaving you laying there, spent, with Sam’s entire body on yours. You suspected he was still using whatever strength he had left to hold himself up a bit, because there was no way he was this light.

He shifted, pulling out of you slowly, carefully. You winced at the sudden emptiness you felt, your eyes fluttering shut. You felt the mattress move slightly, some rustling, a soft sigh. It all felt hyper-real in your post-sex state. The dip of his body weight on the bed next to you told you he was back.

“Come on, pretty girl, sit up for me.” Sam mumbled, causing you to open your eyes. There he was, dressed in his boxers, holding that damn Stanford hoodie and a towel. Your heart melted when he gently wiped at your thighs and sensitive center, cleaning you as best he could. Your heart ached when he helped slide the hoodie on you, the fabric all but swallowing you up in a soft cloud of him.

Then, your heart exploded when he fell into position next to you, curling an arm around you with a book in his hand. You didn’t need to look, not really, to know what it was. Still, you did.

There it was. A love-worn copy of The Hobbit.

You looked up at him with tired eyes. You were sure they were sparkling with something that was different from the lust that had flooded them earlier. He just grinned down at you, pulling his blankets up to wrap around you two.

“Figured we’d better get started on it.” Sam mumbled, gently opening the book to the first page. “Eyes closed and imagination on, honey.”

You were speechless as he began to read, his voice husky but soft.

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.”

ICEBREAKER tags: @gigiwritess @h8aaz @angzls @myceliumsunshine @unfortunaterat @mimiimmii @youdontknowe

everything tags: @littlejackles @sacr1ficialang3l @blossomingorchids @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @mostlymarvelgirl @missus-ackles @tinas111 @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @saltcxrcle

sam winchester tags: @hobiespick @xoswiftieprincess @whothefvckami

[insensiblelimerence]

doctor’s orders

sex therapist!Ben (SB) x patient!Reader

NOTES: big thank you to @tinas111 for this request!!! I loved writing this. Before anyone tells me “that’s not how sex therapy works!!” I’m well aware :) I just don’t care, this is hot.

TW: kinda dark, therapist/patient relationship, power imbalance, dom/sub dynamics (lowkey), emotional manipulation, praise kink, dependency themes, possessive language, guided masturbation, difficulty with sexual embodiment/agency, no explicit non-con/dub-con but unethical dynamics throughout

Dr. Benjamin Hargrove’s office is quiet in a way that doesn’t feel empty. Everything about it is soft—slow. The light, filtered through warm-toned lamps and west-facing windows, turns the air amber. Books line dark wooden shelves in a way that feels curated but casual, and the wool blanket always draped over the navy couch smells faintly like cedar. Every corner of the room is intentional. Every breath of it is safe. Or at least, it feels that way.

Which is probably why you didn’t leave after the first appointment.

You weren’t even sure a sex therapist was what you needed when you made the call. It felt embarrassing just to say the words out loud. But the woman at the clinic had referred you here without hesitation—“Dr. Hargrove is specialized in this area. You’ll be in good hands with him.” She’d said it like it was obvious. Like it had already been decided.

Nothing about it felt clinical. Nothing sterile. No stark white. No clipped questions or watch-checking or clipboard tapping. There is only warmth. And then there’s Ben—as he insisted you call him instead of Dr. Hargrove.

He doesn’t act like any therapist you’ve met before.

Not on the first day, when you walked in nervous, half-sure you didn’t belong in a place like this. Not the moment you stammered out something half-formed about sex being “okay, technically” but weird, or shallow, or hard to stay in. Not when you said that sometimes, when it did work, it only happened if you closed your eyes and stopped thinking completely. He hadn’t blinked. Hadn’t rushed you. Just waited, expression calm and open, until you finished.

Then, after a long pause, he’d tilted his head slightly and asked, “What’s the part you keep tryin’ not to say?”

You’d told him. All of it. About how it felt like you were always outside your body. How touch didn’t register as yours. How even when it was good, it didn’t feel like it belonged to you. How the whole thing left you cold. Shaky. Distant. Like a performance meant for someone else’s approval.

He’d nodded slowly, like that all made sense. “That’s not rare or even uncommon,” he’d said, voice quiet and low. “Doesn’t mean you’re broken. Just means you’re not connected to how you want to be wanted.” Then he added, soft but sure, “It’s fixable.”

That was Session One.

Session Two began with a soft-voiced question: “Do you trust me?”

You hadn’t answered right away, but he didn’t seem to need you to. Just smiled faintly and said, “You wouldn’t be here if some part of you didn’t already know I can help.”

That was the day he walked you through your first body scan. Slow. Intentional. Sitting across from you with his legs crossed and his voice guiding you downward, breath by breath. He’d had you close your eyes and lean back onto the couch. Breathe into your chest. Then your stomach. Then lower.

“Place your hand just below your belly,” he’d said, and you’d hesitated. “Right above your pelvis. Just let it rest there. That’s where your center is. It’s an important spot, it can tell us a lot.”

The touch had felt too warm. Too charged. You remember your cheeks flushing, your throat tightening with something that felt like guilt.

But when you opened your eyes, he was smiling again. Calm. Encouraging. “Good, sweetheart,” he’d murmured. “You’re doin’ just fine.”

You remember how your heart leapt when he said that. Like praise was a thing you hadn’t known you were starving for until you got your first taste.

By Session Three, you were holding your tea with both hands, trying to stop them from shaking. You don’t even remember what you were talking about when you admitted it, but it had come out anyway—how good it felt to have someone see you. How easy it was to melt into the quiet when he spoke to you like that. How you didn’t want to be in charge. Not here. Not with him. Not ever, really.

He’d leaned forward just a little, voice lowering. “You like bein’ taken care of,” he’d said—not as a question, but as a truth he already knew. Then, a little softer: “You like feelin’ small.”

You hadn’t answered out loud. But your fingers curled tighter around the mug in your hands, and he’d smiled like that was all the confirmation he needed.

He hadn’t teased you. He hadn’t laughed. He just let it sit between you for a moment—like it wasn’t a confession at all, just something gentle and human that he already understood. Then he’d said, “There’s nothin’ wrong with wantin’ that. Some people need control. Some people need care. You deserve to feel safe enough to want things.”

That was the day he gave you your first homework. The word alone had made you flush—like you were being sent home with an assignment you couldn’t possibly get right. But he’d said it so casually, like it was just another tool in your care plan. Another step forward.

“Nothin’ performative,” he’d said, voice low and calm, like he was walking you into something gentle. “This isn’t about how it looks, or whether you’re doin’ it right. There’s no right or wrong.”

He’d leaned in slightly then, not invasive—just closer, just careful. “This is just for you. Intentional touch. Practicin’ that mindfulness we talked about, yeah? No goal. No pressure. Just hands on skin, noticin’ what feels good. Not what you think should feel good. What actually does.”

His words sank into you like warmth, slow and quiet and certain. You’d nodded before you even realized you were doing it.

“And after,” he added, softer now, “I want you to write it down. What you felt. What you didn’t. When you wanted to stop. When you didn’t want to stop but thought you should. Every little detail.”

You’d hesitated. Just a flicker of doubt across your face—but of course he saw it. He always saw it.

His voice dropped even lower. Steady. Warm. “You pull away from yourself when you start to feel worked up. That’s always been the hard part for you.”

Then he smiled—gentle, sure, already knowing the answer. “But you can write it down for me, can’t you, sweetheart? Easy enough, right?”

His hand brushed against yours when he offered you the journal. Not forceful. Not rushed. Just there.

“Doesn’t have to be perfect. Just honest.”

And then, softer still: “Doctor’s orders.”

And you’d nodded, eyes wide, face warm—already desperate to make him proud. Already needing that approval like air.

You’d said you’d try. You’d meant it.

And now, one week later, here you were. Curled up on the same sun-warm couch with your journal in your lap, and your heart in your throat.

He’s sitting across from you, the fingers of one hand resting lightly against his chin, watching you like he always does: not impatiently, but fully, like he can read everything you haven’t said yet in the way your knees are pulled up under you.

You haven’t handed him the journal yet. You keep brushing your fingertips over the edge of the pages, as if your touch could smooth the content inside. As if you didn’t write it for him in the first place.

He doesn’t press. Never does.

Instead, when he finally speaks, his voice is low and grounding, like he already knows you’re halfway to saying yes. “Do you want to give it to me?”

Your mouth is dry, but you nod. Of course you do. That was always the point.

You extend the notebook, and he takes it with the same casual intimacy he always uses with you now—fingers brushing yours just a second longer than necessary. He flips straight to the newest entry. You don’t even have to tell him where to look.

It’s all in there. The details from the assignment he gave you last week. How he told you to touch yourself slowly. No goal. No pressure. Not even to come. Just to feel. And how you did exactly what he said. How it felt. How much it scared you. How much you liked it anyway.

You keep your eyes down as he reads, pulse loud in your ears. You don’t know how long he sits with it. It might be two minutes. It might be twenty.

Eventually, he lets the journal rest closed on his lap. When he speaks, his voice is quieter than before, a little warmer, like he knows exactly what you need from him now. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, tilting his head as he looks at you, “you have no idea how proud of you I am.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Your throat closes instantly.

He doesn’t give you time to spiral. Just leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees, and lets the next words land with slow, deliberate weight. “You let yourself feel. You stayed in your body. You let go of what it was supposed to look like.”

You can’t bring yourself to say anything, but you nod. Barely.

He watches you carefully, like he’s reading something flickering just under your skin. “I know you were scared,” he says, softer now. “You still are, huh?”

Your breath catches on the second nod. It feels like a confession.

His smile is small but warm. Reassuring. He shifts slightly, and for a second you think he might move to sit beside you—but he doesn’t. Not yet. He lets the silence stretch a few seconds longer, then says, “Can we try somethin’ new today?” The question comes light, like it’s really an option. Like your answer matters.

You nod, shifting a little out of nerves.

He hadn’t moved yet. Just leaned forward slightly, voice still low and smooth, warm enough to crawl under your skin.

“I want to walk you through some guided touch,” he said, like it was just the next logical step. “Same as last time but more intimate, and with more support this time. You won’t be on your own. I’ll be right here, helpin’ you stay in it.”

Your breath caught. You weren’t sure what exactly that meant, but he didn’t sound worried. He sounded like it was completely normal.

“You’ll keep your hand on yourself,” he continued, slow and reassuring. “But I’ll talk you through it. I might touch your arm or your leg, if that’s okay. Just to help keep you grounded.”

Then, gentler still: “Only what you’re comfortable with. I’ll follow your lead.”

That somehow made it worse—how kind he was about it. Like it wasn’t just okay, it was good. Like wanting to be touched was something he expected. Something he’d already forgiven you for.

You hesitate. Not because you want to say no, but because something inside you stirs too hard at the thought of saying yes.

He sees the way your fingers twitch in your lap. His voice gentles again, dipping into something impossibly soft. “Hey. There’s no pressure. You don’t have to perform for me. You can always say no. You don’t owe me anythin’.”

That makes it worse, in a way you don’t quite understand. Because you do want this. And that feels just as confusing as everything else.

Still, your head dips in a fragile nod. “Okay,” you whisper. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

He stands slowly, like he already knew that was coming, and moves to the couch to sit beside you—not close, just enough that the space between you feels intentional. Measured. He doesn’t reach for you yet. He waits, like he wants you to understand you’re still in control—even when you’re not.

His voice is a little lower now. “Let’s start by gettin’ you comfortable. Just like before. Go ahead and lie back for me.”

Your heartbeat spikes as you shift, settling into the cushions the way you did when he walked you through the body scan. You focus on your breath, trying not to tense too much, trying not to think about what’s coming next.

Ben reaches for the navy blanket folded over the arm of the couch and unfolds it gently over your lap. His hands move with practiced calm. He adjusts the corners around your legs like he’s tucking someone in for sleep. “Too warm?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head. “No. It’s good.”

He nods, eyes soft. “Good girl.”

The way your stomach flips at those words is immediate—and embarrassingly obvious.

He adjusts the pillow behind your shoulders with just enough pressure to make you feel small beneath his touch. Then he rests his hand gently on your knee, bare through the rip in your jeans. You feel the heat of his palm seep in instantly.

You stay still, half-frozen. He doesn’t move his hand, just lets it slide higher to the middle of your thigh, resting there like an anchor.

“You remember what I said about your center?” he asks.

You nod.

“Show me.”

Your hands move automatically, as if they already knew what to do before your mind could catch up. You press your palm low over your stomach, the waistband of your jeans cutting just underneath it.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, still watching. “Feel that heat buildin’? That’s not fear, sweetheart. That’s your body getting ready.”

Your eyes flutter as you exhale.

He shifts slightly, tilts his head. “Undo your jeans for me.”

Your fingers freeze. Your eyes dart toward him, and for a second, you hesitate.

But he doesn’t press. He waits only a beat before offering, soft and simple, “Do you want me to help?”

Your voice barely comes out. “Please.”

The word feels like surrender.

He moves carefully. His hand finds the button, then the zipper, drawing it down with deliberate ease. His fingers skim your hip, skin warm through the fabric as he slides the denim down past your knees. Your panties stay on.

When he leans back to look at you again, his expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t gawk.

Just: “Good. That’s good.”

The air feels different now. It’s heavier, but not oppressive—dense with something charged and still. He touches your forearm this time, the gesture casual but grounding, a gentle reminder that he’s with you.

“I want you to move your hand lower now. Under your panties. Slow. Don’t rush.”

You swallow hard. Your hand trembles slightly as you follow the instruction, sliding down until your fingers meet heat.

You’re already wet.

You hear the sound Ben makes—a slow, controlled breath that tells you he noticed. That he expected it.

“You feel that?” he says, his voice low and even. “Your body’s already respondin’.”

You nod, small and tight.

“That’s not somethin’ to be ashamed of.” His hand brushes your knee again. Not pushing—just steady. “That’s somethin’ to be proud of.”

Your eyes sting. You don’t know why that makes you want to cry.

“Now touch your clit. Two fingers. Light circles. You don’t need to press yet. Just feel.”

You do. You gasp softly the moment you connect, your hips twitching at the contact.

“There we go,” he murmurs. “Let it build. You’re doin’ perfect, baby.”

You make a quiet, broken sound—half-moan, half-whimper.

“You can make noise, sweetheart,” he says. “That’s what your voice is for.”

You let it out, whatever it is. It doesn’t sound like you. You don’t feel like you. It’s both better and marginally worse.

“Does it feel good?”

You nod, barely able to speak. “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

Your breathing is coming faster now. Your thighs press and flex beneath the blanket. Your back arches softly into the cushions, helpless to the way your body is reacting.

“Slow down,” he says gently, still that same warm tone. “Don’t chase it yet. I want you to stay with me for a minute, sweetheart.”

You try to steady yourself. Try to stay here, in this room, in your body.

“Do you want more?” His voice is closer now, low at your shoulder.

You nod—but then pause. “I… I don’t know what would help.”

“That’s alright,” he soothes. “That’s why I’m here. We can figure it out.”

You feel his breath against your temple before you hear his next words.

“Slide one finger inside,” he says. “Just the very tip. Slowly.”

You hesitate again—but not from fear. From need. From something too big to name.

You follow the instruction, press your finger in slowly, and gasp at the feeling. You clench around it, your hips twitching with surprise.

Ben watches your face, reads every microreaction. “There she is,” he murmurs. “That’s my girl. Let yourself feel it. You’re doing so well.”

You let yourself rock into it now. The motion is small at first—barely a shift in your hips, just enough to chase the pressure—but it’s real. It’s yours. And when you move like that, when your fingers circle just a little firmer, the sensation blooms sharper and sweeter at the same time. It makes your breath catch.

Ben watches you like he’s watching something sacred. Like every twitch of your body is proof you’re finally learning how to feel.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Don’t hold back, baby. Let yourself move. Do whatever you need to, it’s all yours.”

You do. Your hips roll again, smoother this time, the rhythm catching in your breath and somewhere low in your stomach. You can’t tell what part of you wants more—your body or your heart—but it doesn’t matter. You’re past pretending there’s a difference.

“Just like that,” he says. “Let your body lead. You don’t have to think. You’re allowed to feel good.”

Your head tips back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs flex. The blanket shifts over your lap with every slow grind, nearly sliding off, and your hand stays steady as you rub slow, perfect circles over your clit—just like he taught you. Just like he asked for.

“You’re doing so well,” he adds, voice warm and low. “Let it build, sweetheart. You don’t need to rush. You’re safe.”

And you believe him. Even as everything starts to come undone.

“You’re close, aren’t you?”

You nod, mouth open, panting.

His hand strokes your forearm slowly, like it’s calming you down and winding you up at the same time.

“Can you ask me?” he says softly, voice as steady as his hand on your thigh.

You freeze—not because you don’t know what he means, but because you do. Because you want to. Too much. And somehow that makes it harder.

Your breath shudders, caught between your teeth.

But he just strokes your leg with slow, careful fingers. “I want to hear you ask permission, sweetheart. Not because I need it—but because you do. Because letting someone hold that for you? That’s part of letting go.”

You swallow hard. Your eyes sting. “I want to come,” you whisper, but it’s barely sound.

He tilts his head. Not unkind. Just patient. “Try again, baby. Use all your words.”

Your chest rises. Falls. And then you say it—soft and shaking and so full of want it almost breaks you.

“Can I come for you?”

His smile isn’t smug. It’s warm. Deep. Pleased in a way that makes your stomach turn inside out. “Of course you can, sweetheart.”

And that’s all it takes.

You fall apart.

It crashes through you—not a flicker but a flood, and it hits everywhere at once. Your thighs shake. Your back arches. Your mouth opens around a cry that turns into a moan, then a whimper. You feel your whole body pulse beneath your own hand, feel everything break loose and fall back together in his presence.

He’s already moving—pulling your hand gently away, wiping it clean with a warm cloth he somehow had ready. He eases your panties back into place, smooths the blanket up to your chest. His touch never feels rushed.

Then he’s there beside you again, letting you curl into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your face fits under his jaw like it belongs there. His hand strokes through your hair, slow and steady, over and over.

“You did so good for me,” he whispers. “So brave. So sweet.”

You’re still trembling. You don’t think you’ll stop anytime soon.

He presses a kiss to your temple. Another just above your eyebrow. “You don’t have to carry any of this anymore,” he says. “I’ll handle it. I’ll handle you.”

Your throat aches, but you don’t cry. You just nod into his chest, small and pliant and so, so tired of trying to hold yourself together.

“You’re alright, baby. You’re safe here,” he murmurs, the words folding around you like the blanket he tucks tighter around your shoulders.

Then his arm curves beneath you, drawing you even closer until his voice hums low against your ear.

He strokes your hair once, then says it—low, sure, final. “You’re mine to take care of now.”

And the worst part—the best part—is how easy it is to believe him.

He kisses your temple, slow and certain, then draws the blanket tighter around your waist like he’s sealing something in. His palm stays at the small of your back, grounding. Possessive.

“You did so well for me,” he murmurs, voice like velvet over steel. “And next time… I think you’re ready to let me touch you too.”

TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @suckitands33 @lunaleah @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @fratboychrisera @angelically-yours @dina-winchester @maneaterarabella @ralilda

let me know if you’d like to be added or removed 🤍

[insensiblelimerence]

Welcome home, Mrs. America

Soldier Boy (Ben) x PR wife!Reader | The Boys

NOTES: this is definitely going to be a multi part work :) I hope everyone enjoys!! happy Father’s Day to my favorite dilf. The idea behind this was for Vought to try and leash/placate/occupy Soldier Boy while simultaneously rehabilitating his image for their own gain. How do you do that? With a hot wife and kids, of course! Welcome family man soldier boy <3

TW: no smut (yet), stunt marriage but Ben is in it to win it, discussions of having a child (per contract stipulations), reader who is clearly out of her depth, sweet moments with Ben, Vought being Vought

The thick, leather-bound folder sat in front of you on the polished glass table like it weighed a hundred pounds. Gold trim along the spine. Vought branding etched into the leather. At the top of the first page — not in legal typeface but embossed like a wedding invitation — were the words: Public Placement Agreement

You blinked. Smiled like you understood.

You didn’t.

“Well?” said the woman to your right, the one with the pearl cufflinks and the chemically perfected teeth. “This is the big moment.”

You nodded, fingers twitching nervously against the hem of your skirt. You had worn pale blue because they said it photographed well. Soft. Feminine. Approachable.

They’d been saying that word a lot lately.

Another executive spoke up, some silver-haired man in a navy suit you’d only met twice before. “You’ll get final say over styling, of course. We want you to feel like yourself. That’s very important to us—this is a partnership.”

Partnership.

Like you’d both come to the table with equal leverage.

You swallowed. “And… just to make sure I’m understanding correctly—this is fake?”

The room paused.

The woman with the pearl cufflinks laughed. Just once. Sharp and smooth.

“Well,” she said, flipping a page for you. “The marriage is real. Legally. But the nature of the relationship? That’s entirely up to you.”

A pause.

You stared down at the line that said:

Parties entering this agreement acknowledge a public-facing union with Mr. Benjamin Hargrove, otherwise known as Soldier Boy, as of the effective date and commit to full availability for associated media, domestic, and narrative development obligations.

“…Domestic?” you repeated.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Pearl Cufflinks. “You’ll have a team managing your wardrobe, your schedule, your comms. You’ll even have a personal assistant to help with the, um—transition.”

You wanted to ask transition into what?

Instead, you nodded again. You were good at nodding. It was what had gotten you this far. Obedient. Polished. Background actress pretty.

They said he had preferences. Said he liked women who smiled with their teeth. Liked a little curve to the hips. Liked when they had to look up at him. And a whole laundry list of other things that you apparently ticked the boxes for.

You hadn’t known any of that when you sent in your headshots. You hadn’t even known what the role was. Just that it was high-profile, long-term, and required “mature discretion.”

Now there was a ring box beside the contract.

“Soldier Boy is very excited to meet you,” said one of the men.

You flinched slightly. You hadn’t realized he wasn’t already here.

And then—

You felt it. A shift in the air. The subtle crackle of attention. Your eyes lifted toward the doorway. There he was, strutting into the room without a single care in the world. Plopping down in the seat on the other side of the table. And now—

Across from you sat your future.

Soldier Boy in the flesh — sprawled in his chair like he owned the whole damn building. Trademarked uniform and all. He was bigger in person. Broader. Louder, even when he wasn’t speaking.

But he was speaking now.

To you.

“I asked ‘em for a blonde at first,” he said, tipping his chair back. “But they said you had better… chemistry scores.”

You blinked. “Chemistry?”

He grinned. “Fertility panel. Real strong numbers, sweetheart. Real breeder stats.”

The pen in your hand slipped slightly. No one at the table flinched.

“I—excuse me?” you asked, heart thudding.

Pearl Cufflinks—your supposed liaison—cleared her throat like this was completely normal. “Clause 12(b),” she said smoothly, flipping the contract binder toward you. “The child provision.”

Your eyes locked on the text:

In accordance with Image Rehabilitation Strategy Phase III, the couple will agree to attempt conception within the first fifteen months of legal union, with successful pregnancy preferred by Q4 of Year One

Ben gave a low whistle. “That’s corporate for I’m knockin’ you up, doll.”

You stared.

One of the men—some VP of Partnerships or something that sounded equally as made up—leaned forward. “This is a long-term narrative. America loves a family arc. Soldier Boy comes home. Soldier Boy finds love. Soldier Boy becomes a father.”

“Soldier Boy fills you full’a patriotic cum,” Ben added, unbothered. “Put that on a Hallmark card.”

Your mouth opened. Closed.

“Of course,” Pearl continued, “we do understand that fertility journeys can be unpredictable. So in the event natural methods prove unsuccessful, Vought reserves the right to discuss alternatives: IVF, IUI, surrogacy, donor sequencing—”

Ben made a noise — sharp, low, amused. Then he stood.

“Yeah. No,” he said flatly. “We’re not doin’ any of that shit.”

“Soldier Boy,” one of the lawyers began cautiously, “these are standard fallback clauses—”

“I don’t care if it’s fuckin’ scripture,” Ben muttered, already moving around the table. “It’s. Not. Happening.”

He stopped behind you, broad hands resting on the back of your chair.

“You think I’m gonna let some stranger shove a needle into my wife? Pump her full of hormones? Knock her up with a fuckin’ turkey baster?” He laughed, dry. “C’mon now.”

His voice dropped.

“I don’t share. I don’t outsource. And I sure as hell don’t let someone else handle what’s mine.”

He leaned down, eyes locked on the page in front of you.

“No IVF. No clinics. No surrogate. No test tubes. If we’re makin’ a baby, we’re doin’ it the natural way, like God intended. In my bed, on her back”

You swallowed hard.

Pearl tried to keep control. “The clause is conditional, Soldier Boy. Simply there for liability protection.”

Ben grabbed the pen. “Great. Then we won’t need it.”

He dragged a thick, black line straight through the entire paragraph. Then he turned the page.

“While we’re at it…”

He started crossing things out.

“This one? Separate quarters. Like hell. She’s my wife, not a fuckin’ tenant.”

Scratch.

“Privacy provision? Nah. You want alone time, sweetheart?” He glanced at you over his shoulder, eyes sharp. “You can have it when I’m dead.”

Scratch.

“Media stipulation: ‘maintain independent identity as a solo public figure’…” He scoffed. “She’s not a fuckin’ talk show host. She’s Mrs. Soldier Boy. That’s the brand.”

Scratch.

He flipped one more page. Slowed.

“This one says if I get ‘indefinitely incapacitated,’ you’re allowed to request a contract reassignment.” He raised an eyebrow. “That means if I die, they’ll let you remarry to some other asshole.”

He didn’t even bother with the pen. He ripped the page out.

You jumped slightly.

Ben handed you the pen, calm as anything. “There. Much better.”

Pearl blinked. “Soldier Boy—”

He didn’t even look at her. “I’m not negotiating how to be a husband.”

Then, quieter — for you:

“You marry me, you take my name, you have my kid. That’s the job. And I’m not lettin’ some boardroom water it down.”

You stared at the torn page. The dark slashes. The heat of his hand still on your chair.

He looked down at the contract again. His thumb dragged lightly across your upper arm.

“This part’s not for Vought,” he said. “It’s for me.”

Then, softer — but no less final:

“I want the real thing. The wife, the rugrats, the marriage. No labs. No third parties. No chemicals. Just you. Me. The good old-fashioned way.”

The room was holding its breath.

You stared at the signature line. And then—because you didn’t know what else to do, because no one was stopping him, because some twisted part of you wanted to—you signed your name.

Ben let out a low whistle, pleased beyond words. “Damn, sweetheart. I gotta admit, that was sexy as hell.”

The ink on the page was still drying when you looked up and asked, soft but clear:

“So… is that it?”

Pearl Cufflinks glanced up, caught mid-note. “Pardon?”

You gestured vaguely to the table. To the ring box. The silence. “I mean… there’s no ceremony or anything?”

That earned a pause. A little shuffle of papers. A couple of glances.

One of the men — the one with the overly whitened smile and the Vought lapel pin — cleared his throat.

“There’s a civil judge we work with,” he said smoothly. “He’s discreet. He’ll sign off retroactively—just a formality. And next week, we’ve got a full shoot scheduled: custom gown, natural lighting, branded media rollout—”

Ben snorted.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t quiet. It cracked across the table like a gunshot.

He hadn’t said a word since you’d signed. Just stood with his arms folded, watching the suits talk about your future like it was a marketing pitch.

Now he straightened up.

“You’re tellin’ me,” he said, voice flat, “you walked this girl in here, made her sign her life and body away to you jackles, and didn’t even plan a fuckin’ ceremony?”

Pearl gave a stiff smile. “It’s all been arranged, of course—”

“No,” he cut in. “It hasn’t.”

He walked toward the table, slow and purposeful. “A photoshoot ain’t a wedding. A judge who’s never met her doesn’t mean shit. This—” He gestured to the folder. “—this is a contract. That’s not the same thing.”

Then he looked at her. “Can I have a minute with my wife?”

Pearl blinked. “We’d be happy to schedule a short—”

“That means get out.” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It landed like a slammed door.

There was a beat—that quiet, tense little moment Vought people always had when dealing with unstable assets—and then they were moving. Scrambling politely. Gathering files and devices. Disappearing without another word.

The room emptied. The door clicked shut.

And just like that, the whole temperature changed. Ben exhaled, rubbed a hand over his jaw. Then he turned to the ring box.

He picked it up like it mattered. Opened it slow.

You watched as he reached for your hand.

“I picked this myself. Took me two hours to get one of those Vought weasels to bring out something that didn’t look like a damn geology project.”

You didn’t speak. But Ben didn’t need you to.

“My ma wore somethin’ like this,” he said, not looking at your face. Just your hand in his. “She wore it ‘til the day she died. Didn’t matter if they fought. Didn’t matter what she gave up. That ring never came off.”

Your chest tightened a little.

He lifted his eyes and met yours. “I figured if I was gonna do this, I’d might as well do it right.”

His palm was warm, steady. Then, with surprising care, he slipped the ring onto your finger.

Not performative. Not rough.

Just final.

“There,” he murmured. “Now it counts.”

You stared at the ring, at the way his thumb brushed the base of your finger like he was sealing it in.

He didn’t let go.

“You scared?” he asked.

You nodded. Just barely.

He nodded too. “Good,” he said. “Means you have a brain.”

You looked up at him. “Are you?”

Something in his face shifted — not a smile, not exactly. But there was something there. Something real.

“This feels like the first good decision I’ve made in fifty fuckin’ years.” He squeezed your hand, not hard. “So don’t make me regret it.”

It didn’t feel like a vow.

It felt like a warning. And a promise.

And, somehow, that was the closest thing to love you’d heard all day.

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse.

No hallway. No lobby. Just the soft hush of clean floors and city lights and the kind of silence that felt like it had been waiting for you.

Ben stepped in first, tossing his jacket somewhere over the arm of a wide leather chair without a second glance. “Go on,” he said, looking back at you. “You can come in. Place don’t bite.”

You crossed the threshold slowly.

The space wasn’t what you expected. Warm. Lived-in. Expensive, yeah—but not staged. There were boots by the door, a half-unpacked duffel near the couch. A record player in the corner, the needle resting mid-album.

It didn’t feel like a PR setup.

It felt like someone’s home.

“You live here?” you asked, voice catching just a little.

Ben gave a low hum, heading toward the kitchen. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he said, pulling open the fridge. “We do.”

That hit low in your stomach.

You didn’t even notice him pour the drinks until he was walking back with two glasses in one hand — whiskey, no ice.

He handed you one. “To the blushin’ bride,” he drawled, clinking his glass against yours. “Lookin’ like a fuckin’ dream in that little blue dress. Bet half the legal team couldn’t stop starin’.”

You took a sip to hide your nerves.

He watched you over the rim of his glass. “You bring anything lacey? Or did the Vought PR fairies forget to prep you for the wedding night?”

Your cheeks burned. “I didn’t know this was the wedding night.”

Ben grinned. “Sweetheart, you signed the paper. You got the ring. You walked into my home. If it ain’t tonight, it’s soon.”

You said nothing, sucking in a deep breath as your eyes took in the room.

He stepped closer, eyes on you — not pushy, but there.

“Still nervous?”

You nodded. Just barely.

His voice dropped lower. “Good.”

You looked up, startled.

“Means it’s real,” he said. “Y’always feel the nerves before things that matter.”

Then, after a beat — “C’mon.”

You followed him down the hallway, passing soft lighting, shelves of records, walls that felt quiet. Like they held things no one else got to see.

He stopped at a door, pushed it open.

“This is yours,” he said. “If you want it to be.”

The room was clean, simple. Comfortable. Neutral tones. A bed made up with fresh sheets. A lamp turned on low. A robe hanging on a hook. Pajamas folded at the foot of the bed — white and crisp.

You looked at him. “You set this up?”

He crossed his arms with a huffed laugh. “I didn’t pick the fuckin’ duvet or anything. Got someone to make it decent. Didn’t seem right, throwing you into my bed like a stray dog without giving you a choice.”

Your throat went tight at the idea of him thinking about his. Planning it, to some degree.

“I figured you might wanna take a breath,” he added. “Or sleep with the door locked. For a while.”

You glanced back at the bed. “And if I don’t?”

He smiled. “You don’t ever have to sleep in your own room if you don’t want to.”

Your heart jumped. “But if I do?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I won’t cry about it.” Then he paused. Let the quiet stretch. “But I won’t exactly be thrilled either.”

You met his eyes — green, steady, utterly without apology.

Then, softer, just for you: “I want you close. That’s not a secret.”

He nodded toward the door behind him. “But you can take your time. I’ll be in the other room. Shirt off. Lookin’ devastating.”

He winked. “Welcome home, Mrs. America.”

TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @suckitands33 @lunaleah @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @fratboychrisera @angelically-yours @dina-winchester @maneaterarabella @ralilda @claireyoucandobeddor @ilikw

let me know if you’d like to be added or removed 🤍

[insensiblelimerence]

Sam Winchester x Reader

You Win

description: it's a quiet fall evening at the motel, and sam passes the time by playing some games. tired of reading, you ask to play and he takes it upon himself to teach you.

warnings: none. no nsfw, just sams giant ass hands and a lot fluff.

since yall voted basically 50/50 on this poll, i wrote the dean version too hehe ::>_<::

⋆｡˚୨୧˚｡⋆. ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ꪆৎ ˚ -`♡´-₊˚⊹ ⋆˚✿˖° 𐙚 ₊ ⊹ ♡ ⋆｡˚⋆˚✿˖°

The hunt had been slow, too slow. No solid leads, no fresh cases, and honestly, it was starting to wear thin on all three of you. For the first time in weeks, you weren't driving across state lines or holed up in libraries or paging through dusty books. 

Instead, you were here: a dingy but cozy little motel room. It was fairly quiet except for the faint hum of the heater kicking on every now and then. The sky outside was heavy with clouds, the overcast light bleeding soft grey into the corners of the room. Fall had settled comfortably, that in-between kind of weather where sweaters and warm drinks felt necessary, but the world wasn’t quite ready for winter’s bite.

Dean had gone out to grab food, muttering something about seeing a burger joint down the road before slamming the door shut behind him. That left you and Sam behind, wrapped in a soft kind of peace neither of you got very often.

You lay on Sam’s bed, nose tucked into the book you'd been trying to finish for days. The faint scent of his cologne clung to his blanket beneath you. Warm, subtle, a little woodsy. Across from you, Sam sat at the edge of the bed, controller in hand, playing one of his old games to pass the time. You glanced up from your page.

There was something about watching Sam like this that made your chest ache in the sweetest way. His face, usually creased with worry, constantly buried in lore books, squinting at old newspaper clippings, was finally relaxed. His brow was smooth, his lips slightly parted in concentration, but peaceful.

A sudden sound from the TV made him jolt as his avatar collapsed dramatically on the screen.

He groaned under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish chuckle.

"Lossed?" you teased gently, your voice breaking the quiet.

Sam looked over his shoulder, grinning sheepishly. "Yeah," he admitted. "Got careless."

“I wanna try.” You shut your book, smile tugging at your lips, “Might even help you out."

He turned toward you slightly, that playful glint sparked in his eyes immediately, "Oh yeah?" 

“Why not?” You shrugged.

"Alright, come here." He said, voice inviting and soft. He scooched back, making room as he patted the empty space between his legs. It was second nature between you two, but still, your heart gave a soft, stupid little flutter.

You placed your book on the nightstand, then shuffled to settle between his legs. His chest pressed lightly against your back and you felt the steady warmth radiating from him. The freakishly long legs that you and Dean teased him for caged yours in comfortably, grounding you.

The controller was handed off to you, but Sam didn’t pull away completely. Instead, his hands hovered close over yours, long fingertips grazing your knuckles.

"Alright," he murmured near your ear, voice dropping into that soft, careful tone he used when explaining things, "Let’s start simple."

"This one controls your movement," he explained, "And this one," Sam continued, his thumb guiding yours to another button, "controls your camera angle."

You nodded slightly, but your mind was half focused on the game, half focused on the way his warm breath tickled the side of your face. Your fingers nearly disappeared beneath his, and you had to suppress the warmth crawling up your cheeks.

You’d always admired his hands. More times than you could count, you’d found yourself idly tracing the lines on his skin when you both sat quietly together. You never brought it up, figuring Sam knew, but thankfully, never said anything.

"You still with me?" he asked with a breath of laughter. “Sorry, I might’ve been rambling.”

"What? No," you managed to say, “It was helpful rambling.”

“Alright then, give it a try,” He chuckled, hands leaving yours to gently take their place on each side of your waist. “I’ll help you out if you need.” 

The first few minutes went surprisingly well. You moved your character around, getting the hang of dodging and swinging, though unlocking certain doors and puzzles took more time than you thought it would.

"Here," Sam offered, his hands sliding over yours again. 

You couldn’t help but let your gaze wander from his hands to his face. The soft glow of the TV screen highlighted the few freckles across his nose, the faint curl of hair brushing the back of his neck, the little crease between his brow as he worked through the puzzle for you. For once, he looked his age. Not a hunter, not the weight of the world resting on his shoulders. Just a 22-year-old in a gray crewneck, playing video games on a quiet evening.

He solved the last part of the level with ease and pulled back slightly. "There," he said with a proud grin. "You did well."

You laughed. "You did all the work."

“Nah,” he teased, nudging you lightly with his knee, "Just needed a little boost."

Once you were more comfortable, you tilted your head back with a grin, "Can we play against each other now?"

He raised an eyebrow, "You sure?"

“I’m certain," you challenged.

“Okay,” Sam sighed as he pulled back, “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

You huffed, “Just grab a controller, you dork.” 

He stood up, grabbing another controller from his duffel before settling beside you this time. The competitive energy buzzed between you as the game loaded. You could feel his focus kick in, brows furrowing just slightly, jaw tightening with mock seriousness.

It was neck-and-neck for most of the game, but when you realized you were slipping behind, you resorted to desperate measures. With a mischievous glint in your eyes, you swatted at his hand mid-game.

"Hey!" Sam laughed, his thumb slipping off the joystick, "That’s cheating!" 

"I had a spasm," you shot back, biting back your laughter.

The two of you bantered and yelped like kids, giggles filling the motel room as the both of you resorted to smacking each other's hands off the controllers mid match. 

Finally, with one final victorious move, your screen flashed 

You Win!

“Yes!” You threw your arms up.

Sam rolled his eyes half heartedly as he watched you jump up and practically dance around in circles.

But then you caught it, that little smirk tugging at his lips. 

You paused in place abruptly, eyeing him in suspicion,

"You let me win," you accused, still out of breath from your celebration.

“No I didn’t.” He dismissed, wrapping the wires around the controllers to put away, but you saw the smile threatening to tug at his lips. 

“You so did!” You started toward him, before swatting at his shoulder, “I wanted a fair match–”

Sam chuckled, trying to dodge you. Before you could land another hit, he caught your wrists in his hands easily, gently tugging you toward him. He wrapped his arms around your waist, looking up at you with that amused grin you’d smack off anyone else.

“Okay, maybe I did let you win.” 

You rolled your eyes.

“But only to boost your confidence for next time,” Sam quickly added. He shook his head with a half hearted scoff as he watched you mimic him under your breath childishly. 

He flopped backward onto the bed, tugging you down with him. The two of you laughed softly, breaths syncing as you settled there.

“I want a rematch,” You murmur, poking the mole adorning his face. 

Sam yawned, eyes fluttering closed as his arms wrapped loosely around your waist, "After I nap."

You catch his yawn, dropping your head against his chest, letting your eyes close too.

"Promise you’ll actually try to win."

“Deal,” He murmured, the angular slope of his nose nuzzling into the crown of your head. 

Outside, the soft drizzle continued to patter against the windows. But inside, wrapped up in Sam’s arms, everything felt wonderfully still.

⋆｡˚୨୧˚｡⋆. ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ꪆৎ ˚ -`♡´-₊˚⊹ ⋆˚✿⋆. ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ꪆৎ ˚ - ⋆˚✿˖° dont be shy, leave a note to lmk what you think (≧∇≦) ZONT forget to read the dean version for those of yall who said "i cant choose `(*>﹏<*)′ !! " on my poll loll requests always open:)

spn masterlist

[insensiblelimerence]

what friends are for ruby x female!reader

content: best friend!reader, college au, bisexual!ruby, unlabeled!reader, samruby mentioned (hooking up, there is no cheating here), smut (marking, finger sucking, fingering, dirty talk), inexperienced reader, reader's jealousy mentioned

word count: 4.4k

note: mommy ruby is here to take care of you (no mommy kink, though)

“Oh my God,” Ruby huffed, throwing closed the door to your shared dorm room.

You looked up from your laptop, frowning. She looked back at you with the biggest smile you’d seen from the girl.

“What?” You asked, though you weren’t all that surprised from her reaction. It wasn’t an unusual thing for Ruby to come back looking like she was floating on a cloud. You supposed that was what happened when you had a man like Sam Winchester touching you in all the best places.

“Sam…,” Ruby sighed. She climbed onto her bed, laying on her back to stare at the ceiling dreamily.

Jesus, you thought. She was never like this.

“Yeah, I know about Sam.” You breathed out, turning back to your homework. You had heard about every inch of that man’s body, down to the little freckle he had on his hip bone.

You were happy for Ruby, you really were. She’d been your best friend for longer than you could remember. You did everything together. Elementary school, middle school cheer teams, high school graduations. You were even each other’s dates to prom. Matching dresses and everything. Your classmates and families always teased you two, egging you both to “just admit you’re dating already.”

It got harder to deny the lesbian lover rumors when you realized your very real feelings for her. You hadn’t thought much about your sexuality. You liked who you liked and never acted on it, that was what mattered. It wouldn’t do any good to put a label on anything when you didn’t even have the confidence to tell your best friend that you were in love with her.

You still listened to her stories of hookups and dates gone wrong. You would chime in with little comments, ignoring the simmering jealousy in your chest. If Ruby noticed, she didn’t say anything about it.

“That man is a god in bed, babe.” Ruby smirked, turning to rest on her side. She propped her head up on her hand, looking directly into your eyes. “I squirted.”

You let out a little laugh and tried not to let it show that you were imagining what she had looked like in that moment.

“Hmm, that good, huh?” You smiled, eyes tracing over the curve of her lips.

You didn't mind Sam. He treated Ruby well. You knew she could be quite the little demon when she felt like it. He was nice to you, attractive, smart. There was just one thing wrong with him.

He got to fuck Ruby every night while you buried yourself in your blankets.

You should be the one tasting her. You should be able to know exactly which spot makes her moan the loudest. It should be your name that she’s screaming out when she comes. What gave Sam the right to all that knowledge?

“Fucking incredible.” Ruby practically moaned, falling on her back again. She bit her bottom lip, shaking her head while thinking of that moment again.

You squeezed your thighs together and looked away. Yep, that moan was getting stored away for later.

You could already imagine the things that would come to mind once you were able to squirrel away some private time.

Ruby down on her knees in front of you, lips coated in your arousal, her pupils blown beyond belief and it was all for you. She swoops her head down again, tongue flattening against your clit.

“Fucking incredible,” she moans and inches her fingers up your leg before pushing--

“Are you listening? Hello?” Ruby interrupted your thoughts, looking at you with furrowed brows. You nod, far too quickly for it to be natural, but it doesn’t matter. She’s already going back into her monologue about Sam.

“He’s just so hot.” She was pretty much growling as she spoke. “And his fingers! They were hitting the right spot every time. You know what I’m talking about, right?”

You rolled your neck, sighing at the crack of your joints.

“You know the answer to that.” You reminded her of your ridiculously miniscule love life. There were no partners, no random hookups, not even a good sext with someone on the internet. You had no interest in it, not when the girl you really wanted was now looking at you with her head tilted.

“I didn’t know if you’d kept some secrets from me.” Ruby teased, fully sitting up now. She pulled a pillow into her lap, leaning into it, closer to you. You scrunched your nose, smiling just enough to show a sliver of your teeth to her.

“As if I’d ever keep anything from you.” Your eyes dropped to her chest and lingered for a moment. The swoop of her neckline left little to the imagination, not that you had to use much imagination when it came to Ruby.

Being childhood best friends meant being very close. Most times that meant changing in front of one another, chests bared to each other. Sometimes it meant being tasked with taking erotic photos of Ruby for her to share with her lovers.

You called yourself a creep every time you used the imagery of her lace-covered body as fuel for your orgasms.

“Okay, fine,” Ruby laughed. “When you touch yourself--,” she held a hand up to your mouth opening in protest, “I know you do, don’t deny it. When you touch yourself and use your fingers, it feels good.” She said it like it was a fact she already knew.

“I don’t do that.” You simply replied, finally dragging your eyes away from her.

“I told you not to deny it.” Ruby’s voice was flat. She was tired of this. She’d always wondered why you weren’t open about your masturbation with her. You shared every other scrap of information, why not this? “No, you’re right, I do touch myself.” You forced your gaze to zero in on a word that, under the sudden attention being on you, was starting to look like an incomprehensible string of letters. “I just don’t do it like that.”

A beat of silence made you look up. You frowned at her look of incredulity, all parted lips and narrowed eyes.

“What?” You raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t like there was one way to get yourself off.

“You don’t “do that”?” Ruby scoffed. With the shake of your head, her mouth snapped shut into a frown. “Why not?”

“I don’t know.” You shrugged. “Just don’t wanna.”

“You’ve never even tried it?” Ruby pushed the pillow from her legs and shuffled to the edge of the bed. “Not once?”

“I mean, I did, once,” you fought down the blush creeping up, “but it didn’t feel good.”

Ruby frowned.

“How did you do it?” She asked. She said it so casually, like you two were talking about the weather. You pushed your brows together, the confusion evident on your face.

“What?” It came out as more of a scoff. You’d expected her to just drop the conversation as a whole, maybe with a little laugh. But not this.

“It’s not a trick question, babe.” Ruby looked at you expectantly. “How did you finger yourself?”

“I-I don’t know,” you were flustered now, cheeks burning, “I just did it.”

“Show me.”

You choked on your breath. What the hell?

Show me. Ruby’s voice rang in your head, filling your stomach with desire. You inconspicuously squeezed your thighs together.

“C’mon, we’re best friends, right?” Ruby tilted her head, pulling her bottom lip into her teeth. You saw the flash of mischief in her eyes, the same one that had gotten you two in the back of a cop car for skinny dipping at the age of sixteen.

“What--how--Ruby, I can’t.” You were stammering now, trying not to look at her.

“I just wanna help you. Can’t have my girl going unsatisfied.”

My girl. Jesus. She doesn’t even know what the hell she does to you. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s why she’s doing this, why she’s climbing off of her bed and sauntering to the edge of yours.

Ruby gently curled her fingers over your laptop, placing it off to the side. She leaned onto her arms, hands flat on either side of your thighs. If it were any other person, you would feel trapped. Ruby? She was the hottest captor you could ever hope for.

“Let me see how you touch yourself.” Ruby purred, looking into your eyes, daring you to do it. She knew you weren’t shy but you were less intune with your sexuality than her.

She was the one who’d gifted you with your first vibrator. She’d been the first one to lose her virginity and had promptly called you with every little detail. It had taken an insane amount of begging for you to even tell her your celebrity crush.

You told her everything else. She didn’t know exactly why you were hesitant to share your horny thoughts with her, but she was starting to suspect your reasoning when she would catch your eyes lingering for just a second too long, or when the flare of possessive jealousy sounded in your words.

Ruby didn’t mind. She was possessive of you too.

“You really wanna see?” You asked, eyes wide.

“Isn’t that what friends are for?” She shrugged, slowly sliding her hands to the sides of your shorts. She tucked her fingers into the waistband, the tops of her manicured nails pressing firm against your skin.

You refrained from telling her that most friends, in fact, did not watch each other get off. You didn’t want to ruin this moment. This was a dream come true. Even if everything would go back to normal after this, with Ruby under Sam and you under your blankets, you would still have this to look back on.

You rested your hands over hers, both of you guiding your shorts and underwear down your legs. She caught sight of your panties, black lace with a little bow on the front.

“Are these the ones I picked out?” She asked, smirking. She knew the answer.

“They’re my favorites.” You smiled. They were, ever since that day when she’d pulled them from a drawer at the lingerie store. You two were there for her, picking out a set to wear for Sam, but the moment she laid eyes on the lacy black set on the mannequin, she knew it was perfect for you. You didn’t argue, wanting to please her in any way you could.

“Gotta spread your legs, babe.” Ruby tapped your knee lightly. You stared at her, unmoving until she shot you that sweet smile you loved so much.

You moved slow, pulling your knees up and apart. With another look at Ruby, you slid your hand between your thighs.

Usually, you would have worked yourself up, eased into rubbing over your center. You were nervous, making this entire situation that much more difficult. You immediately prodded at your entrance, wincing at the pain.

“See, doesn’t work for me.” You shrugged, snapping your legs shut and pulling a blanket over your thighs.

Ruby frowned.

“You didn’t even try.” She huffed.

“Yes, I did, Rubes.” You argued, avoiding eye contact with her.

“No, you didn’t.” She looked around the room, then back at you. You frowned at the smile pulling on the corners of her lips. “Let me show you how to do it.”

Once again, Ruby had you stumbling for what to say.

“N-no…you-what?” You stammered, blinking. You prayed you didn’t look too turned on.

Ruby ran her tongue over her teeth, looking up at you through her lashes.

“I just want to make sure you’re taken care of.” She made it sound so innocent, like she wasn’t asking to help make you come. You looked into her eyes, watching the swirl of brown get swallowed up by her lust-blown pupils.

“You take care of me every day.” You replied, soft and sweet. And she really did.

Sick? She was at your bedside with water and a bowl of soup, spoon-feeding you. Stressed? She massaged your shoulders and did what she could to help complete your assignments. Insomnia-ridden? She crawled into your bed, curling up against your back and stroking your hair until you were snoring softly into your pillows.

“Yeah, I know.” She tilted her head and shrugged. “So let me do this, too.”

You didn’t stop her from crawling onto your bed, or from settling in behind you, or from brushing your hair back from your neck.

“Can I touch you?” Ruby’s voice was breath into your ear, a sultry slur that had a shiver running down your spine.

“Always.” It just slipped out. You didn’t mean for your response to sound so… desperate. You bit your tongue to stop a defense from flowing out. Ruby always told you to stand by your words, which you never had a problem with unless it was with her.

She smiled into your hair and began to touch you. It was featherlight at first, just a ghosting of her hand over your thighs, hips, waist. Your core, already slick from simply imagining what Ruby would do to you, fluttered with the brush of her fingertips under your shirt.

“Is this working?” She whispered into your ear.

“Mhm.” You hummed. You don’t know why she even bothered to ask. She knew it was working, she knew what you liked, maybe more than you did.

“Good.” Another sigh of breath into your ear, but this time, a gentle kiss on your pulse point followed it. You leaned into it, feeling her lips parting, teeth grazing, tongue pressing.

A low whine squeaked out when her fingers pressed up against your hip bone. She let out a low chuckle, kissing down your neck.

Her hand creeped up your hoodie, making way to your chest. She paused at the feel of bare skin under her hand. She’d expected lacey cloth.

“No bra?” You could hear the playful smirk in her voice. You let out a shaky breath.

“Didn’t think I needed one.” You practically rushed it out. It was the only way to avoid your voice breaking when she cupped a breast, soft and gentle.

“Smart girl.” Ruby circled her thumb around the sensitive skin of your breast, teasing the edge of your nipple.

“Start like this,” she spoke into your ear like a sexy teacher, “slow, teasing,” she just barely brushed her thumbpad against the peak of your nipple, “work yourself up.”

You panted the whisper of a groan out.

“Mmm…,” she hummed, her eyes fluttering shut, “you sound so pretty, babe. You know that?”

You shrank into her, feeling the rise and fall of her chest pressing against your back.

“You always sound so fucking pretty.” She finally pressed her fingers on your nipple, earning her a moan muffled by your tight-closed lips.

Ruby shifted her attention to the opposite breast, giving it the same aching tease.

“I hear you, at night, when you think I’m asleep or too drunk to remember.”

Her words made you freeze. No. There were only a few times you dared to do it with her in the room. You always made sure she was sleeping first, always making sure she was taken care of before you took care of yourself.

“You think you’re quiet, but I always hear you,” she pinched your skin lightly. “Always.”

You tried to talk, to tell her you would try harder to be quiet, but her teeth grazed on your shoulder, cutting you off.

“What do you think about?” She licked onto the bite, observing the skin. It would bruise with time, leaving a trace of her when all of this was over.

“Noth-,” you began to answer before she landed a gentle smack on your thigh. You’d forgotten about that other hand, lingering on your hip.

“Don’t lie to me.” She warned, kissing your neck again. “I can read your mind, remember?” She said it so cheekily.

I can read your mind. She’d said it almost every day since second grade, when you two had watched some made-for-TV kid’s movie about a pair of telepathic best friends. Little-Ruby had declared it to be a direct parallel to real life, claiming you two were going to start reading each other’s minds. You played along for a few years, eventually dropping the joke sometime around middle school. Ruby never did.

“What makes you moan so pretty, baby?” Her words made you melt into a whimper, mouthing parting to let the sound pass.

“You.”

You’d expected some surprise, maybe a rough push and a yell about how weird it was to get off to the idea of your best friend. Just like she continuously did, she surprised you.

“I knew it.” She muttered with a grin.

“You… you’re not… mad?” You didn’t know how to ask it without it sounding pitiful. The anxiety and shock flooded the room, making Ruby frown.

“No, no, babe, I could never be mad at you.” She cooed, fingertip circling your nipple. “I can’t blame you. No one can resist all of this.” She joked, easing your nerves.

“Shut up.” You laughed. The noise morphed into a small gasp when she nuzzled into your neck, nosing against your shoulder.

“I do it too.” Ruby admitted.

“Think about… yourself?” It was a weak guess. You knew what she meant, but you didn’t have the confidence to say it out loud.

“Yeah.” She nodded, a sigh blowing air onto your skin. You furrowed your brows, angling your head to look her in the eye.

Her poker-face shifted into a wide smile, a laugh bursting from her. You blushed, forcing down your own laughs.

“You’re mean.” You looked down with a smile, chewing on the inside of your cheek. She was doing this on purpose, you realized. Lulling you into normalcy to help you through this situation. As always, taking care of you.

“I meant it.” Ruby continued her strokes on your breasts, tapping her fingers lightly on your sternum on her way back down. “I think about you, too.”

“A lot?” You had your hand on her knee now, knuckles bending to grip down when her hand splayed across your stomach.

“Enough.” She shrugged. “You were my first crush-ah, second crush, first was Meg Ryan.”

“Meg Ryan.” You echoed at the same time, a breathless kind of sound due to her fingers ghosting against your inner thigh.

“Do you know how hard I come to the thought of you?” She whispered into your ear, nibbling on your earlobe to pull a whimper out of you.

Your chin quivered. It was a wonder your teeth hadn’t broken skin with how hard you were biting down on your lip.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You mumbled, hooking your hands into the bend of her knees. You held her close to you while she traced lines over your skin.

“Didn’t know if you were into it. You’re kind of a prude when it comes to sex.” You felt her smile against your neck.

“I’m not a prude, Ruby. I just don’t sleep with the entire chem class.” You bit back jokingly. She laughed, chest rumbling.

It was a common joke between you two, started in your junior year of high school when some guy started to spread the rumor that Ruby had let your entire chemistry class take turns on her. Ruby’s defense, to his dismay, was to confirm the rumors.

“Getting more pussy than you, bro.” She’d called across the cafeteria before slinging an arm over your shoulders, waiting to laugh until you two were in the privacy of the hallway.

“You don’t talk about your sex life with me.” Ruby continued, slowly pushing your legs apart. Air rushed over your newly exposed skin, making you shiver.

“I didn’t want you to think I was a creep.” You watched her hand brush over your thighs. You sucked in a sharp breath when she hovered her hand over your center.

“For what? Thinking I was hot?” She laughed. Her fingers twitched in waiting. She still didn’t touch you where you really needed it.

“For wanting to taste you.” You forced a whine down. “Or to hear you moan, see what you look like when you come.” You didn’t know why it felt okay to lay it all out like this. Maybe it was her lips sucking a mark onto your neck.

“You really want to make me come?”

“Ye-,” you started to answer, but Ruby cupped her hand over you, curves of her fingers slotting against your folds. You choked on your words, your grip on her tightening.

“Maybe after this,” she hummed, lips grazing on the shell of your ear, “gotta take care of you first.”

You felt her swipe through your slick, gathering it up. She lifted her hand to eye-level, showing you the mess as if you didn’t already know how wet you were.

“After you tease that pretty little body of yours, you want to make sure your fingers will slip right in.” She brought her hand to her mouth, wrapping her lips around the two soaked digits. “Mmmm…,” she moaned.

You opened your mouth just like she wanted when her fingers drifted over. She slipped them in, letting you taste her saliva and the remnants of yourself.

“Good, isn’t it?” Ruby’s eyes were trained on your mouth as you sucked. You watched her expression as you twirled your tongue around the tips.

“If you aren’t as wet as you should be, just-,” she shoved her fingers deeper, making you gag, “-use your spit.”

She dragged her fingers out, now coated in your saliva.

“See? Now they’ll slide in, nice and easy.” She purred the last part, lowering her hand back to your folds.

Ruby toyed with you for a few minutes. Her fingers parted, rubbing up and down on you. You yelped out a whine when she pressed her thumb onto your clit.

“Ready?” She asked, swirling tight circles onto you. You nodded, trying to keep quiet enough to stop your neighbors from hearing. It’d be a shame if those lesbian lover rumors followed you to college.

She slowly pushed a finger in, just one. You tensed up.

“Shhh… just relax, let me make you feel good, babe.” She mumbled into your ear, pressing another kiss to your neck that made you melt.

You took in deep breaths, slow and steady, and Ruby started to move her finger in rhythm with your chest’s rise and fall. You felt the ridges of her knuckles running across your walls, pulling a soft hum from your throat.

“Y0u like me being inside you?” She spoke into your ear, sounding like heaven and hell wrapped in one. You closed your eyes, soaking it all in.

“One more.” Ruby warned softly before you felt the stretch of another finger going into you. You choked out a groan, your grip on her knees tightening.

“Good, good, you’re doing so good.” Ruby cooed, using her other hand to guide the rolling of your hips.

“Rube…,” you sighed, throwing your head back against her shoulder.

She smirked, kissing up your cheek. You got the hint, no need for words, and turned your head. Her lips brushed against yours, teeth pulling at your bottom lip. You were waiting for it, for her to kiss you properly. What you got instead made you gasp out a loud moan.

Ruby curled her fingers up, hitting a soft, spongy spot you didn’t know you had. Her lips curled up, pride swelling through her.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” She mumbled, your lip still in her teeth. You whimpered, gasping up breaths of air that did little to ease the growing knot in your lower stomach.

Her hold on your lip loosened just enough to dart her tongue out, the tip of it tracing into your mouth. You decided to take charge, the teasing too much for you to handle. You shoved your face into hers, locking lips with her hungrily.

She made noise of surprise, but there was no hesitation. She immediately molded her lips to yours, like they were made specifically for this. Your mouths shifted against each other, jaws moving up and down as Ruby’s fingers moved in and out.

The air blowing from your nose was hot and fast, your heart racing a marathon while she moaned against you. You squeezing around her fingers, your tongue pushing into hers, it was enough to make her come, just from the sheer beauty of how well it belonged.

This moment was woven by fate, made to happen by a higher being than you or her.

She curled her fingers up again, repeatedly pressing against that damn spot. You broke away from the kiss to cry out, not able to keep your noises in any longer.

Ruby’s other hand found the back of your head, pushing your lips back to hers with a growl. She hummed into you happily when you tugged her knees up, caging yourself in with her limbs.

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. You didn’t know anything that felt better than this. You’d been satisfied with your usual routine of using your vibrator until you came, but after this? You weren’t sure it would be enough anymore.

“You close?” Ruby panted out, smiling at the nod of your head. “Yeah, I know you are. I can feel your pretty little pussy tightening up.” She rubbed your clit with her thumb.

“Do it.” She encouraged.

You tried to hold back. You really did. You didn’t want this moment to end. It was too much, your self control had circled down the drain the moment Ruby spread your legs.

You came with a low, long moan, nails digging into the plush of her thighs. She groaned with you, mouthing at the side of your neck while she worked you through it.

When you stilled, she stayed inside you, not wanting to lose the warmth of your walls just yet. You panted out loud breaths, mouth parted, the edges of your teeth just barely peeking through.

“That’s how you do it.” Ruby said, breaking the silence. She kissed your neck again but didn’t make any move to get away from you.

You turned your head to her, a loopy smirk on your face.

“Thought you said you squirted.” You reminded her, a soft chuckle growing in your chest.

Ruby smiled back, that mischievous flare running through her eyes again.

“Guess we’ll have to try again.” She moved back in, lips brushing against yours at the same time her fingers curled up again. This was what friends were for, after all.

everything taglist : @littlesoulshine @sacr1ficialang3l @blossomingorchids @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @mostlymarvelgirl @missus-ackles @tinas111 @ambiguous-avery

[insensiblelimerence]

This is so funny to me because this is literally how I was with my girlfriend when we met in high school. I finally confessed one day and she had to sit down because she thought we’d been dating for like 5 months…

Make it Clear

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, friends with benefits to lovers, light fluff, light angst, lotta smut (oral f! receiving, p in v, cockwarming), humor, love confessions

Summary/Warnings: Friends with benefits doesn't work. You fall out of line and fall in love, trapped in Dean with no hope of escaping.

But he might never want you to leave.

Author's Note: Request from an anon! This one was very fun. All time favorite hobby, giving men emotions.

Word Count: 5.4k

The room is dark.

You never let Dean turn on the overheads, there are no windows in the bunker, and you angle yourself to stay away from the hallway light—leaking under the door—so it’s as dark as you can possibly make it. 

It’s still not enough.

Your eyes aren’t your friend, and they adjust. You can still hear your skin slapping against Dean’s as he guides you up and down his cock, and his groans of your name whenever you squeeze around him or scratch at his chest. You can feel him, everywhere, and it’s the best, cruelest thing in the world. 

He’s deep inside of you, pressed right on that spot no one else can ever it, and you can feel it lighting up in every nerve of your body. He keeps trying to grab your hand, and you don’t know what that’s supposed to help with, but you can’t let him. But there’s not winning, because the only way to avoid it is planting your palms flat on his chest and feeling the firm muscle shift and flex whenever he ruts up into you. He’s got a hand secured on your hip to keep you above him and the other playing with your tits. Flicking at your nipple and palming at them more for himself than you, but it still feels good. Then his hand will shift down to flick at your clit, and you’ll arch your back with a high gasp, and it’s too much and never enough. 

It really doesn’t matter if Dean is doing this for you, or for himself. You’ll give him whatever he wants. 

But it’s not dark enough. 

So you keep your eyes squeezed shut, and try not to think about who’s below you. It’s an impossible task, when nobody else is a good as he is. Nobody fits into you like Dean, no one else has that deep, gravelly voice and says your name like it’s a baseline in their favorite song, no one else knows that if they grab you by your neck and press their thumb into your mouth, right as they slam up into you, you’ll make that stupid, high, breathy sound and your pussy will flutter around them. 

And Dean always laughs to himself after, and the sound rumbles in his chest and vibrates against your clit, and then you let out the loud moan of his name that means you lost. 

You know it’s Dean below you. It’s always going to be Dean below you, until he kicks you out to the curb. And even then, you’ll just sit in the gutter and hope he comes back.

You love him. You’d never want anyone else but him. 

But Dean doesn’t do love. 

And you knew that, the first time he kissed you after a bad hunt, right after yelling at you for ten straight minutes about trying to get yourself killed. You knew it when cornered you in the hallway with a hungry expression, licking his lips and muttering that he didn’t mean to yell, but he needed to be able to touch you. You’ve known it, every time you’ve fallen back into bed with him—only more and more as the months pass, until it’s more of a routine than an itch being scratched—and he’s pulled you apart, and you’ve failed to find a room that’s dark enough. 

Because this is the part that you always try so hard to avoid, and never can. Dean moans your name and tries to pull you down into a kiss, and you can’t stop him—you don’t hate yourself that much, or enough—but you still can’t look at him. And then you can taste the cherry and whiskey from dinner on his lips, and feel him a little more than everywhere, and he mutters your name again.  

You push up. You always sit right back up, even when Dean tries to trap you against his chest. 

But you also fail again. 

Your eyes open. 

And he’s art. Looking up at you will the sex-addled expression you only see half shrouded in shadows, where his eyes are hooded and he’s licking his lips. And he looks like he was carved from marble rather than just made, and his chest is heaving as he fucks up into you at a brutal pace, and when your mouth falls open in a silent scream he pushes up and kisses you again.

You manage to close your eyes.

The damage is already done.

You love him. You love his face, and how he never stops you from digging your nails into his chest until it’s littered with small marks, and how when he cums in you he moans your name in the only way you’ve ever wanted to hear it. You love how he always stays in you for another moment after, and buries his face in your breasts like he can’t bear to move—even though he always does, and you know he just likes boobs—before kissing your neck and going to clean you up. 

The cleaning you up is the worst part. You have to wait for him, because whenever you try to leave after that he just picks you up and tosses you back onto the bed. And your heart won’t be able to take that, right now. The way he’ll just wrap his arms around your stomach and carry you to the mattress, pinning you down and grumbling that you’re like a stray cat sometimes, just taking his food and running away before he can take care of you. 

And you always tell him he doesn’t even like cats, and he just laughs, shrugs, and pushes your legs apart to clean the mess between them. 

Today, you don’t try to run. It’s already too much to have him watching you so carefully as he works, and leaving soft kisses on your knees and thighs. You have just stare at the ceiling and take it, trying to fight down the soft sob rising in your throat. 

This isn’t fair. You love him, and he’s just doing this to you like it’s not breaking and remaking you every single fucking moment, and you want to hit him then climb right into his chest forever. 

And you know Dean cares about you. He’s your friend, and that’s probably why you’re allowed to stay in his bed after. Why he always brings you water and food to get your energy back. Friends is still a part of the arrangement. Even with benefits.

But it’s been too much, today. So before Dean can even grab the box of your favorite snack he keeps in his mini fridge—just for you, which is even crueler—you’re running. Grabbing your clothing and scrambling into it, then slipping out the door before he can stop you. 

It’s fucking cowardly. 

But you need a shower so you stop feeling his phantom warmth on your body. To wash away the smell of him all over your hair, and give you a safe place to cry on the floor until it feels a little better. And if you’d told Dean you needed a shower, he’d just try to shower together. 

It’s so mean. How he does sweet things like that and expects you not to fall for him, to keep the line between sex and friendship so firm. 

You can’t even tell him he’s being mean. He doesn’t know you love him. He has no way to know.

You still need to curl up in the corner of the shower and cry, though. Where the soft sobs that shake your body are drowned in the water, and the tears are washed away the same second they fall. Then you can pick yourself up, drag yourself back together where Dean had unraveled you, and just keep moving. 

It’s not good form, to ignore him. You have to smile at Dean when he walks into the kitchen the next morning, and not start crying when all you get is an odd frown in return. You just drop your gaze back to your cereal, and bite your lip to keep it from wobbling. And when you go to town with Sam you can feel him staring at your back as you leave, and when you’re putting away the groceries and talking to Sam about something stupid, Dean won’t stop walking in and out of the room without saying a single word.

He’s still your friend. You smile at him every time, but wait for him to speak first, and he never does. He just frowns and grumbles something at Sam, then fucking walks away. 

He’s ignoring you.

Maybe he’s done with you. Maybe he called it, last night, and now he’s trying to figure out how to tell you. And that fractures at your heart all day, right until you’re curled up in the library, trying to think about anything but Dean, and failing just as drastically as you always do. 

Or maybe Dean’s just Dean. Grumpy and bad at talking about anything. 

Because he doesn’t seem done with you when he leans over your chair and starts to kiss along your neck. 

You shouldn’t let him. Not when he’s barely said a word to you all day. 

But you love him. And he hasn’t been angry or rude. He might have just had a bad day. 

So you angle your head a little to the side to grant him further access, and let out a long sigh. 

He bites and sucks a deep mark against your skin. 

You’re going to fall apart again, and he’s barely even touched you.

“Dean,” you mumble, trying to keep your attention on your book. “Sam’s in the other room.”

He grunts, big hands brushing your hair to the side. “So? He’s seen me do a hell of a lot worse than kiss a pretty girl.”

“But- It’s-“ Your breath hitches as he nips at your throat, and you shake your head weakly. “Dean- I can’t.”

He freezes. “Can’t what.”

“Have sex.” You mumble, turning another page, having not read a single word on the first one. “I- I’m busy.”

“That’s fine, sweetheart, we can just sit.”

“But- I- I’m busy-“

“Yeah, I heard you the first time.” He sighs, right in your ear, and it sends a shiver up your spine. Then he says your name, and you have to just keep fucking looking at your book.

He repeats it. You just hum. You can’t-

“Look at me.” He grunts, and you swallow. 

All the words on the page look more like scratching marks. All you can really see is Dean in your periphery, moving to kneel before you and taking your face between his hands. 

You still can’t look. Even as he tilts your head up, you keep your eyes fixed down.

You don’t know what he’s trying to do, when he grunts your name again. 

You know it’s mean.

“Son of a bitch,” He mutters, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, and you almost start crying again. “Fucking- Just look at me-“

You shake your head weakly. “I- I’m busy-“

“Too damn busy to look at me?”

There’s no good answer to that. And Dean know is, because he lets out a long, slow breath, and shakes his head. 

“C’mon, baby, I- I know you’re pissed at me, but-“

That gets your gaze to snap up to his. And he looks devastated. Like you’ve been kicking him on the ground, with a deep frown and furrowed brow and open expression of strain over his handsome features. 

You really don’t know what’s happening. At all.

“What?”

Dean clears his throat, and suddenly you can hear how hoarse his voice is. “You’ve been ignoring me all day-“

“You’ve been ignoring me-“

“I’ve been giving you space.” He grunts. “And don’t try and tell me something isn’t wrong. You fuckin’ bolted last night, so I know something’s wrong.”

Fuck. “I- I’m not-“

“Yeah, you are. And I know I fucked something up, and I’m gonna fix it-“

“You can’t fix it, Dean.”

His brows raise. “So there is something.”

Fuck. “You- Uh-“

“Doesn’t matter.” He mutters, tracing his thumb slowly over your cheekbone. “I’ll fix it, baby. Promise.”

“I-“ You let out a long, slow sigh. Too late to go back now. “Dean, I told you, you can’t.”

“Not if you don’t tell me.” He grumbles, holding your gaze. “Did I forget something? Say something? Was- Uh- Was it bad last time-“

“It’s never bad.” You say quickly, and his frown twitches. “And you- this isn’t your fault-“

“It sure goddamn feels like it’s my fault.” He snaps. “And you just need tell me what to do. I’ll do it. Swear I will, I’ll do anything, just tell me how to fix it.”

You need to look away from him. He’s on his knees and begging you, and it hurts. He’s pressing on a raw, open wound in your heart and he doesn’t even know it, and you’re confused and trapped in him, and he doesn’t know. He can’t know. He’s never known. And you have to look away but you can’t. You’ve never been able to. To look away, or walk away, or stop loving him.

And Dean looks like he’s in pain, and that should make you mad, but it just breaks your heart even more.

“Dean.” You hold his hands against your face, giving him a small, sad smile. “It’s not your fault. I promise.”

His eyes narrow. “Alright, then tells me whose fault it is, and I’ll kick their ass-“

“It’s my fault.” You whisper, your voice already cracking. “I- I know you don’t do relationships, Dean, and I’m not trying to like, give you an ultimatum or something, but I can’t- I can’t keep-“

You take a shaking breath, and Dean mutters your name, but you just squeeze your eyes shut and keep pushing.

“I- I love you, and this,” you gesture between your bodies. “It’s hurting me, Dean. It really hurts. And that’s not your fault. But it still hurts. That’s it.”

He’s not saying anything. And you’re still not looking at him, so you can’t work out if he’s pissed, or annoyed, or indifferent. 

Pissed you can take. At least you can try and let him fully break your heart, so you’re cured of him. Annoyed you can handle too. You’reannoyed with yourself too. 

But indifferent might break you. The idea that Dean simply doesn’t give a shit that you love him, and he’s willing to keep fucking you as long as you don’t expect more- 

That will slam you into the dirt, and you’re not sure you’ll be able to drag yourself back up. 

He says your name, and you can’t read that tone. “Open your eyes.”

You shake your head. He’s still touching you. Rough, warms hands so gentle on your face. Maybe he knows he’s about to shatter your heart, so he���s trying to be careful with the rest of you.

“Baby, I need you to look at me.” 

Baby. 

That’s not fair.

Your eyes drag open, and Dean’s frowning at you. But it’s not his angry frown, where he looks like he’s gunning to rip something in half. It’s not his bored frown either. 

It’s just that hurt look. Like a kicked dog, wet from the rain and whimpering to be let inside. 

You were wrong about the indifference. 

This hurts more. 

“You love me?” He whispers, and it’s hard to talk through the lump in your throat. 

“I- I’m-“

He mutters your name, firm and demanding, and you nod. 

“Yeah. I do. I’m sorry.”

His jaw clenches. “You- You’re fucking sorry?”

You blink. “I-“

“And you think I don’t love you?” His voice is raising. Not to a shout, but still something angry. “You- Son of a bitch, sweetheart, you’re-“

“Dean-“

“Of course I fucking love you!” He snaps, and you might be floating out of your body. “I- Goddamnit, I’ve been- I thought you just- Fuck-“

“Dean.” You try to make your voice sound firm, but it just comes out a plea. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“I know you don’t, babygirl.” He mutters, shaking his head, and you bite on your lower lip until you taste blood. “Shit, I’ve been such a dumbass-“

You frown. “No you haven’t-“

“Yeah, I have. I didn’t know this wasn’t a-“ He swallows, scanning over you with a broken expression, his voice almost a rasp. “I thought we were dating.”

You might be drowning. Or dead. Maybe Sam crashed the car on the way back from town, and this is just hell or heaven or limbo. The world is blurry, but you can see Dean clearly. There’s a ringing in your ears, but you still heard him.

You think you heard him. You’re really not sure.

“What?”

“You’ve been it for me,” Dean says your name, and your grips tightens on his hands. “For a goddamn year, you’ve been everything. And I- I thought I told you. We- we go to bar together, and we sleep in the same bed on hunts, and I- Son of a bitch, we’ve gone on dates-“

“No, we haven’t-“

“We go to the movies all the goddamn time-“

“As friends.” You protest, and Dean snorts.

“Friends don’t give each other hand jobs in the theater, sweetheart.”

You flush, but still shake your head. “But you- You never told me-“

“Yeah, I did.”

“Dean-“

“I said I had to have you.” He mutters. “That I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t need you.”

Your eyes widen. “I- I thought you meant my body.”

He sighs. “Yeah, I figured that out myself.”

“It’s- You’ve just always said you don’t do relationships-“

“I didn’t. Before you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He pauses, scanning over you carefully, his voice still a rasp. “Do you- do you want that?”

You frown. “Want-“

“Me.”

You can’t stop your mouth from falling open. “Of course I fucking want you, dumbass, I just said I loved you.”

Something flashes over Dean’s face, and he nods slowly. “Good. That’s- Good. C’mon.”

He starts to tug you to your feet, and you just stare at him. “Dean, what-“

“Move, sweetheart, I’m trying to fuck you properly-“

“You always fuck me properly-“

“Apparently not, if you thought I didn’t love you-“

Your heart does a little stutter stop. “You really love me?”

“Course I fuckin’ love you. More than anything. But you didn’t know, so I gotta fix that- Son of a bitch.”

He’s staring at you, and you blink up at him in open confusion. “What?”

“That’s why you always make me turn off the lights.” He mutters, mostly to himself. “And why you’re always on top, and you never hold my hand, and- Fuck, baby, I thought you were just shy-“

“Dean, I-“

“No.” His hand moves to cover your mouth, his eyes narrowed on yours. “We’re doin’ this right, this time. I’m gonna fuck you with the lights on, and you’re gonna look at me and take everything I give you. Blink twice if you’ve got it.”

You’re only staring at him, something dying then rebooting in your brain. He loves you. Dean loves you. And he’s looking at you as if you’re all he’s ever wanted, and you need him, and you can’t remember how to do anything but look at him-

“I need you to blink, sweetheart.” He mutters. “I’m not doing anything until you’re good with it.”

That’s the reset. You need him, now, and you can move again.

You pull his hand down slowly, holding his gaze as you speak. “I’m good with it. Please.”

His throat bobs, and you get a tight nod in return. “Good. Hold on.”

“Hold- Dean!”

At the very least, Dean moved your book out of your lap before he tossed you over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. He’s walking before you even get a chance to wiggle, and the moment you try, a sharp slap lands on your ass. 

You squeak, twisting and pushing on his back to glare at him, and you don’t have to see his face to know he’s wearing a shit-eating grin.

“Dean Winchester, I’m gonna kick your ass-“

“You’re cute when you threaten me.” He turns to nip at the exposed skin of your thigh, and a moan escapes your throat. “C’mon, baby. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

You frown, but still slump into his hold. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I- I dunno-“

“You better not be talking about what we’re about to do.” He hums, and you go almost boneless as one of his hands trails right between your thighs, rubbing your pussy over your shorts. 

“Dean-“

“Trust me, baby.” He shoulders open the door to his room, and lowering you down to sit on the edge of the mattress and settling between your legs. “This is about me.”

You swallow, nod, and Dean’s smirk splits into a full, wide grin. He holds your face so carefully, as he pulls you into a kiss. Trailing his tongue over your lips and nipping at the corner of your mouth, chuckling as your arms wrap around his neck and you must be dreaming. You’ve had this dream. The one where you bite his lower lip right back and he growls, deepening the kiss until melted against him and clinging to his as tight as you can, pulled entirely apart from only a kiss. The dream where you’re still Dean’s to do whatever he wants with, but all he wants is you. 

It hits you fully, when he helps you out of your shorts without ever fully breaking the kiss, presses his hand against your clothed pussy, and groans into your mouth. 

All Dean wants is you.

“So fucking wet,” he mutters your name, rubbing his palm in a slow circle. “You ever get this wet for anyone else, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, your fingers curling on his neck. “N- No, Dean-“

“I know,” he coos, almost teasing, and you start to grind into him. “You need it bad, don’t you-“

“Yes-“ You gasp as the heel of his palm starts to rub over your clit. “Feels so good-“

“Yeah, it does.” He mutters, and you buck into his touch. “Jesus, baby, someone would think I’ve been neglecting you-“

“Dean-“

“Sorta have, I guess. Need to fix that.” His fingers drift up, playing with the band of your panties. “You like these?”

“No-“

“I’ll buy you new ones anyway.” 

You hear the rip of the fabric, but a weak protest barely leaves your throat before Dean’s diving down, and everything narrows to heaven. It’s always heaven, when Dean licks a firm stripe your pussy and sucks your clit between his lips, giving it just enough attention drive you insane before he moves away. Dragging down and tasting every bit of your pleasure, groaning against you when your thighs squeeze his head, the sound vibrating through your body and making you fall flat back on the bed.

Your hands fly into his hair, as he pushes his tongue into your entrance and lets his nose rub on your clit. His stubble is tickling at your inner thighs, and he keeps moaning into you, and whenever you gasp his name, it only seems to spur him on. 

“Shit- I-“ You take a sharp breath when his teeth scrape against you, and his hands squeeze your ass, angling you a little higher. “Dean-“

He groans, and when you angle your head up, he’s fucking rutting against the edge of the bed. 

He’s getting off on it. On eating you out like he’s been starved of you.

And you’re seconds from toppling over the edge when he pulls away, and a high whine leaves your throat.

“Taste so good,” He mutters, kissing right over your clit and sending a shiver of pleasure through your body. “Son of a bitch, baby, the sounds you make-“

His thumb presses on your clit, a loud moan pushes itself out of your throat, and Dean chuckles.

“Yeah, just like that.”

“Dean,” you mumble, tugging at his hair. “I was so close-“

“I know, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, dragging your hand away before kissing over your knuckles as well. “But want you to cum on my cock. You think you can do that?”

You nod frantically, and Dean grins.

“Good girl.”

He rises up, shedding his clothing like it’s coated with toxins, and crawls over you with an almost feral grin. You can see how hard he is, thick and long and all yours, and your legs spread wide to let him settle between them.

This is usually the part where you make him flip you over, and you fix your gaze anywhere but his face. But tonight, it’s all Dean. And he’s keeping you right below him, twinging his fingers in yours and squeezing your hand with a wide grin. 

You don’t know how you ever lived without this. Without your eyes wide on Dean’s as he pushes into you, watching his nostrils flare, and mouth fall open in pleasure. You’re never going to be able to not have it, now. But that was always the fear. 

Now you get to have Dean bottom out, lean down to give you a heavy, hot kiss as he lets you adjust, and fall apart from only the adoration in his gaze. 

“Ready?” He mutters, his voice a deep, gravely sound that makes you clench around him, and he groans. “Goddamnit, sweetheart-“

“Sorry,” you whisper, and he laughs.

“No, you’re not.”

You’re really not.

Because Dean starts to fuck you. 

He’s everywhere. Drilling into you until your right back on the edge, his lips attacking every bit of bare skin he can find. One hand stays in yours as the other angles you up to drive himself impossibly deeper, until he’s hitting a deep and needy spot that makes stars cloud your vision. Every time you roll to meet him, he moans your name and captures your lips back against his, and your arms wrap around his neck to keep him a close as possible. So his body is molding into yours, and there’s no clear line between you, and every time you plead for more he just swallows it with a kiss, and throws it right back to you. 

The hand on your hip moves without warning, pressing right over your clit, and you fly apart. Warmth washing over you like a wave as your scream, and Dean just eats that sound too. 

He’s not stopping. His cock slams right back against that spot, and you’re thrown even higher up. But Dean just keeps catching you—fucking you into oblivion and rubbing your clit until you’re a messy, whining frenzy—and when you sense him reaching the edge, you hook your legs around his waist to try and keep him.

You know you have him.

But you don’t want to miss a single thing. 

Dean slams home with another moan and pinch of your clit, and you cling to him as tight as you can. You’re a boneless, heated mess of want, but you’re Dean’s. And he’s still rutting into you as your last orgasm shivers up your spine, and he collapses over you with a grunt. 

“Can I-“ Dean clears his throat, his face pressed into the crook of your neck. “I’ll clean you up later, promise, but I kinda wanna-“

“Stay?” You whisper, your voice a little hoarse from the everything, and Dean chuckles. 

“Yeah. That.”

“Okay.”

He pushes up on his palms, remaining sheathed inside of you as he gives you a pointed look. “That easy, huh?”

You flush, your fingers curling on his neck. “I- I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“I’ve been wanting to do this,” he rolls his hips, already semi-hard again, and your lips part in a sharp gasp. “For months. Thought you just didn’t like, y’know-“ He nods down between your bodies. “This.”

“Cuddling?”

“Yeah. And if I knew all I had to do was ask-“ He frowns to himself. “Would you have said yes?”

“To you?” Your voice is still soft, and Dean only gives you a small nod in return. “Yeah.”

“Even though you thought we weren’t together?”

You sigh. “I still loved you, Dean.”

He nods slowly. “And now?”

“Wha-“

“You love me now, right.”

You giggle, tugging him down into a long, slow kiss before humming against his lips. “Now, I’m never letting you go.”

“Good.” He mumbles, twitching inside of you and making your hips jerk. “Not gonna go anywhere. I’ll latch onto you like, uh- What’s something that sticks-“

“Velcro?”

“Sure.” He kisses and sucks a path down your neck, finally stopping to bury his face in your breasts, his words muffled against your skin. “Long as I get to hold you, babygirl, ‘m good.”

You tangle your fingers in his hair, and it’s impossibly good to be able to touch him like this. Like he’s yours, and if you so much as try to blow away in the wind, Dean with launch up and catch you. If you start to drift, he’ll tug you right back. And you can see now, all the moments he’s been doing that before—kiss you with too many teeth to not want to leave a mark, holding you to his chest like you’re a lifeline—and it breaks your heart, but it’s already mending. You’ll make it up to him.

And he must be reading your mind, because he props his chin up with a deep furrow in his brow, grunting your name like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“Dean.” You mimic back to him, and his lips twitch.

“You’re getting sassy, sweetheart.” He nips at your skin, and you squeal, whacking his shoulder. “I like it.”

You swallow, holding his gaze. “Nobody says sassy-“

“I said it-“

“Because you have the heart of a ninety-year-old, my love.” You boop his nose with a soft smile—now that you’re allowed to do this, you don’t think a gun to your head would stop you—and his eyes widen into a look of what might be awe.

“Marry me.” He whispers, and you blink.

“Dean, we’ve been dating for an hour-“

“Been four months for me. And I meant it, you’re everything for me, I- I gotta-“ He’s pushing up to hang back over you, framing your face with one hand and almost a frantic look in his eyes. “I love you, babygirl, and if I know I’m not gonna be good at telling you that, but you need to know-“

“I know.” You smile up at him, wiggling slightly around his cock, and he grunts. Given the surprise over his face, he might have forgotten he was in there. “I do, Dean. I only didn’t because I was- I dunno- I just didn’t. But I know now. So let’s give it at least another four months before that.”

“Four months.” He mutters, nodding. “What day is it.”

“Uh- I’m not-“ Your eyes narrow. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I don’t know shit, sweetheart.” Dean rolls you over without warning, pinning you to his chest above him and looking up at you like you’re the final answer to every question in the universe. “We’re gonna go on some real dates, and I’ll sleep in your bed and make out with you in front of everyone-“

“You already try to do that-“

“Yeah, but I’m gonna do it more. Everyone will know that you’re my girl.” He kisses to corner of your mouth, and you giggle again. 

You sound sort of like an idiot. You’re certainly smiling like one. 

You really don’t care.

“I’m gonna make you fall in love with me so hard.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“I am in love with you-“

“Then more. You’re gonna love me more.”

You shake your head, giving him a soft smile. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

His eyes flash again, and get a deep, heavy kiss before he speaks again. It’s all exploration and time, because Dean knows you, but he seems to want more, and you have all time in the world. 

And he tucks the hair behind your ears when he pulls away, his touch so soft, and his smirk dangerous as he thrusts up into you, and your breath hitches in your throat.

“Never cared about possible, sweetheart.” He drawls. “You’re mine, and I’m never gonna give you a reason to leave.”

End Note: Thinking about Dean going to the movies like "this date is going great!" and she's just straight sweating.

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

Buy me a coffee!☕️

Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery @nightxcreature @sthefferrete @lyarr24

@deansbbyx @bakugotypecrashout @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco @elle14-blog1

@impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @itsdearapril @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused

@arcticwisteria @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378 @godhelpthisbtch

@ilovedeanwinchester4 @sleepykittycx @immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn @maddie0101

@chi-raz @lori19 @wynnthewynnderful @redwinexsupernova @tiana-kh

@woaheasytig3r @canibeyourghoulfriend @lovelywebber @salemslostwitch @winchester-whiskey

@and-i-wish @jsudsgf @fullbelieverheart @wowzabowza69 @bonbonnie88

@pillowjj @barnes70stark @kamisobsessed @happyfxckinghorrors @deans-yn

@jofinka

[insensiblelimerence]

I’m screaming my heart actually lurched when she said Tom.. I’m gonna do backflips

Paparazzi!Series *ੈ✩‧₊˚ (Part two: Real Good, We’re Dancin’ In The Studio!)

Summary: You go to a frat party and spot “Tom”, but he doesn’t know you’re the one watching him and contributing to his tuition payments, shhh!

A/n: I was gonna write about the private session between Sam and the reader, but I felt really creepy when I was writing it LMAO. It was just coming out insanely awkward, but I’ll try writing it again as a bonus chapter or something.

Anyway, I’m gonna make a masterlist for the series and link it here as soon as I can :p

Warnings: Smut, one night stand, rushed sex, oral (f + m receiving), interrupted sex :/

It was a few weeks after your first private session with Tom– who was actually Sam– and once you’d started, you found yourself unable to stop. You’d never spent so much money on another person all at once, so much that you began to wonder if this was an unhealthy obsession (It was).

Now, here you are at a loud, sweaty frat party, talking to some random blonde guy who can’t seem to hold his liquor.

“I can’t hear you!” You shout over the music. This guy has been awkwardly hitting on you for twenty minutes and you’re well past being bored. Thankfully, you spot Jessica gracefully pushing her way over to come to your rescue.

“Sorry, ‘scuse me, I need to steal this girl from you, really quick..”

Jess takes you by the shoulders to guide you towards the mini bar in the kitchen (if you can even call it that). There’s a bottle of Sourpuss across the marble island calling your name, but it’s surrounded by a pack of sweaty guys, and you’re just a tad too far to reach it. Even when you’re leaning as far as you can with one leg in the air, it’s still just a fingertip way.. until Sam nudges it closer with two of his fingers, smiling at your efforts.

You follow the hand upwards until you can make out whose face it is, and sure as shit, it’s Tom_2005.

“Oh- fuck!” You gasp when the realisation hits, and he furrows his brows in your direction. He mouths a ‘you okay?’ with a thumb up, and you just blink at him for a second.

Your private session was mostly one sided-- as in, your camera was off, but you’d enabled your mic to interact with him more-- so, he had no way of recognizing you here, the only way to do so would be to overanalyze your voice, had you verbally responded.

He tilted his head a little, and that prompted you to nod yours, before giving him a mouthed ‘thank you’.

You turned around and made your way back to the crowd of drunken college kids, mentally kicking yourself for being so awkward. You were about ready to leave anyway, the smell of sweaty bodies and weed clouding your senses, along with the god awful music they had going. It wasn’t long before you passed the bottle to a random stranger, now uninterested in the overly tart drink as you started for the nearest door.

A big hand on your shoulder stopped you from moving past people, and you turned around expecting a punchable face, but it was just Sam.. or, Tom..?

When he was met with your scowl he put his hands up in defense, “Sorry, not trying to make a move.. truce?" Your face softened and you giggled, shaking your head. “No, I’m sorry, it’s really hectic in here-”

Sam chuckled too. “Tell me about it!” He shouted over the music, “Where’s your bottle of booze infused red-40?” Sam moved closer to hear you better, “I wasn’t feeling it! I’m not really feeling any of this, anymore!”

He shook his head in agreement. Sam leaned in closer to your ear, “Kinda trashy, huh?” You nodded with a laugh, “Normally I love trashy.”

You both paused to try to take in the environment, before Sam leaned in to talk to you again. “Wanna dance?” He projected his voice a little louder. You weighed your options, leave and have an early-ish night, or stay and dance with the guy you masturbated with the other night?

“What the hell, sure!”

He grinned and nodded, sheepishly moving behind you and pulling the hair from your face back behind your ears. His knuckles brushed against your cheeks, and followed a path from your jaw, to your neck, to your shoulders, leaving them there while you began to sway a little. You felt his breath fan over your ear, sending a little chill through your spine.

“C’mon, s’that all you got?”

You playfully rolled your eyes and turned around to face him, tossing your arms around his neck and pulling yourself closer to him. He nodded at that, “yeah, ‘atta girl!”

Sam’s hands moved down to rest on your waist to pull himself even closer, his hips grinding against your own. You turned around and pushed your hips back a little, swivelling them against him, earning a deep groan in your ear. Sam moved your hair away from your shoulder to give himself access to your neck, leaning in to brush his lips against your skin. With a sigh you melted into him more, your hands moving behind you to card your fingers through his hair.

Sam softly grunted against your neck before tilting his head up to meet your ear, “Is it too early to ask you to come with me upstairs?”

You didn’t even need to answer, taking his hand from your hip and maneuvering your way through the groups of people with his hand in yours. You didn’t even reach the top of the staircase before Sam’s lips were on your neck again, trailing sloppy, open mouthed kisses over as much skin as he could cover.

You both stumble your way through the first bedroom door still attacking each other’s lips, and as soon as the door was closed, Sam had you pushed up against it in a heartbeat. His hands easily surrounded your whole head as he kissed you, while yours made quick work at unbuckling his belt and tugging up his shirt. He pulled apart from you to help pull it over his head, before pushing his jeans down, the sound of his belt clunking against the floor ringing in your ears.

As soon as they were down, so were you, your hands tugging his boxers down to free his already leaking dick from the restricting material. You immediately leaned forward to kitten lick the precum from his tip, with your hand coming up to gently stroke what you knew you wouldn't be able to fit in your mouth.

Sam hissed at the contact, his hands carefully pulling your hair into a makeshift ponytail. Once you’d gotten used to his size you took him in farther, which was no problem as Sam lazily thrust his hips forward to meet your pace.

“Fuck.. yeah, that’s it.. ” He tipped his head back, letting out soft grunts each time you took him all the way in. You met his eyes when he looked down, his lips forming a smirk at the sight of you practically melting in front of him. How could you not? You’re sucking off your favourite pornstar for Christ’s sake.

He stopped your head from taking him even deeper, gently pulling out of your mouth to get you on your feet again. Sam helped you up, before practically throwing you on the bed.

He was on you again in seconds, sloppily kissing your neck as his hand traveled down to run along the inside of your thigh. You groaned into his ear when you felt his hand palm you through your underwear, before running his fingers over the increasingly wet material.

Sam stopped mouthing at your neck to drag his tongue from there to your mouth, both of your lips clashing against each other in what has to be the messiest kiss since the season one finale of Gilmore Girls (lookitup).

“So fucking wet..” He murmurs against your lips, his fingers moving to pull your underwear to the side before stopping dead in his tracks and pulling his head back from yours.

“This s'okay.. right?”

You let out a small laugh at his slurred consent check and nodded, then Sam went back to kiss you again, his fingers now lightly brushing over your cunt. You whine and buck your hips against his hand only to get a soft chuckle in return. His fingers dip down to tease your entrance, collecting the drooling arousal on his fingertips before pushing two in at once.

When you arched into his touch, Sam tilted his head down to nip at your neck. After each drag of his teeth he’d leave a gentle kiss to warm over the lingering marks on your skin.

He kissed down your body while working his fingers against your core, keeping his pace slow as he got you worked up. When his face was level to your abdomen, he looked up at you through lazy eyelids, before running his tongue down from your navel to your clit.

“Tom-”

Sam’s tongue froze against you for a second before tilting his head up to face you with furrowed eyebrows.

“..what'd you say?”

You blinked in confusion, “Tom.. that’s your name, right..?” Sam slowly shook his head, “no.. my name’s Sam.”

Fuck. You sat up on your elbows and swallowed thickly. “oh..”

“Why’d you think to say that name..?”

He had to have known. Just say ‘I thought I heard someone call you that’ or ‘you look like a tom!’

“I don’t… know?”

Sam tilted his head as he tried to piece together how you made the connection between him and “Tom”. He went back to all of the private sessions he’d had over the last few weeks, and then it hit him. You were the girl with the pretty moans and the busted webcam.

He let out something between a scoff and a lighthearted laugh, “I thought your voice sounded familiar!”

✧.* Taglist ➣ @shypilled @s7nburn @starzify @insensiblelimerence @jaredpadonlyyyy @kiapepper Lemme know if you wanna be added! :3

[insensiblelimerence]

no saints in safehouses

content warning/s & word count: 18+!!!, first and foremost—ben is his own warning here because jesus christ, language and swearing, misogyny, violence, threats, spitting, smut (kissing, biting, oral/cunnilingus, throat-fucking, fingering, unprotected p in v, threat of p in a, spanking, overstim, coming on face, ben being mean, reader has an implied breeding kink), manhandling, degradation, gentle humiliation, mocking, i believe that's it. 6.4k

The safehouse door slammed shut behind you with a rusted metal groan, the sound sharp and final—like a lid sealing on a coffin.

You dropped your bag at the threshold without looking back. Your shoulder was bleeding again—torn wide when the mission started unravelling, torn wider when he got involved. You hadn’t even wrapped it. Couldn’t stand the thought of asking him for help. Would rather bleed out on the floor than let him touch you.

The air in the safehouse was sour. Sweat, smoke, old rot behind the walls. A single naked bulb dangled from the ceiling, flickering every few seconds like it couldn’t decide whether to expose or protect.

Behind you: boots. Slow. Heavy. Cocky.

You heard him exhale like he was bored. Like this whole thing—the mission, the mess, you—was just another inconvenience.

“Y’know…” he drawled, voice low and lazy, like he was savouring the words before spitting them into your spine, “He’s not wrong.”

You didn’t turn around.

“Butcher,” he added, in case you needed clarity. “You heard him. Said we’re a liability. Said we fucked it.”

You still didn’t move. The pain in your shoulder pulsed in time with your heartbeat. You could feel him behind you—close enough that your skin prickled.

“What was it he said again? Somethin’ like—‘get the fuck back to base before you fuck everything else up, yeah?’” He snorted. “Fuckin’ poetry.”

You turned slowly. Deliberate. Controlled. Like you hadn’t been burning the entire way back.

Ben leaned against the table like he owned it. Like he owned everything. His shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled, streaks of blood dried on his forearms. A cut split the corner of his mouth, barely crusted over. He looked like hell. He looked smug as sin.

“This your way of apologising?” You asked flatly.

He grinned.

“For what? Havin’ to drag your sorry ass out of the crossfire?” He tipped his chin toward you, voice soft and sharp. “You’re the one who decided to break off formation, sweetheart. You’re the one who thought she knew better. As usual.”

“You were supposed to be on my six.”

“I was,” he said, with a smirk that could rot teeth. “But your head’s so far up your own ass, you probably couldn’t see straight.”

You took a step forward.

“Don’t fucking talk to me.”

“Why not?” He tilted his head, mock-confused. “Scared I’ll say somethin’ you don’t wanna hear?” He clicked his tongue. “Or scared I’ll say somethin’ you do?”

He pushed off the table and started toward you, boots deliberate, like he was giving you time to flinch.

You didn’t.

“Touch me and I’ll gut you.”

He laughed. Full-bellied. Loud in the cramped space.

“Jesus Christ. Every time. You get that little snarl in your voice and think it makes you dangerous. But sweetheart—” He closed the distance, close enough to smell the blood drying on his skin. “—you don’t scare me. You get me hot.”

You flinched before you could stop yourself. And he noticed.

“That’s right,” he said, voice dipped low like a secret, like a threat. “Say my name like it don’t hurt you to come out that pretty, wet little mouth.”

“I’d rather chew glass.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’d still fuck you with blood on your teeth.”

Your hand twitched toward your blade.

He saw it. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“What are you gonna do?” He asked, voice husky with mock concern. “Stab me?”

He leaned in. “C’mon, baby. Don’t tease. You and I both know you ain't gonna do shit.”

You shoved him.

It was instinctive, desperate, not meant to land so much as buy space—but he didn’t budge. Didn’t stumble. He just looked down at the spot where your hands had hit his chest. Then up.

Then smiled.

“There she is,” he murmured. “My little junkyard dog. All bark. No bite.”

You punched him. Hard. Right across the face.

His head jerked sideways with the impact. And for a moment—blessed silence.

Then he licked the blood from his lip and grinned.

“That all you got?”

You went for him again. This time he blocked it. Then the other.

You were shaking. Breathing too fast. You didn’t care. Your shoulder screamed, your vision burned—but you kept swinging. He caught your wrist. Twisted. Pressed you back against the table.

His face hovered over yours, grinning like a devil that just found a loophole.

“Always a mean little bitch under all that scowling,” he rasped, his breath hot against your cheek. “Now what? You gonna hit me again…”

His other hand slid across your hip, slow, possessive.

“…or you gonna fuckin’ kiss me?”

You shoved him—hard.

This time, Ben moved. His ass slammed against the table’s edge with a thud, the sound loud in the breathless space between you. The legs screeched against the concrete floor, the flickering bulb above swaying ever so slightly from the shift.

He didn’t look angry. He looked delighted.

That fucking smirk twisted across his split lip like sin incarnate. His eyes tracked your movements lazily, like he was watching a predictable game play out exactly as he'd imagined.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you snapped, voice low, warning-laced, vibrating with the kind of rage that tasted like blood at the back of your throat.

He tilted his head. “Ohhh,” he said slowly, savouring the shape of the sound like a fine cigar. “Feisty now, huh?”

Your chest heaved. Your shoulder throbbed. The sleeve of your jacket was soaked through, blood soaking the fabric where the wound still wept. You didn’t care. Not now. Not when he stood there like every word that had ever left your mouth was just foreplay.

“You are a walking piece of shit, Hargrove,” you hissed, each syllable laced with months of bitter frustration. “Every time you open your mouth, it’s like someone scraped the bottom of a fucking urinal and taught it to speak.”

He barked out a laugh, loud and cruel, cutting across your words like a blade. “C’mon, sweetheart. You can do better than that.”

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

“You’re a liability. A danger to your own team. You’re not a soldier—you’re a relic. Washed-up and bitter and desperate for someone to look at you like you’re still relevant—”

“There she goes,” he said, louder now, over you. His tone dripped with amusement, his grin all teeth. “God, you run that mouth like it’s gonna win you a medal.”

“Shut the fuck up and let me finish!”

“Why?” He shrugged. “You only like hearin’ yourself talk?”

Your vision blurred, fury red-hot behind your eyes. You didn’t even realise how close you’d stepped until you felt his breath ghosting across your lips.

“You think this is funny?” You hissed. “You ruin everything you touch. Every mission, every team—you tank it. Because you can’t handle anyone not looking at you like you’re a fucking god.”

He didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked pleased. “And yet you keep comin’ back,” he murmured. “Can’t help yourself. Bet you lie awake wonderin’ if I’m thinkin’ about you. Wantin’ me to.”

You scoffed, but his grin widened.

“Hate to break it to you, honey, but you ain't special. You're just easy.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Nah. I'm honest.” He stepped in close, voice dropping to a murmur. “Y’know what your real problem is? You don’t know your fuckin’ place.”

You blinked. Something in your spine stiffened. That sick-slick tension tightened between your ribs.

“Back in my day,” he continued, slow and deliberate, “girls like you weren’t out in the field. You were fuckin’ dinner entertainment. Something soft to come home to. Not stompin’ around, actin’ like your tits and your tantrums count as tactical advantage.”

Your nails bit into your palms. He kept going.

“You wanna play soldier so bad, but you can’t even keep your emotions in check. Bleedin’ all over the floor and yellin’ like a brat who didn’t get her way.”

“I am ten times the asset you’ll ever be—” you began, but he cut you off again.

“Sweetheart, the only asset you got is between your fuckin’ legs.”

Silence fell. Ugly. Hot.

Then you spit.

Right into his face.

It landed just beneath his eye, slid slow and gleaming down his cheek to where his jaw tensed. He didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t blink.

Then, fast as a whipcrack, he lunged.

His hand snapped up and clamped around your jaw with bruising force, fingers digging into the soft parts of your cheeks, thumb pressing into the hinge like he was daring it to break. He squeezed hard enough to make your lips part, to force your chin upward until your eyes had nowhere to go but him.

You jerked, tried to wrench away, but he held you firm. Unyielding.

“Don’t waste your fuckin’ spit like that,” he growled.

His breath was hot. His face inches from yours, that cut on his lip glistening red and wet.

“You got no idea how many men would’ve dropped you where you stand for that.”

He paused, then smiled. A slow, filthy thing.

“But not me.” His voice rasped low, reverent in the worst way. “Nah. I like you like this. All mouth and no plan. Lookin’ at me like you wanna kill me and come on my cock at the same time.”

You tried to speak, and he tightened his grip. The ache bloomed instantly, your jaw locked in place.

“Don’t. Speak.”

His eyes roamed over your face, dark and gleaming with something feral.

“You’re not gonna say anything I haven’t already jerked off to.”

Your jaw ached in his grip, cheeks squeezed between his calloused fingers, lips parted just enough for breath to pass—but nothing else. He held you there like a fucking trophy, his thumb rough against your skin, his smirk rotting through your bloodstream like venom.

You could hear yourself breathing. Could hear him breathing. Close and sharp and slow. Measured, like he was savouring the scent of your unraveling.

You hated the silence. Because in the silence—you felt it.

The throb. Low and dark, blooming in your gut like a bruise. Not from rage. Not from shame.

From want.

And it hit you like a slap.

No.

No, no, no.

Your pulse pounded hard against your ribs. Your body buzzed like it had just realised what kind of man had you pinned. What kind of voice was in your ear. What kind of fingers were on your jaw.

And that—that’s what made your stomach twist. Because somewhere in the middle of all the hate and heat and violence—

You were getting wet.

You scowled. Tried to pull back. But Ben’s grip didn’t loosen. Instead, his smile stretched into something even worse.

“Ohhh,” he crooned, soft and vicious, “there it is.”

You froze. Heart lurching.

“That little squirm,” he said. “Took you a minute, huh? Thought you were gonna keep up the act a little longer.”

You growled in your throat, furious, but he just kept going.

“Should’ve known. All that righteous little rage—” he leaned in, voice dipping like a secret, “—was just your pussy tryin’ to negotiate terms.”

You twisted in his grip, but he followed you like a shadow.

“Bet you’re soaked. Hatin’ every second of it. Poor thing.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” you hissed.

He ignored it.

“What is it?” He murmured. “The voice? The muscles? Or is it the fact I treat you like a fuckin’ dumb little girl who doesn’t belong on the field?”

You spat again—but this time, you missed. It hit his collarbone, slid down his bare chest where his shirt wasn't fully done up.

He chuckled darkly.

“Temper, temper.”

Then you bit him. Hard.

Your teeth sank into the curve where his shoulder met his neck, the tang of his sweat hitting your tongue like copper and salt. You heard him grunt—deep and involuntary—but he didn’t pull away. If anything, his hand tightened on your jaw, holding you there like he wanted the pain.

You pulled back and glared up at him, lips slick with spit and rage.

“You are not fucking me,” you snapped.

Ben didn’t blink.

“No?” He said, voice sharp with laughter, laced with something darker beneath it.

Then his hand dropped low, low enough to brush between your legs, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the heat there.

His eyes lit up.

“Well I ain’t fuckin’ the hole in your shoulder, sweetheart.”

You slapped him.

The sound snapped through the room like the crack of a whip. His face turned with the force of it—but his smile stayed. Wider now. Red glistened on his lip where your palm had split it further, curling into the corner of his mouth like a badge of honour.

And still—he laughed. Low and steady, like he was enjoying this more than anything that had come before.

“Still got fight,” he rasped. “God, I fuckin’ love that.”

He stepped forward again, forcing you back until your spine met the rough cinderblock wall. His body caged yours, broad and radiating heat, his breath ragged but measured like he was controlling it just to make a point.

His hand landed on your hip. Possessive. Heavy.

“You’re burnin’ up,” he murmured. “Tryna hide it, but you’re meltin’ for it. I can feel it. You’re pulsin’.”

You sneered. “You’re hallucinating.”

He laughed again, but there was a tension coiled beneath it now. Something tight and hungry and climbing.

His fingers dragged slowly up your thigh, the heat of them searing through the fabric. He didn’t go high enough to touch anything worth touching—but close. So close. Just enough to make your skin buzz and crawl.

“You always get this hot when you’re mad, or is it just for me?”

You turned your face away.

That smug fucking tone. That condescension. That voice.

Your body hated you for it. You hated you for it.

He leaned in until his mouth grazed the edge of your jaw, his lips brushing skin with infuriating softness. His stubble scraped, and your breath hitched—just once.

He heard it.

“C’mon,” he said, softer now. Dangerous. “Stop fightin’ it, baby.”

You clenched your teeth.

“I’m not—” you started, but he cut you off with a groan that was almost frustrated.

“Jesus. You are the most stubborn little fuckin’ thing I’ve ever met.” His palm pressed flat against your stomach now, not moving higher, not yet. “I’m right here. You know it. I feel you, sweetheart.”

He pressed his hips against yours.

You felt it—his arousal, straining against his pants, heavy and hot and very, very there.

And still—your jaw locked.

He chuckled again, but this time it was quieter. Rougher. His lips ghosted over your ear.

“You ain’t gotta beg,” he murmured. “Don’t gotta say please.”

He nipped your earlobe, and you flinched.

“But fuck,” he breathed, “I want you to. Just once. Just a fuckin’ whimper of it.”

His other hand came up and gripped the back of your neck, dragging your head back against the wall, making you look at him.

“Just gimme somethin’,” he growled. “Let me have it.”

You stared up at him, eyes defiant, chest heaving, lips trembling with a fury you couldn’t name. His pupils were blown, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple.

“You want me to say it?” You whispered.

He nodded, once. Jaw ticking.

You leaned forward, lips almost brushing his.

“No.”

His eyes flared. Just for a moment. Then his forehead hit the wall beside your head with a hollow thunk.

“Fuckin’ tease,” he growled, nearly breathless. “Goddamn little—”

You kissed him.

Or maybe he kissed you. It didn’t matter. Because suddenly—there were no more words. Only teeth. Tongue. Pressure. Only hands everywhere, dragging, grabbing, bruising. Only the sound of your breath punched out of your lungs as he pinned you harder, like he wanted to break something open just to see what spilled out.

And still—you didn’t beg. Not once.

His mouth was on yours, hot and hungry and entirely too satisfied with itself. He kissed like he fought—with dominance, with grit, with absolutely no care for anyone’s breath but his own. Your teeth clashed, tongues fighting for control, every gasp turning into another insult.

“I fuckin’ knew you wanted it,” he muttered against your lips, breath ragged, voice ruined. “God, you’re such a fuckin’ prick tease sometimes.”

You bit his bottom lip, hard enough to make him grunt. “Shut the fuck up,” you panted, fingers already yanking at his half-undone shirt.

He growled—deep and primal—grabbing the hem of your top and pulling it over your head like it’d personally offended him. You barely had time to toss it aside before his hands were on your tits, greedy and rough and everywhere.

Between kisses, between moans, between muttered curses, you were tearing at his belt, yanking and fumbling, both of you shaking with urgency.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he hissed, snapping the leather free. “Gonna ruin you.”

“You already have,” you spat.

His grin split wider. “Aww, baby. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

Then he went for your pants.

And froze.

You were kicking off your boots, halfway done when he huffed—truly, violently irritated.

“Fuck this shit,” he barked.

Before you could speak, his arms wrapped around your waist and he spun you—fast, like the air was thick with smoke and he didn’t have time to be gentle.

You barely got your hands out to brace yourself before your hips hit the edge of the table and you were slammed down onto your front.

“Hargrove—” you started.

He didn’t listen.

Didn’t care.

His hand wrapped around your waistband and in one brutal, fluid motion, he ripped your pants and underwear clean down the back of your legs, the fabric tearing with a shriek and hitting the floor like surrender.

“Are you fucking serious?! I liked those pants!”

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, just enough to tilt your head back.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

You barely had time to process the shift before his hands gripped your ass and spread you, and his whole face pressed in like he was trying to suffocate between your thighs.

And then—his mouth.

“Oh fuck—”

The first lick was devastating. Broad and slow, from your clit to your dripping entrance, and then back again, like he was learning you.

Then came the second—filthier. Sloppier. Louder.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, voice muffled in your cunt. “You taste like a fuckin’ war crime.”

You choked on a laugh and a moan at once, half turning to glare over your shoulder.

“Don’t flatter yourself—”

But he growled—deep—and sucked your clit into his mouth like he was punishing it. You almost collapsed.

“Shut up,” he muttered against you. “Just fuckin’ take it.”

Then he really started working.

Tongue pressed flat, then curling. Lapping and sucking and moaning like he’d gone feral. One hand keeping you spread, the other sliding down your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise.

“You hear that?” He said, pulling back just long enough to spit onto your pussy and spread it with two fingers. “That squelch? That’s you, baby. Drippin’ all over my fuckin’ face.”

His mouth dove back in, and this time, he added teeth.

You cried out. His name. A curse. Maybe both.

He laughed into you. “That’s right. Fuckin’ mess. And you act like you’re not into it.”

You tried to push up, to speak, but he slapped your ass—hard—and buried his tongue deep again, humming like it was the best goddamn meal he’d ever had.

“Keep that mouth shut and let me eat, sweetheart,” he growled, voice wrecked. “You’re so fuckin’ wet I could drown in it.”

And he wanted to. You could feel it—in the way he moved. Desperate. Devoted. Obscene.

You were moaning. Panting. Swearing. But even now—still, now—you were running your fucking mouth.

His tongue had been buried in you for what felt like hours. Alternating between lapping, sucking, biting—his face drenched, his groans constant, hands gripping your thighs like a lifeline.

And you? You were taking it. You were suffering for it. But not quietly.

“You sound like a dog,” you hissed, voice breathless, broken, but still smug. “Fucking mutt. Bet you’d hump my leg if I let you.”

He growled into your cunt. You gasped. But the grin was still there, stretching across your face like sin.

“You’re pathetic, Hargrove,” you whispered. “Fucking starving like you haven’t had pussy in—”

His voice rumbled, low and sharp: “Shut your mouth.”

But you didn’t. Couldn’t.

“Can’t get enough, huh? Pathetic little—”

“I swear to God, sweetheart—” His breath was ragged, trembling with something dangerous. “I will fuck that pretty throat if you don’t stop talkin’.”

You arched your back and laughed, breathless and triumphant.

“Aww,” you taunted, “Did I bruise your ego?”

That was it.

He moved. In a blur of strength and heat and fury, he grabbed your waist and lifted you clean off the floor. You yelped, legs kicking reflexively as your spine hit the table, your head dangling off the far side.

The world flipped upside down.

“Hargrove—what the fu—”

Your words were cut off by the weight of him—thick and hot and full, his cock driving into your mouth so deep your vision sparked.

Your throat convulsed.

He hissed through clenched teeth, head thrown back, arms braced over the table as he held you there.

“Fuck—told you.” His voice cracked, breath rattling through the growl. “I fuckin’ warned you,” he groaned, thrusting slowly, deeply, into your throat while your eyes watered and your fingernails dug into the edges of the table.

“Run that fuckin’ mouth one more time,” he panted, his hips grinding deeper with every word, “and I’ll use it just like this every goddamn time.”

He wasn’t pulling back.

Just shallow rocks of his hips, grinding against the back of your throat while he looked down at your body bent over the table like a goddamn feast.

And then?

His fingers slid between your legs again. Without warning. Two of them. Deep.

You choked—hard—around him as his fingers curled exactly where they needed to, dragging slick out of you like he wanted to make it messier.

Your whole body spasmed.

“You feel that?” He rasped, breath shuddering. “Goddamn. You’re squeezin’ my fingers like a fuckin’ vice.”

He groaned again—shaky, hot, fucked-out.

“Jesus, baby… and you were talkin’ like you didn’t want this.”

His free hand cradled your throat now—thumb pressed against the bulge of his cock visible in your neck, feeling himself inside you.

His eyes rolled back.

“Christ, your fuckin’ throat was made for me.”

You tried to move. Couldn’t.

Every breath you dragged in was him. Every sound was slick and gasped and obscene—the wet noise of his fingers plunging into your soaked cunt, the slap of his hips against your lips, the throb of your core twitching around his hand.

He laughed again—wrecked, barely holding on.

And you were still fighting it. Still glaring through tear-lined lashes, still gagging and clawing and refusing to break.

But he was gonna make you, even if he had to keep you full at both ends to do it.

He was fucking your throat like it was the last thing on Earth that could save him.

Every roll of his hips was deeper. Slower. Less angry and more delirious, like he’d tipped over into something hot and helpless and consuming.

His fingers were still inside you, working in tandem with his cock down your throat—crooking and twisting like he was testing reactions, mapping you from the inside out. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could barely think.

And he loved it.

You could hear it in the way he was groaning now—drawn-out, fucked-up sounds, torn from deep in his chest. He wasn’t even taunting anymore. He was worshipping.

“Jesus,” he gasped, looking down at you with wild, half-lidded eyes, sweat dripping from his temple. “This mouth. This fuckin’ mouth, sweetheart—"

He thrust again, slow and deep, hips stuttering at the feel of you twitching around him.

“I love it when you spit at me,” he groaned, voice cracking into a soft laugh. “I love it when you snarl like a rabid little fuckin’ animal—”

You gagged around him, throat clenched so tight he moaned.

“God, yeah. When you run that mouth like a spoiled little brat—when you hate me so fuckin’ loud—”

He curled his fingers inside you, deep and slick, pressing down on your front wall—that spongey, gummy, wreck-you spot—like he was playing a damn instrument.

“—and then suck me down like you don’t even need to breathe anymore—fuck—”

Your vision blurred. Everything started spinning. You tapped his thigh once. Twice. Desperate.

His hips froze. His cock still buried in your throat.

“Oh—fuck,” he gasped, already pulling out. “Shit. Sorry, sweetheart—got lost in the fuckin’ moment there.”

He was laughing. A breathless, ragged sound, part apology, part thrill. His eyes were wild with it. Face flushed. Hands shaking.

You gagged as air rushed back into your lungs, coughing, drool trailing down your chin, your mouth gaping as you tried to drag yourself upright.

“Jesus,” you rasped, blinking tears from your lashes. “You’re fucking insane.”

His fingers left you with a wet pull that made you flinch—and he watched it. Watched how your thighs twitched when you were empty again.

He was circling the table now, still breathless, his cock glistening, soaked in spit and flushed angry red.

“Damn right I am,” he said hoarsely, eyes raking down your wrecked body.

Then he gripped your hips and dragged you down the table, rough and fluid, until your ass met the edge and your legs dropped open—slack, shivering.

“C’mon.” His voice was low now. Different. Almost soft. “Lean up. Wanna see those fuckin’ eyes.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, still gasping, still shaking. But you looked. You watched.

You watched him line up—the head of his cock rubbing through your soaked folds, catching against your clit, then sliding down to your entrance where you were aching to be filled.

He exhaled shakily, mouth falling open.

“God,” he muttered, like a man on the brink. “Look at you.”

One hand on your thigh. The other gripping himself, twitching at the base. He nudged forward again, teasing—not to torture, but because he was savouring.

You locked eyes. He was gone.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you,” he whispered.

Then he pushed in like he had all the time in the world.

No rush. No brutality.

Just that slow, devastating stretch as his cock split you open—inch by aching inch—like he’d been waiting for this, like he’d earned it. His mouth dropped open when he bottomed out, a filthy groan catching low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “You’re so fuckin’ tight. Squeezin’ me like you were made for this.”

Your body arched, mouth falling open in a wordless moan as the table beneath your back creaked. You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. All you could feel was the weight of him—deep, thick, pulsing inside you—and the heat blooming out from where your bodies met.

And then he started to move.

Slow. Deep. Dragging his cock almost all the way out, then pressing it back in until your walls clenched and fluttered helplessly.

Your head lolled back. Your eyes rolled.

He slapped your thigh—hard.

“Uh-uh.” His voice was tight. Stern. “Eyes on me.”

You blinked, dazed.

He was braced over you, one hand on your thigh, the other fisted beside your hip. His hips rolled forward again—slower this time, deliberate. You moaned. Your eyelids fluttered.

Another sharp slap to your thigh.

“Look. At. Me.” he growled.

You dragged your gaze back to him, jaw slack, lips parted.

“Goddamn,” he rasped, staring down at you like you were an open flame. “Look at that face. Look at what I fuckin’ do to you.”

He rocked in again, groaning as your body clenched around him.

“I love this part,” he muttered. “When you’re still tryin’ to hold it together. Still actin’ like you’re not fallin’ apart.”

You whimpered, and his mouth curled.

“You like this, don’t you?” He crooned, voice thick with filth. “Being pinned open like this. Full. Spread. Watched.”

Your head tipped back again on instinct, eyes slipping shut—

And his hand snapped up, grabbing your jaw.

“No.”

He held your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You don’t get to look away,” he said, voice sharp with heat. “Not when I’m inside you like this. Not when I’m this deep.”

He thrust again, deeper this time—grinding the base of his cock against you so perfectly you cried out.

“That’s it.” He grinned, breath catching. “I wanna see you break.”

Your hands scrambled at the table, nails dragging across the wood. Your thighs were shaking. Every time he bottomed out, your hips jerked, your breath hitched, your chest arched—and he watched. Every. Fucking. Time.

“Don’t you dare close those eyes again,” he warned, still holding your face. “I want to watch what I do to you. Every twitch. Every moan. Every little shiver.”

Your body pulsed around him like it was listening.

And that made him feral.

“Jesus, sweetheart—this pussy,” he groaned, slowing his thrusts again, dragging them out to pure torture. “Grippin’ me like it knows. Like it wants to be ruined.”

Your eyes fluttered again.

He tutted.

“Aw, baby. You tryna be good?” His cock slid deeper. “You wanna be good for me?”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. He let your jaw go—just long enough to slap your thigh one more time.

“Christ,” he groaned, hands gripping your thighs like restraints. “Still this fuckin’ tight…”

You felt it every time he bottomed out—hips flush to yours, cock buried so deep you could barely breathe. Your mouth opened on a moan that never quite found its voice, your head tipping back on the table, fingers trembling where they gripped the edge.

His hands moved—one sliding up to press flat against your belly, the other settling on your jaw, thumb grazing your lips like he didn’t know what part of you he wanted to control more.

“Pussy like this should come with a fuckin’ warning,” he muttered, thumb brushing your lower lip. “You feel that? How tight you’re squeezin’ me? It’s fucking perfect.”

You moaned, head tipping back more.

He slapped your thigh. Again. Sharper.

“Nuh-uh. Eyes. On. Me.”

Your gaze dragged back up to meet his—blurry, glassy, wrecked.

He looked devastated. Sweat on his chest. Jaw tight. His green eyes burning down at you like he’d die if you looked away again.

“You keep doin’ that, I’m gonna lose it,” he whispered. “I’m already hangin’ by a fuckin’ thread.”

Your walls clenched around him at the admission. He hissed.

“You like that, don’t you? Bein’ the one who makes me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

His thrusts got deeper, harder. Still slow, still controlled—but barely.

“God, I really do love this fuckin’ mouth,” he panted, staring at your lips now.

You whimpered. Shuddered. Your whole body was tensing.

He could feel it. His fingers reached down, thumb finding your clit, circling in tight, merciless pressure.

“You close?” He asked, voice gone rough and mean.

You nodded, whimpering, trying to say yes. But your throat couldn’t form it.

He stilled.

You cried out, grinding your hips, chasing the friction—anything—but he held you.

“Nope,” he rasped. “You wanna come? You ask.”

Your eyes flared. Fury and arousal crashing like thunder.

He grinned.

“What’s wrong?” He cooed. “Too proud to beg? Thought you were a tough girl.”

You clenched your teeth, panting.

“I can do this all night, sweetheart,” he said, hips grinding deep and slow again, teasing that spot that made your legs twitch. “I’ll keep you right here until you sob for it.”

He pulled back, just enough to make you feel empty. Then slid back in, eyes glued to your face.

“You gonna say it?” He whispered. “Gonna ask me?”

Still, you didn’t. But your eyes were glassy. Your hips were shaking. Your voice was gone.

And then, you said it. Soft. Broken.

“…Ben.”

His name. Your voice.

Everything stopped.

His hands shook. His breath hitched. His head dropped forward with a gasp.

“Oh, fuck…”

He looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with that sound.

“You’ve never…” he whispered. “You’ve never called me that.”

You said it again, even softer.

“Ben…”

And he shattered.

“Fuck, come.” His voice cracked. “Please. Now.”

His thumb pressed down. His hips snapped forward. Your body broke. And the moment it hit the air—

He snapped.

“Fuck—yes, yes, come, come for me—”

His voice fractured around it—command and awe bleeding together like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His thumb kept circling your clit, relentless. His cock buried deep. And your body shuddered beneath him.

You came hard. Again. Back arching, mouth open, eyes rolling.

And still— He didn’t stop.

Not even for a second.

He was still fucking you. Driving into your wrecked cunt like he’d been given permission to devour.

You whimpered. Eyes fluttering.

“Ben���”

“Oh, we’re not done,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “Not even close, sweetheart.”

He kissed you. Open-mouthed and filthy. His lips found your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he couldn’t decide what part of you to ruin next. His hips never slowed. Each thrust was harder now. Rougher. Every wet slap of his body against yours made you twitch.

You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. And your body—shaking, overstimulated—begged for mercy you refused to ask for.

Your head tipped back again.

Eyes closed.

Your fatal mistake.

He froze. Just for a second. Then he snapped his hips. Hard. Brutal.

You cried out.

His hand cracked across your thigh. Again.

“Eyes,” he snarled. “The fuck did I say?”

You tried. Blinked. Dragged yourself back to him.

His eyes were wild. Hair damp with sweat. Jaw tight. His cock pulsing deep inside you.

“You look at me when I fuck you.”

He slowed. Just a little. Then slammed into you again, harder than before—making the table creak and your legs twitch.

“Can’t believe you dared to close your fuckin’ eyes again after I warned you.”

“Ben—fuck, I—”

He spit the next words like a threat:

“You do that one more time, and I swear to God, sweetheart— I’ll flip you over, fuck your ass deep, and I won’t let you look at me.”

Your whole body spasmed.

His voice dropped, feral.

“Sound good to you?” He growled. “Want me there next? So every fuckin’ inch of you is mine? So you remember who fuckin’ owns this body?”

You choked on a moan.

He grabbed your face again, forcing your gaze back to his.

“That’s right. Keep those pretty little eyes where they belong.”

He thrust again—hard, fast, filthy. You sobbed. Clenched. He groaned like he was dying. Your thighs were soaked. Your vision blurred. And he was still going. Still holding you wide open.

Still not coming. Because he wanted you broken first.

He was fucking you like he was trying to carve a god out of your body. Relentless. Precise. The kind of rhythm that wasn’t chaos—it was control. Hard-earned. Hard-kept. Just barely contained.

Your thighs were soaked. His cock was dripping. You could feel your own come sliding down the insides of your legs from the last orgasm, and still—he hadn’t let up.

Then—

His pace broke.

He pulled back, hips stuttering as he groaned, “Fuck, I’m close. Fuck—where d’you want it?”

His voice was wrecked. Ragged. Wild. “Your tits? Your stomach? Wanna see it drip off your ass? What, baby—what do you want?”

Your answer was a sob. One word.

“Inside.”

And he stopped cold.

You didn’t even feel his cock anymore—just the sudden absence as he yanked back like you’d burned him.

His hand flew to the base of his cock, fisting it tight to hold himself back.

“Jesus fuck, sweetheart—”

He was breathing hard. Panicked. Laughing like it hurt.

“You can’t—you can’t say shit like that,” he gasped, squeezing himself as precum smeared over his knuckles. “You gotta give a guy warning before you pull that fucking move.”

You whimpered. Barely coherent. “Please…”

He laughed. Laughed like he was losing his mind.

“Oh, no. No, no, no—” he choked, circling around the table like he had to walk it off or he’d blow right then and there.

He looked feral. Cheeks flushed, sweat gleaming on his chest, cock throbbing in his fist.

“Inside?” He echoed, voice hoarse. “Jesus, you really are a little fuckin’ menace.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, mouth open, wrecked in every possible way.

“The last thing either of us needs,” he panted, “is me fuckin’ a baby into you.”

You shivered. Moaned. He grinned wider.

“Can you imagine?” He groaned, twisting his fist at the tip. “Half me and half you? That kid would be fucked. Wouldn’t even make it past the first trimester before startin’ bar fights in the womb.”

He shook his head, still circling, the slap of his fist on his cock echoing through the room.

“Hot in theory, sweetheart. In practice? Not so fuckin’ much.”

He came to a stop at the head of the table. Looked down at you—body blown open, thighs twitching, chest flushed, mouth wet and waiting.

“Back,” he said, pressing a hand to your shoulder. “Down. Now.”

You obeyed. Laid back across the table, head tilted slightly, breathing shallow.

He gripped his cock tighter, leaning over you with that wild grin stretched across his face, his other hand toying with your nipples, rolling and pinching until you gasped.

“Gonna make such a mess of this face,” he whispered.

Your legs spread wider.

He grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Then his hand hovered over your lips.

“Open wide,” he said, voice low.

You did.

He spit. Heavy. Wet. Right into your mouth.

“For earlier, you little fucker,” he muttered, eyes glittering.

You moaned around it. Swallowed. Smiled.

He groaned. “Jesus Christ, you liked that.”

Then—he slapped your cheek, light, teasing. The kind of touch that said mine.

“Here it fuckin’ comes, baby,” he panted, jerking faster now. “Open wider. C’mon.”

You looked up at him. Eyes glossy. Lips parted.

He groaned loud. “Good girl.”

And then—

He came. Hot. Thick. Everywhere. Over your tongue, your chin, your cheeks, your fucking soul. And when he was done, he stumbled. Laughed. Ran a hand through his hair and looked down at you like you’d just ruined him.

Because you had.

author notes: boy, oh boy... i went hard on this one. i need to get fucked like this at the moment, i genuinely believe it would get me out of my own fucking head for five goddamn minutes and then i can just get back on with my life. but alas, i hate all men, and will not go near one, even if it means the dicking of my life. i love ben like this. fucking nasty asshat but so obviously reverent over reader. we live to see it. i also haven't fully proofread this because i'm just delirious from last night, and let's be real, the past few weeks lol. my life is going down the fucking toilet. let me know what y'alls think, please. i need some fucking praise right now. and that isn't even a hint, it's an outright request. all the damn love.

soldier boy/ben taglist: @losers-clvb @bejeweledinterludes @soldiersgirl @bruisedfig @tinas111 @angelicjackles @lunaleah. @mostlymarvelgirl @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @ohgodimgoungtodie @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @kaz-2y5-spn @agoodgirlsguidetomakingmencry @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @ladykitana90 @deangirlsstuff67 @adoredawn @sunnyfuffly @deansbbyx <3

everything taglist: @bejeweledinterludes @angelicjackles @losers-clvb @blossomingorchids @tinas111 @lunaleah @drakulana @sacr1ficialang3l @mostlymarvelgirl @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @deangirlsstuff67 @ambiguous-avery @deansbeer @angrydragon90 <3

[insensiblelimerence]

Paparazzi!Series *ੈ✩‧₊˚ (Part one)

Summary: Sam makes porn to make ends meet at Stanford, and when he receives some satisfactory donations from a loyal fan, he sends an invite to a private session with @/fame_monstrr!

A/n: Sorry this took so long gang,, i have had an insane lack of motivation and school is dragging my ass thru hell at the moment LOL. - - - thank you sooo much @wa1ks @shypilled and all the nonnie's for the inspo for this series!! I love you you are tha best <3

Warnings: Male masturbation, references to porn/pornstars, okay Sam is literally a pornstar that’s what the whole fic is about, cameras and filmed masturbation

“Thanks for the gift, @/strat806!”

Sam’s hand could be seen moving slowly below the desk he was sitting at, the chair swiveling slightly back and forth between the left and the right.

His cheeks were flushed a light shade of pink, and his bangs were tousled and beginning to stick to his forehead a little. His lips were swollen from how long he’d been biting them while reading all of the comments, and he only continued to get antsy as the minutes went on.

For every session he does, Sam has to hold off from cumming for as long as he can, it’s like an unspoken rule for camboys and pornstars. People want to see you desperate. They want to see a big production of fake moans, fake– or exaggerated– orgasms, dirty words, and the stupid crossing or rolling eyes that are either accompanied by a tongue, or some faux dick shoved down their throat.

Sam’s audience is primarily made up of guys, either macho dudes who deny they have a thing for twinks, or sugar daddies offering to pay him handsomely and take him in. It’s all a persona he puts on, though. He doesn’t care who watches him, he just needs the money for school. If he can attract a variety of users, then he’s all set to pay his rent without any stress.

Needless to say, he continues to stroke himself softly, waiting for a unanimous answer from the live audience. “Please-” He does the stupid eye roll as he tips his head back, “hah- please lemme cum…” He leans back in his chair to give the users a better view of his cock, swollen, with an angry tip glistening with precum.

Sam moves his hand up to roughly grip the head of his cock, “Been s’good, haven’t I..?” He pants his way through the words at the harsh sensation his hand is giving him.

@/fame_monstrr: pls do, you’re so pretty right now

@/fame_monstrr: you’d look even prettier when you do, i bet

Sam’s eyes squint at the screen when he reads the two comments, his brain immediately thinking of Lady Gaga (Who, he’d never admit, he'll listen to on occasion). “Fame monster.. You’re sweet!” He laughed lightly, speeding up his hand.

“What d’you think.. I deserve it..?” His eyebrows pinched inwards, a whine following his obvious question. “S-should I just.. Cum for you?”

@/fame_monstrr sent $20

“Oh-” He moaned in response to the donation. “Oh, wow- thanks fame..” He paused to do the stupid groan with his eyes crossed. As much as he judges these mannerisms he sees other creators do, he knows the bigger show he puts on means more donations. “Fame monster! Sorry..” He giggles at himself pretending to be so far gone that he can’t talk.

@/fame_monstrr sent $50

His eyebrows furrowed again. He wasn’t expecting to have that many donations in one day, usually people just tip him between $5 and $20, so $70 before he’s even cumming was a big leap. “Jesus…” Sam sped his hand up, backing his chair up before he tumbles over the edge.

Sam’s legs kick out when he reads; “Congrats! You have a new subscriber: @/fame_monstrr”

He cums in quick spurts that coat his knuckles and abdomen, in seconds his thighs and stomach muscles are contracting with each rope that leaves his cock. As his orgasm starts to taper off, he exaggerates the jolts going through his body, jumping a little whenever his fist closes around his tip.

Light, yet abrupt moans flow through his mic clearly, which would have anyone listening reeling at the sound. Sam doesn’t realize his eyes have been closed, but he opens them just in time to catch the last notification;

“Someone wants some alone time 😉: @/fame_monstrr has requested a private session!”

Sam smirks to himself as his hand slows to a stop. He blows his signature kiss to the camera with a bashful smile before he disconnects from the livestream, scrolling his mouse around to find the private request and send an invitation.

✧.* Taglist ➣ @shypilled @s7nburn @starzify @insensiblelimerence Lemme know if you wanna be added! :3

[insensiblelimerence]

Don’t open that drawer - Dean W

Dean x fem!reader

While patching yourself up after a rough hunt, you find yourself in Dean’s room late at night—only to discover a drawer he forgot to close.

Content warning ; canon typical violence, emotional vulnerability, smut, oral (f!receiving) but nothing to crazy, dean being a sweet coward <33

Word count ; 1,511

Minors please do not interact !!

You never meant to find them.

It was late—past midnight—and the Bunker was unusually quiet. Sam had already gone to bed, the echoes of his footsteps fading down the hall hours ago. You’d stayed up patching your jacket, a fresh tear sliced through the arm from the hunt earlier that day. Dean had said he’d help, but he never came back from the garage.

You figured he was brooding. He did that, after a close call. And tonight had been closer than usual.

The kitchen light flickered as you passed, mug in hand. You made your way to Dean’s room instead—mostly because it was closer than yours, and partly because you were tired of pretending that wasn’t a habit.

He always left the door unlocked.

The room smelled like him—leather, old cologne, whiskey, something earthy underneath. You set your mug on his nightstand and dropped into the chair by his desk, rubbing your sore arm. His flannel was slung over the back of it. You pulled it on without thinking.

That’s when you noticed the drawer.

The bottom right. Slightly ajar. Not enough to catch the eye unless you were sitting this close.

You didn’t mean to open it.

But there was a curl of paper sticking out.

At first you thought it was one of his old case notes, shoved out of sight. But the handwriting was neater. More intentional. And then you saw your name.

Your name. On the top of the page. Centered. Underlined.

Your chest tightened. You knew you should stop. But your fingers moved on their own.

“You had blood on your cheek tonight. You didn’t even notice. I wanted to wipe it off, but I didn’t. I just watched you laugh with Sam like we hadn’t almost died. I think that’s what kills me. That after everything, you still know how to laugh. You make the worst parts of this job feel less like hell. And God, I want to tell you that. But I never do. So I’m writing it down, instead.”

Your hands trembled. You unfolded another.

“I had a dream about you. You were wearing one of my shirts, standing in the library. You didn’t say anything. You just looked at me like you already knew. And for once, I didn’t feel like running.”

There were more. Dozens. Some torn out of notebooks, some written on scraps of diner napkins, lined legal pads, the backs of maps. Your name on every single one.

And they weren’t just sweet, or romantic. Some were angry. Frustrated. Devastated.

You walked into the room today and smiled at me like I was someone worth loving.

“I don’t know what the hell I did to deserve that, but I know I’ll never be brave enough to say what I should. So this’ll sit in a drawer. Just like the others.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until a drop hit the page.

“Hey.”

You jumped, heart thudding. You hadn’t heard the door.

Dean stood in the doorway, keys in hand, jaw clenched, green eyes locked on the drawer you’d pulled open.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t rush to snatch the papers away.

He just said, quietly, “You weren’t supposed to read those.”

“I know,” you said. Your voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to. I just… I saw my name.”

Dean stepped inside slowly, closing the door behind him. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he leaned back against it like he needed something to hold him up.

“I wrote them when I couldn’t say it out loud,” he admitted. “Didn’t think anyone would ever see them. Especially not you.”

“Why not?”

He looked down. “Because if you knew how long I’ve felt this way, you’d either hate me for keeping it quiet or pity me for being too much of a coward to do anything about it.”

You stood, slowly, letter still in your hand.

“You’re not a coward.”

Dean gave a soft, broken laugh. “You don’t know how many times I almost told you. How many nights I sat right there—” he nodded toward the desk—“and thought about knocking on your door. But I’d look at you the next day, and you’d smile, and I’d think… if I tell her, she might stop smiling at me like that.”

Your chest ached.

You crossed the room and stopped in front of him. The silence was thick—too full of everything unsaid.

“I never would’ve stopped,” you whispered. “Not ever.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And all the years of buried emotion hit the surface like a storm breaching a dam.

“God, I’m in love with you,” he said. “I’ve been in love with you since you walked into that diner in Nevada with a busted lip and a silver blade and said, ‘You boys need backup?’”

You smiled through the tears. “I remember that. You said, ‘Only if you’ve got whiskey.’”

He huffed a soft laugh. “You had some in your boot.”

“And you smiled at me like you hadn’t done that in years.”

Dean stared at you. “Because I hadn’t.”

You reached for his hand, gently, lacing your fingers with his. “Then stop writing me letters you’ll never send.”

He squeezed your hand like he never wanted to let go. “Can I kiss you now?”

“You’d better.”

When Dean kissed you this time, it wasn’t restrained. It was everything. The hesitation was gone, stripped away by years of closeness, tension, aching want, and love too long buried. It was the kiss of a man who had written you into the quiet spaces of his life, who had bled feelings onto paper because his mouth had failed him too many times.

His hands cupped your jaw, thumbs brushing tears you didn’t remember falling. You melted into him, fingers fisting into the front of his henley like your body finally recognized where it was meant to belong.

The kiss deepened — slow, hot, careful, then not-so-careful.

Dean pulled you flush against him, one hand sliding down to rest at your waist, gripping tight like he couldn’t believe this was real.

You let out a soft, shaky sound into his mouth — something between a gasp and a whimper — and felt his whole body tense in response.

He pulled back just enough to search your face. “Tell me if this is too fast. I mean it.”

“It’s not,” you said. “Dean… I’ve wanted this for so long.”

His expression softened. “Me too.”

He kissed you again — more urgent now, more certain — and walked you back toward the bed. His hands were everywhere, warm and calloused, reverent as they slipped beneath your shirt, memorizing the feel of you like he’d dreamed it more times than he could count.

When your shirt came off, he stared like you were sacred.

“God,” he whispered. “You’re beautiful.”

Your hands trembled when you pulled his shirt over his head. The soft light of the bunker caught the scar across his collarbone, the curve of muscle, the slight freckle near his ribs you’d noticed years ago and never forgotten.

You touched him like the letters — slow and sure and aching. He groaned low in his throat when your palms slid across his chest.

“Lie back,” he said, voice thick. “Let me take care of you.”

You did.

Dean kissed every inch of skin he uncovered — from your collarbone to your stomach, your hips, the inside of your thighs. His hands gripped you like he was terrified you’d vanish if he let go. He kissed like he was still writing to you, but now with his mouth and body — all the things he couldn’t say poured out in sighs and touches.

When his mouth found the place between your legs, you gasped — arching into him, fingers buried in his hair.

“Dean—”

He groaned against you like your voice undid him.

You tried to speak — to tell him how good it felt, how long you’d dreamed about this ��� but your words fell apart under the heat of his tongue and the rhythm he set. Slow. Devoted. The kind of touch that said I’ve thought about this a hundred different ways, but nothing compares to the real thing.

When you came, it was with a cry of his name, your thighs trembling around his shoulders, your whole body curling in on itself.

He kissed your inner thigh, then crawled back up your body and kissed your lips like he wanted to taste the sound you’d just made.

“Still with me?” he asked, eyes full of warmth and wonder.

You nodded, dazed and smiling. “Still here.”

“Good.” He kissed your forehead. “Because I’m not done.”

Later, when he finally wrapped you in his arms on that old mattress, the letters still sat on the desk. Open. Read. Finally seen.

“I was gonna burn them one day,” he murmured into your hair.

“Don’t,” you whispered. “They’re part of us now.”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “You know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“I don’t need the drawer anymore.”

Liz talks : GUESS WHOS BACK!! HEYYY did you miss me cause i missed all of you <33 I am so sorry about being away for so long but this app was lowkey draining me, but we should be all good now !! I hope you all enjoy this sweet little thing :))

Tags : @sunsbaby , @starzify , @bluemerakis , @aambearr , @blossomingorchids , @littlesoulshine , @daylighted , @wchswift , @emeraldcrs , @bossyblondie , @lunaleah , @pieandflannel , @sunnyteume , @deanswifeyy , @tinas111 , @kimxwinchester @deansbbyx , @deanswidow , @nymphet-quenn , @multiversefanfics , @star-maker-rain-dancer , @sapphic-destiel , @mochiclouds , @ladykitana90

To be added to my tag list check out this post !!

To check out my masterlist look at this post !!